Well - Its still in preparation, but things are moving forward nicely. My publisher lady has put up a website with synopsis and biog details. Take a look at http://sun-rising-poetry.com/alpha.htm

Best thing of all is to see its got a proper ISBN number, so presumably in due course will be accessible to the masses via Amazon etc.

Can't wait for Spring 2007!

Any friends still out there will be as surprised as I was when I received a query from a US publisher expressing an interest in The Alpha Lab (about 3 years after I made enquiries). Needless to say I'm in the process of snatching their hands off. Sun Rising Books is the perp, seemingly interested in all manner of New Age mumbo-jumbo. Have received the contract already and in due course will receive 100 author imprints for signing and distributing to anyone who's interested. Please form an orderly queue!

The office of Don Vicente de Galicia is in one of the smallest and oldest buildings in the University. Jorge has opted to let me go alone, as he has some explaining to do to his superiors about the continued absence of Richard Speirs’s body. Don Vicente is the epitome of an aged academic. He could be Father Digby’s twin, except for a permanent scowl which he seems to think a mark of distinction and gravitas.
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As usual, I am ridiculously early for our meeting, but I don’t care. I buy a copy of El Pais, an horchata and a packet of Ducados and sit at the avenue café, between the two lanes of evening traffic, trying to look Spanish. The Ducados bring a tear to my eye. Were they always this strong? But the horchata is deliciously cool and floury in consistency. The milk of crushed tiger-nuts. Why have I never been able to find this in England? The newspaper is just for show, so that I can look over the top of it at the parade of people passing by. The girls with their tartan skirts and sweaters draped over their shoulders. The businessmen without jackets, clutching their oversized purses. Most of the women have a solid earthiness about them that I have always found attractive. Blue jeans and boots seem to be de rigueur. But when I spot Laura I remember why I kept in touch. She is wearing a floaty wrapover dress which drapes alluringly over her slender figure. I feel a visceral tug towards her even before I have properly recognised her.
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There must be some standard measurement of the adult human frame from pelvis to knee which is used in the design of aircraft seats. Some measurement which I exceed by at least two inches. By way of anaesthetic I make rather too liberal use of the complimentary drinks. But then, I wasn’t expecting to be met at the airport. Strolling out from baggage reclaim in a pleasant haze, it is sheer good luck that I spot the sign being held up for me. “Detective Martin Davis”
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- Martin, thanks for coming so promptly. I was afraid you might have been out on an assignment.
- No, just catching up on some paperwork.
- Is Sergeant Clarke around? I need to check whether he can spare you for a few days. Something interesting has come in that I feel you might be best suited to deal with.
- The sergeant is out on a case at the moment. But I’m not busy with anything major.
- Hmm. We’ve been contacted by the Spanish police, who are looking for assistance. I’m right in thinking that you’ve spent some time in Spain?
- I was there for a year as part of my degree course. Why? What has happened?
- There’s been a death of a young British student, which they are treating as suspicious. They want us to send someone over to help. Normally we might deal with them over the phone, but it seems as though this chap was quite well-connected.
- Who was he?
- Well, it’s not so much him. His girlfriend is the daughter of a Cabinet Minister. She has been creating a stir, saying that he was in some kind of trouble. I think it might be necessary to interview her before you go, to find out what she is talking about.
- You’re planning to send me? Who with?
- I don’t think we can spare more than one person for this job. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of days. I know you’re still fairly new to detective work, but you can always call Sergeant Clarke for advice. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help.
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If Richard Speirs had died in his sleep, nobody would have been very much surprised. A hole-in-the-heart baby, who had been in and out of hospital for most of his life, it was a surprise to those who knew him that he had survived to the age of twenty-one. A delicate child, with an intellectual bent, this research trip to Madrid was one of his first ventures abroad, which had filled Richard himself with nervous excitement and those who loved him with a substantial amount of trepidation. Fully justified on both counts, as it turned out.
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So - a word of explanation is in order. The good people at Zokutou, that august spinoff from nanowrimo, alerted me to a BBC competition where the requirement was to write the ending of a short story which had been started by a famous literary figure. Someone, maybe rainsinger, even said that she thought the Alexei Sayle story, Imitating Katherine Walker, might be right up my street (did she mean that deception was my speciality?). Anyway it has to be submitted this week, so in true nanowrimo style I've stopped procrastinating (I can do that tomorrow) and cranked it out. Anyone who is still working towards his or her entry is advised not to look behind the cut, especially if they are doing the Alexei one too. Hope you like it.

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- Father Michael, how nice to see you again. Thank you for coming over so promptly.
- Delighted to have a reason to visit the place again. Message did sound rather urgent.
- Ah, yes. There is quite a pressing matter we need to talk about. But before I begin, I need your absolute assurance that you will not interrupt me while I am speaking, either to confirm or deny what I am saying And especially not to give me any confirmation. Do you understand? Not so much as a nod of the head.
- I think I understand. But wh…. Sorry, I’ll just listen.
- Good. There will be time afterwards for you to say your piece, but only once we take certain…ah…precautions.
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Bishop Ambrose Cahill is not in the best of humours. On the way to the seminary he is sorting through budget submissions in the back of his official car, in preparation for a long meeting back in the palace this afternoon. He is vexed to find that he has left behind the briefing document prepared by his assistant. It must be sitting on his desk, where by rights he should be sitting now himself, instead of chasing round the country like this. In the absence of the summary, he is trying to get to grips with the detailed submissions, which are making his head spin. He has never had a great grasp of figures, his forte being more in the field of social engineering, the cut and thrust of church politics and diplomacy. Now, having achieved most of his life’s ambitions, he feels he should be entitled to sit back and relax somewhat. But the work of the church grinds on and he is finding himself with an ever-increasing load of frankly unpalatable tasks, many of which he is unable to delegate.
- Did you want something, your Grace?
- No, nothing, I’m fine.
He has been caught out by the driver while craning his neck to catch a glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror, for lack of any other reflective surface to use. He is quietly content at the way the hair on the side of his head is turning to silvery grey. Distinguished, he repeats to himself, as though imagining a compliment being paid to him by some admirer.

The worst aspect of his current aggravation is that he knows he must suppress any trace of it if he is to secure the assistance he needs.
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Father Digby Cuthbertson is relishing his role as a curmudgeonly old man. He has been preparing for this position all his life. His body, mind and spirit are now finally, in his seventies, perfectly matched to each other. He has blotted out the memory of his infancy and childhood entirely, so that he finds it as difficult as his students to imagine that he ever ran around in short trousers or climbed trees. If he ever talks of his youth, what he means is his intellectual formation at the seminary in Cork, followed by those blissful years at the English College in Rome, with no responsibilities other than the acquisition of knowledge. Now he is so much a part of the furniture at the De La Salle Seminary that, at the beginning of each academic year, the seminary’s course directors automatically construct their timetable around Digby’s sessions of Dogmatic Theology and Church History. These have been fixed in their current timeslots for so long that it is unthinkable that they could ever be moved. If the priests in this Diocese have one thing in common with each other, it is the memory of Dogmatic Theology with Father Cuthbertson on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.
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Had to use the winners icon at least once.

Finally embraced the nano spirit and churned out garbage when inspiration deserted. Still all too close to the truth for comfort, can someone please tell me how to write fiction?

Not that 50,333 words gets me far anyway. Just had a publisher respond to me saying "we don't publish short stories" when I'd sent a manuscript of 81,000 words! They said it was "far too short" and they only look at stuff over 90,000. This is the same crew who said 80,000 when I was at 60,000. They'll rue the day, you mark my words.

Dear Marty,

Now that’s more like it!

Love,

Karen XXX

Dear Karen (again)

I could have kicked myself when I woke up this morning and remembered what I wrote to you yesterday. From what I remember, it was exactly what you must have come to expect from me, self-obsessed and completely focussed on my own needs and desires, without any consideration of you and your perspective. That wasn’t what I meant to write at all and I’m sorry it turned out that way. Let me try again.
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Dear Karen,

It’s Sunday today and guess what? I went to church. I know it’s ironic that for all of these years I have been reluctant to go with you and the first weekend after you’ve left, I decide to go unasked. I can’t even explain why I did it. I just felt some attraction to that familiar structure and a need to pray in a formal way, rather than just comfortably at home. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. Maybe I’m still not immune from trying to win brownie points from you. I know that you won’t be unduly impressed. In fact I doubt you’ll be terribly impressed by anything I have to say. As you’ve already explained, it’s too little too late. Nonetheless, I feel an urge to write, so here goes. It may end up in the rubbish bin, in which case you won’t be troubled by my ramblings. The truth is that last night, despite having had a fairly positive day, I found that I was grinding my teeth in my sleep again. When I woke up, I knew that I was burdened with the weight of things unsaid. And I knew it was you I needed to say them to.
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Day four is a Saturday. I lie in bed until around nine o’clock, then get up and exercise. Today I manage fifteen sit-ups, eight press-ups and a few yoga stretches. I cook bacon and eggs and then consider my project for the day. I’ve used this exercise on so many meaningless topics in my business life. It will be interesting to apply it to something that actually matters. My relaunch as a human being. I take four A4 sheets of paper and scribble headings on them. Strengths, Weaknesses, Opportunities and Threats. It’s time to take stock.
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Today is my third jobless day, and I wake up at eight in the morning feeling surprisingly cheerful. The nicotine must be out of my system by now, as I don’t feel that customary lethargy, the feeling that sludge is oozing through my veins. After a breakfast of instant custard, I even feel inclined to do some exercise. All right, so all I can manage at the moment is ten sit-ups and five press-ups, but I have to start somewhere. And I’m still digesting my discussion with Frederick, not all of which yet makes sense at a rational level, but which in its general thrust makes me feel supported and encouraged. Most impressive of all is the sense he gave me of total acceptance, that I could have told him any sort of transgression and he would have reacted with the same equanimity. I need to get some of that calm spirit.
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For lack of anyone else to take out my irritation on, I take it out on myself. After replaying Karen’s messages twice and finding no crumb of comfort there, I scour the cupboards for alcohol, finding only an ancient can of cider, left behind by one of the children and a half-bottle of lemon liqueur. I set to work determinedly, finishing off both, while smoking my five remaining cigarettes one after the other. In the lounge, rather than the garage, because I just don’t care any more. Nothing interesting is on offer on the television and I am feeling sickly because of the lemon liqueur, so I head off to bed at eight pm. So day one of my new, independent life dawns to find me with a splitting headache, a hangover and greatly worsened cold symptoms. I do a quick inventory of what is in the house and what is in my wallet. I haven’t even got enough cash to restock on cigarettes, but the milk is still being delivered and there’s enough food in the house to last for weeks, if I can be bothered to cook it. I have pot noodles for breakfast and drag the banjo downstairs to play. I haven’t touched it for maybe a year. At some stage in the past I have arranged most of my favourite Neil Young and Leonard Cohen songs for banjo accompaniment. I work my way through them, revelling in the way the minor keys sound even more maudlin when played on the most upbeat of instruments. But the spirit of the banjo wins through in the end and I find myself slipping unwittingly into Foggy Mountain Breakdowns, Duelling Banjos and the theme from the Beverly Hillbillies. As this poses a serious threat of raising my spirits, I have to set the banjo aside and bring out the guitar.
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- Hello Martin, have you been smoking?
- Yes. It’s what I do when I’m stressed out.
- You know I don’t like it when you smoke.
- I’m sorry. I should have remembered.
- So what were you telling me about your wife?
- She decided she’s had enough of me. She’s gone to stay with her sister.
- For how long?
- She sort of indicated that she’s not coming back.
- What brought that on?
- Nothing in particular. We didn’t have a big row or anything. She just decided she’s had enough. She says she’s been thinking about it for a long time.
- It’s not surprising, really. The way you treat her…
- What do you know about the way I treat her?
- Well, I see the way you act when you’re on your own.
- I’m very different at home. Very caring. I don’t know what’s got into her. Maybe it’s her time of life.
- That would be convenient for you, wouldn’t it Martin? To blame everything on your wife’s menopause.
- I didn’t come here to argue with you, Neelam. I just felt in need of some support.
- I hope you’re serious about wanting to come to church, Martin. Not just using it to get into my good books.
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And now to cap it all, I’ve got a stinking cold. I wake up with the room suspiciously bright, panic for a moment that I’ve overslept and will be late for work, then remember that I’ve got no work to go to any more. Then I register the ache in the limbs, the head that feels wrapped in cotton wool and the sore throat and streaming nose that signal the onset of a bout of cold or flu. All of which have just sprung up overnight. It’s just a few days since, on a whim, I looked up the Internet entries for psychoneuroimmunology, and discovered how scientists now believe that the mind can control the nervous and immune systems. Well, here’s my practical example. My mind has given up the ghost, with the result that my body has hoovered up whatever bugs it can find and surrendered control to them. Karen has always said that I have a tendency to dramatise my illnesses, to feel overly sorry for myself. Well, today I can wallow in self-pity on any number of counts. I’ve lost my job, my marriage is in a mess and I’ve turned into a walking pestilence. For lack of anyone else to sympathise with me, I’ve got to do it all myself. I’m a hopeless case.
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