Friday, 12 May 2017


Once in a while a book turns up that takes me back to the past.

Reading Nik Morton's afterword is just like that as he mentions influences and books that he read back in his youth.

The title story 'Codename Gaby' harks back to the likes of Odette Churchill. 'Carve Her Name With Pride' and 'Moondrop To Gascony' with the female agents who were trained and dropped into France to work with the resistance. Many did not survive - while of those who did nothing has been known about their exploits until they died in old age.

Another story in this collection 'The Reckoning' is set against the backdrop of the English Civil War. This tale is inspired by The Laughing (or Gay) Cavalier Claude Duval. Drawn by Frederick T. Holmes between 1953 and 1959 for 'Comet' comic before Duval appeared in his own comic as part of  Thriller Picture Library.

The magic of 'The Proper Thing To Do' is that it was the type of story that turned up in the written word comics of the late 50s like 'Adventure', 'Wizard' etc. The story deals with the heroism aboard the ill-fated troopship 'H.M.S. Birkenhead' and the birth of 'women and children first'. It is told in present tense and first person which carries the strength of the story.

Although I have picked on my three favourite stories - there are many others that would have sat well within those nostalgic years. Despite that every story in this collection brings it's own resonance - some that make you stop and think. This is just good, solid storytelling at it's best.

This collection is available on Kindle or paperback versions.

Sunday, 23 April 2017

A FORTUNE FOR WAR by Ryker Frost

This is a Black Horse Western from 1988

Providence Ryan is a farrier by trade from the English county of Hereford but has spent several years in Australia as a convict. Having served his time for housebreaking he has worked his passage to America and is in the process of crossing the continent intending to return home.

Arriving amongst the silver mines of New Town looking for work either for food and lodging or the means to pay for them he bumps into the colourful gambler Ezra G Sheldon who, on hearing Ryan's quest, mentions that he knows of a woman who is desperate for a man.

The woman in question is Anne-Marie Bouchette who's freight wagons of pure silver ore are trapped in a warehouse. With the drivers scared off by unknown forces and the local sheriff and his deputies she needs to find someone who will stand up to them. Trouble is that the law are Confederate soldiers waiting for wagons to take the ore east to fund the Southern cause.

Anne-Marie (real name Ann Mary Butcher) is, also, the local brothel owner. She grew up in Whitechapel in London's East End who, in order to survive, became a prostitute. Seeing a future abroad she arrived in New Orleans via New York. Now she owned her own business and sworn off mixing business with pleasure.

From the moment that they meet there is chemistry between Ryan and Anne-Marie and sparks fly.

Despite his misgivings - Ryan agrees to help even though it means that he has to learn how to use a gun on the job.

In the background there are others with their own agendas the threads of which all come together in the finale.

This is a very British western that concentrates on the lead characters without distracting from the plot.

Saturday, 8 April 2017


"I want to live fast, die young and leave a beautiful corpse."

You could say that Nick Romano's words from 'Knock On Any Door' was the motto of my generation. Today you can pick up T-shirts with variations of that theme emblazoned across them. Nothing changes.

At least they kept that line in the movie.

'Knock On Any Door' was first published in 1947 by Willard Motley (1909 - 1964) a Chicago born writer. The novel concerns an Italian-American altar boy, Nick Romano, who because of poverty turns to crime.

I didn't discover that book until late into the sixties - maybe, shortly after Willard Motley's death when a re-print emerged.

My introduction to Willard Motley was through the sequel 'Let No Man Write My Epitaph' (also made into a move with Ella Fitzgerald singing the title song). It was published in 1958 but the Pan paperback version did not come out until 1960.

Again the main character is Nick Romano - though this time around it is Nick junior. Nick wants to become a painter but has to care for his drug addicted mother. He is fighting a losing battle because his mother's drug dealer boyfriend is feeding her habit. Nor is it long before Nick is dragged into the spider's web and has to find away to claw his way out again.

The biggest criticism of Willard Motley was that he was a middle-class afro-american who chose to write about low class white people. Actually, who cares what he was? The fact remains that the two Romano books are tough and smack of realism. It is about human life after all.

1960 also saw the publication (again by Pan) of Nicholas Monsarrat's novel 'This Is The Schoolroom'.
Monsarrat (1910 -1979) who, in contrast to Willard Motley, was the son of a surgeon. He had been educated at Winchester and studied law at Cambridge. However, his love affair with the law was soon over and he drifted down to London where he worked as a freelance journalist. Between 1934 and 1939 he wrote four novels and a play - all but one drifted into obscurity.

Monsarrat is best known for such novels as 'The Cruel Sea', 'The Tribe That Lost It's Head' and 'Three Corvettes'. The list could go on - but 'This Is The Schoolroom' is regarded as his first major (and, possibly, important) of his works.

This is the story of Marcus Hendrycks is semi-biographical and set against the turbulent decade of the Thirties. After the death of his father Hendrycks quits University to become a freelance writer. Arriving in London he encounters revolution, hunger and death - and it is a wake up call.

He discovers the poverty and filth of the slums and follows on a journey of love and violence to the horrors of the Spanish Civil War. This is the real world that his 'privileged position' had protected him from.

'The best teacher is experience and not through someone's distorted point of view' - a quote from 1959 Pan edition of Jack Kerouac's 'On The Road' could apply to 'This Is The Schoolroom'.

'On The Road' kind of smacks you in the face. Sal Paradise is at a loose end. He has split from his wife and recovering from a serious illness. It is not long before he meets up with the crazy 'it's my life and I'll do what I want and to hell with the consequences' character that is Dean Moriarty. They embark on a road trip that criss-crosses America in an orgy of sex, drink, drugs and jazz.

Jack Kerouac gave a vivid picture of a restless generation but has a deep undercurrent that has double act where the dominant partner is the reckless one who fails to accept any responsibility for his actions and in the process erodes Sal's dependence on him.

As an aside there is a weird connection (in the movie) to 'On The Road' and 'This Is The Schoolroom'. At the end of the movie Sal Paradise sits at the typewriter and writes about the night his father died; the first line of 'This Is The Schoolroom' is "I was unusually drunk the night my father died". I laughed at this - I do believe that I read both books in consecutive order for me to make that connection years later.

Three books - all read in 1960 when I was just fifteen. Perhaps, a couple fall into the 'forgotten books' category but should be revived. Certainly doesn't apply to Jack Kerouac. They were all influential at the time - and I still have them.

Yet all three characters - Nick Romano, Marcus Hendryks and Sal Paradise - have one thing in common by facing all that life throws at them and get to come through it all. They may be 'rebels' but as David Bowie once sang 'Rebel Never Get Old' we just get in your face from time to time.

The past is where it is - it shaped us and great to recall but it's not a place to dwell.

I'll leave the last words to Jack Kerouac: 'Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me,as is everso on the road.'

Wednesday, 5 April 2017


This was the first time that I opened a package and held a book that had my name on it.

'Reflections' is what it says - reflecting on how life is and how it used to be. Interspersed, with those stories are others that are straight, pure fiction like the one about a killer stalking the streets preying on those who have a weakness or a hitman with an ulterior motive.

The short story - well, that begins in the fifties. Thirty kids sitting in a classroom all doing composition during English lessons; honing a skill with a forty minute deadline. (Homework - what homework? We left education in the school where it belonged and went home to play.) That is how we grew.

Third year - that was when I was introduced to Sherlock Holmes. Once a week the English master would read from Arthur Conan-Doyle's 'The Memoirs Of Sherlock Holmes'. Influenced? Very. What it did was to make me realise that there was a lot to the short story. It brought home to me that this was what composition/essays were.

Inspiration came in all shapes and forms - in my case, books and movies - and,in one instance, cost me a pass in the 11 plus because my fueled up imagination took me on a journey that was the wrong one. One that I would repeat when asked to write about, on the same subject, just after I joined the Felixstowe Scribblers. That is one story in 'Reflections' so I won't spoil the fun here.

Sadly, none of the short stories that I wrote back then seem to have survived.

Most of those in 'Reflections' date from about 2000 and something on - some written during the period I spent in Felixstowe while others reflect times past in North Finchley and Orpington. I have added a couple of pieces of flash fiction that I did in conjunction with Pattinase's blog.

In some respects I have needed to go back to where I started. I think I realised that when I wrote the Jack Giles short story 'A Time To Live' that appeared in 'Where Legends Ride'. Much easier than writing the full length novel 'Lawmen'.

Music, too, both inspires me and plays like a soundtrack. Listening to Duane Eddy reminded me of a concert that I went to - it was a memorable day in more ways than one. Well, that's another story.

I was once asked why I wrote.

My answer is simple: Because I can.

And because there will always be 'Reflections' to think about.

Tuesday, 31 January 2017

THE 294th

The following story was submitted to an anthology that was being put together by Operation Shoebox - a charity for those who fought in Afghanistan. (Copyright Ray Foster - 2013)

The 294th

   He knew.
   I saw it in Jack's eyes as I walked down the steps; as I looked back over my shoulder.
   A chill ran down my spine. Maybe, it was as it should be. No point, now, in saying if only - but there is an if only.
  If the Fire Brigade, who had offered me a job, had stopped messing me about and given me a posting then I would not have re-enlisted with the army.
  Funny when you think back. It was as though Jack and I had spent our whole life growing up together - we were always getting up to mischief. Together we were the masters of mischief, mirth and mayhem. From wearing Halloween masks and scaring the Christians who were having an anti-Halloween party to dropping tomato sauce soaked chips and things on the balloon seller's head - but the strawberry flavoured Slush Puppy was an accident. Still, it was funny to watch the sticky, icy goo slide down the balloons splattering both the balloon seller and passersby. And we laughed as we were chased around the shopping centre with the security guards on our tail - hard as they tried they never caught us.
   The older we got nothing changed. Instead of being chased we did the chasing - after girls. And we got drunk together.
   We even thought about joining the Army together.
   That was where we met - at Army cadets - so it was only natural that we went down to the recruitment centre together. As I recall we were both 16 and fresh out of school. We filled out the forms but it was not until 2001 that I became a raw recruit.
   Jack didn't make it.
   By then, though, he had a steady job working as a fishmonger. He met a girl and got married and had kids. He had a stable family life. Despite that our friendship stayed firm. Over the years I would come home from Northern Ireland, Iraq and Afghanistan and we'd pick up where we left off. Mind you, no matter where I was in the world endless text messages would pass between us.
   I was prepared to get back to grips with civvy life. I wanted some of what Jack had. Except that wasn't to be. Too much waiting around; sitting around watching DVDs and playing 'Call Of Duty' on the Xbox - not that the game came close to reality. That and getting under people's feet.
 And there was the lure of doing what I knew best.
 Afghanistan changes the way people look at things. Maybe, it's the action and the excitement - though not the usual way those words get used - I guess it is the adrenaline rush. It's like a drug. In Camp Bastion I may have been a joker but out in the field I was every bit the fighting man.
 Jack tried to talk me out of going back.
 I knew where he was coming from but I needed to have a purpose in life.
 The one thing that I can say, in hindsight, is that I am glad that we never joined up together. He wouldn't have been able to live with himself if he lived and I died. I know that I would have felt the same.
  I guess when someone's time is up and it doesn't matter whether you are a soldier or a civilian  - it's up.
  You never see it coming - and, sometimes, you never hear it.
  Blind and deaf you just hit the ground screaming.
  Sometimes you can't scream - not when your face has been ripped off. Not when your throat has been carved through by shrapnel from a roadside bomb. In war there is no re-spawning to the last checkpoint as in video games - there are no second chances and the only screams you hear are inside your head.
  And I thought - God, I was going to miss Jack's birthday. I had promised him a drink when I got back at the end of June. Only I wasn't going to make it.
 The medic knelt by my shredded, legless body. He did what he could but he knew that I was as good as dead - yet he fought to keep me alive.
  It would be another four hours of endless pain before I died.

 Private Jon Monk rejoined the Army with the 2nd Battalion Princess Of Wales Regiment which was attached to the 1st Battalion Mercian Regiment.
 With Company C he was with the Danish Battle Group based at Patrol Base Rahim in the Adinzai area of the Upper Gershk Valley, Afghanistan.
On the morning of the 9th June, 2010, aged 25, he was killed by a roadside bomb.
He was the 294th soldier to die in Afghanistan.

The story, for the most part, is from conversations that I had with Jon and with Jack's recollections.
Jon's injuries were as described to the best of my information.

Thursday, 1 December 2016

JOHNNY REB - A 17 year old writes

 What follows is something  that I wrote when I was about 17 or 18. I typed it out exactly as you see it onto a floppy disc with the intention of, maybe, rewriting the book sometime in the future. The school in this existed - I went there. The class and the teachers are fictional though. 
The book is told from two viewpoints - first from Johnny Rebello's and then from Fiona's. The first three chapters were sent to agents and publishers who rejected it. So, for now, is a chance to see what this kid once wrote - and a reason why nothing should be thrown away.

Copyright - 1961 and 2016 - Ray Foster

Ray Foster                                                                                                                                          Charterhouse Road curves away to the right before going uphill.  It is flanked by grass verges and bordered by an avenue of trees.  At the lower end are dark brown brick semi-detached houses with mock Tudor facings to the upper storeys.  Just past the junction with Cheltenham Road, that connects Charterhouse Road with Repton Road, which also runs parallel with it, the style changes as modern houses with blank expressionless walls take over on the right hand side of the road.  To the left are some bungalows that seem to rise in majesty at the top of the hill before it plunges downhill and then sweeps up again like a roller coaster.

     At the top of the second hill the skyline is dominated by a red brick building.  This is Orpington County Secondary School for Boys – more commonly known as Charterhouse.  Further up the road there is a set of gates and a sign that designates that there is a section of the school is for girls.  The school is surrounded by a spiked, pale blue painted metal fence behind which is a tall privet hedge.  Entrance to the school is by double metal gates one of which swings back against the mesh fence that separates the girls’ playground from the drive that leads into the boys’ section.

     Behind the main building there are two sets of huts separated by a wide concrete path.  To the right there are three blocks of concrete buildings with corrugated asbestos roofs.  The first two are divided into three classrooms each while the third is divided into a metalwork shop and a woodwork room.

    To the left are two wooden buildings which are divided the same way as the first two concrete huts.  At the end of the path and set at right angles to the other wooden huts is a toilet block. 

    Between each hut is an earth plot where basic gardening is taught and on looking at the whole it takes on the appearance of Stalag Luft 3.  Many a boy has gone through the school with thoughts of tunnelling out and making his own great escape.

    The school also has a nickname for the first sight of the school, as you climb the hill, is the tall brick chimney from which, during the late autumn and winter, black smoke plumes out.  For this reason the school earned the nickname of Auschwitz.

    In the autumn of 1959 the boilers were not fired up for a raging heat wave was still rocking the country.  For many of the boys and girls who attended the school there had been a hope that the summer holidays would be extended.

     There were no such thoughts in the mind of the fourteen-year-old boy who swung his green Hercules bicycle with the bright chrome drop handlebars, out of Cheltenham Road into Charterhouse Road.  He climbed to the top of the hill before braking and leaning back, one foot steadying him on the grass verge, to watch the stream of children as they bunched together and flowed towards their respective school gates.  It was always a strange sight for the girls seemed to dominate the left footpath while the boys hogged the pavement on the other side of the road.  It was like some mating ritual where no one was going to be successful.

     The boys all looked the same.  An army marching in a uniform of maroon blazers, white shirts, maroon school tie, grey flannel trousers and black shoes.  The girls, on the other hand, showed style.  The colour scheme was just the same but it was the way that they wore their uniforms with – well it advertised that they were definitely of the female sex.  Skirts were worn in the modern style; a school blazer trimmed to emphasise a waist and hairstyles that suggested individuality.

     The bike rider could never understand why boys, except on the last day of term, when anything was acceptable, could not use their imagination and stop looking as though they were a part of an army – and the way they slouched made him think of old newsreels that showed exhausted troops making their way to the beaches of Dunkirk.

     A sharp, shrieking scream from behind him brought him back to reality as he, slowly, turned around to see what the fuss was about.  Two boys had got a girl pinned back into a hedge where one was holding her while the other appeared to be groping her.  Well, trying to grope her but not getting there as her golden sturdy but shapely legs were lashing out keeping him at bay.  The bike rider made a clicking sound with his mouth, a sound similar to that of a gun being cocked, as he dismounted and balanced a pedal on the kerb.

     There seemed no haste in his movements but no one noticed him until he backhanded a blow to the side of the taller boy’s head with a force that sent him sprawling.  The boy that was holding the girl gave him a scared look but did not let go of her arms.  Her straining body had loosened a button to show an edge of bra and firm honey coloured flesh.  This sight seemed to have no impact on the bike rider as he stared, coldly, at her assailant.

     “Seen enough?” she sneered, loudly, her voice shaking with fear as she saw where his eyes were directed.

     He ignored her but let his eyes wander over to her captor.

     “You want to let her go?” the bike rider asked, his voice soft but firm which made the question sound more like a suggestion.

    “Piss off, Reb,” the short, stocky boy sneered as the taller one, wiping a smear of blood from his nose onto the back of his hand, scrambled to his feet.

      Don’t upset me, Spooner,” the boy called Reb mentioned.  “ You still owe me half a crown.”

     “Piss off, Reb,” Spooner protested.  “I owe you one and six.”

     “That was before the school holidays,” Reb reminded him.  “This is now and I think I’m entitled to interest.” Then to the other boy.  “I said to let her go.”

     The stocky boy looked to Spooner for instructions. When he nodded there was a touch of insolent reluctance before he released his hold on her. 

     “Spoilsport,” he grumbled, giving the girl an extra shove that sent her deeper into the hedge.  “There’ll be another time.... when Reb won’t be around.”

     Johnny watched and waited while Spooner and his pal picked up their satchels and crossed the road before he turned his attention back to the girl.

     “They hurt you,” he made it a statement for there was no point in asking her if she was all right because it was obvious that she had been distressed.

     “A bit,” she replied, bending down to pick up her satchel.

     A scratch on the side of her neck was seeping blood.  He slipped a clean hanky from his trouser pocket, slid some spit on it and dabbed it onto the cut.  The touch was soft and caring enough to prevent the girl from pulling away.  Then a touch of fear alarmed her.  She did not know the boy called Reb nor was she aware that he was different from other boys that she had known.

    “Steady,” he reassured her as she tried to squirm away.

    “Who are you?” she asked, looking at him for the first time.

    He was of medium height and build; slim but not thin.  Although there was a good-looking boy in the face there was little or no emotion in the eyes while there was something mocking in his mouth.  At the same time he seemed to be a bit of a nerd but maybe that was the way he wanted people to think of him.   The short back and sides topped by floppy fair hair and the black square rimmed glasses did nothing to enhance an image of a kid who could take care of himself.

     “John Rebello,” he stated, simply.

     “Fiona – Fiona Shaw,” she introduced herself.

     “You couldn’t be anybody else,” there was cheeky warmth in his smile as he responded to her introduction.

     She dropped her eyes and turned away from him:  “So you know about me.  What do you want then?  Want to cop a feel like the rest?”

     John Rebello nodded his head as he realised that he had said something wrong and he had no desire to upset her.

     “All I meant was that you had that name and -,” he stopped abruptly.  “Look I don’t know who you are.  I’ve never heard of you and I don’t want to cop a feel as you put it.  Got me?”

     Fiona wasn’t sure at first until she saw the set of his face.

     “ I get so used to -,” she faltered, so close to tears that he, instinctively, laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

     That touch seemed to comfort her to the extent that she allowed him to wipe away her tears.  Then she looked up and saw something that no one else had seen.  The mask had slipped and she saw concern and softness in those steel grey eyes but when he saw her looking they hardened again.

     In the fleeting moments that they had been together the pavements had cleared and both knew that they were late for school.

     “Want a lift?” he grinned.

     “Why not? she shrugged, as he pulled his bike away from the kerb.

     She swung up to sit sideways on the crossbar and shuddered when she felt his arms braced against her body as he gripped the handlebars and shoved off.  He raced down the slope so as to gain momentum for the final rise to the school gates.  He pulled up and helped her get off before he said goodbye then without another thought wheeled his bike through the gates just as two prefects were arriving.

     “Hey, Johnny Reb,” yelled one with a friendly grin.  “What’s this?  Late on your first day back.  Not like you.”

     “You know me, Billy,” Johnny shrugged.  “First time for everything.”

     Billy nodded:  “Just get to assembly – I never saw you.  Okay?”

     If Johnny Rebello had a real friend then it had to be Billy Bethnal.  They had been at primary school together when Johnny and his mother moved to Orpington.  Johnny came from North London and there was some animosity towards this outsider by his classmates. Then Billy had turned up.  Although a year older Billy could empathise with Johnny for he too had known what it had been like to be ostracised.  He had begun life as an abandoned baby and brought up in care until a family had adopted him when he was five.  Although he had been brought up in Orpington and had attended the same school from the start there were those who knew his history and let him know it.  By the time he was ten he had settled all the arguments and no one wanted to mess with him.  With Billy on his side kids tended to steer clear of Johnny until that last year – the year that Billy left for secondary school.  That was when they created hell for Johnny Rebello.

     When he came to Charterhouse he was told that he should not get mixed up with Eric Tyrell and to be ready for the initiation.

     The initiation was for first year boys to be dragged over to the iron railings by the bike sheds on the far side of the playground.  There their arms were forced through the gaps then the arms brought back and pushed until the insides of the elbows were crushed against the bars.  No one got released until they cried out in pain.

     Eventually, Johnny’s turn came but he never suffered the torture of the bars.  The reason for this was the intervention of Eric Tyrell.

     Eric Tyrell was a third year boy who stood out from the rest.  At playtime he could be found occupying the space where the bike sheds stood at right angles to each other.  He was taller than most boys his age with brilliantined dark hair that was combed straight back and neatly trimmed sideburns.  His clothes were immaculate.  The blazer was cut like a double-breasted suit jacket with narrow lapels.  He wore tapered grey trousers with a feint lighter grey pinstripe.  In attitude his stance was self-assured and if he held a fat cigar between his fingers no one would have been surprised.

     To his flanks stood the same two boys who had the look of being bodyguards.  Telfer, another third year boy, always stood to his left and was built like a gorilla with a heavy forehead.

No matter what the weather he wore a maroon pullover beneath his blazer.  The other, also tall, but broad shouldered and muscular was in Billy’s class.  This was Lee Benedict but only his friends dared use his nickname of Benny.  He hated the name because with his thatch of blond hair coupled with his facial features reminded kids of Ben the Flowerpot Man.

     Tyrell, then, was a force to be reckoned with.  Nothing seemed to happen without his say so and would deal promptly and swiftly with anyone who challenged his rule.

     The two fifth year boys who had Johnny up against the bars looked, at first, as though they were going to defy Tyrell then slowly and reluctantly they let him go.

      It’s tradition,” one of them muttered, sulkily, as he slouched to one side.

     Eric gave Johnny a thoughtful look.

     “He’s right,” Eric’s voice was almost inaudible a quiet mumble with distinct words.  “Benny give the boy a taster.”

     Benny took hold of Johnny’s arm and put it through the bars before he pulled on it.  There was no pain or hint of torture that he had seen done to other boys.  Then he was free but had no desire to walk away but he did want to know why Eric Tyrell had come to his rescue.

     “Thanks, Mr Tyrell,” Johnny said gratefully addressing the other as though he deserved that kind of respect.

     Tyrell grinned as he glanced at Benny and Telfer, his left arm swinging out in a gesture that embraced Johnny.

     “I like that,” he said, softly.  “That’s what I call respect.  It makes me feel good to be called Mr Tyrell.” Then he looked at Johnny.  “You call me Eric, you understand?”

     Johnny nodded.

     “You got a problem – you come to me,” Eric advised him.  “If I’m not around then talk to Benny or The Gorilla here.  You have friends now – you understand?”

     Once more Johnny nodded.

     “One more thing,” Eric pointed out.  “ I did this because Billy asked me.  That means you mean something to him.  Outside school he doesn’t have friends except me and Benny – but we know about you.”

     The group turned away leaving behind a bewildered and confused Johnny Rebello.

     “You going to use him?” Benny asked as they strolled back to their station by the bike sheds.

     “No, Benny, I’m not,” Eric replied.  “This one is a friend and friends I do not use.  Besides I have seen his eyes.  No Benny he has to be a friend.”

     That was the way it had been. Johnny belonged to his first gang and people regarded him with some awe.  The Gorilla had taught him how to fight and be really dirty with it while Benny took on a role akin to that of a minder.  When Johnny had a fight Benny was there to make sure that no one joined in.  In this way many people came to realise that win or lose Johnny did not back down.  There was no quit in him but he never went hunting trouble and Benny respected him for that.

     Now, except for Billy and Benny, they were all gone but what Eric Tyrell had seen in him they knew for themselves.

     During the last term of his third year Eric Tyrell had taken him to one side and they had gone behind the bike sheds.  Eric produced a packet of ten Weights cigarettes and handed them to him.

Johnny told him that he did not smoke but Eric just laughed.

     “ Listen to me, Johnny,” Eric said, softly.  “This cost a bob.” He opened the packet and produced a cigarette that he held up.  “To any kid this is worth threepence.  Think about it.  Ten cigarettes at threepence each equals half a crown.  You understand?”

     Johnny nodded: “You want me to sell fags for you.”

     Eric looked upset and offended: “ Johnny, look at me.  I’m your friend.  Never once have I treated you any other way.  You know me – you know I have kids to do this sort of thing.  I don’t need you like that.” Then he calmed down and laid a hand on Johnny’s shoulder.  “After this term I’m gone but you’ll still be here.  You understand?”

    “You want me to take over,” Johnny deduced.

    “Not quite,” Tyrell grinned.  “This is all yours – I want nothing out of it.  Take all you can, Johnny, or you’ll wind up as one of the taken.  There’s a demand and you can be the supplier.  Look take this packet and see what happens.”

     Johnny looked at the offered packet before, tentatively, reaching out to take it.  As he slipped it into the inside pocket of his blazer his free hand went to his trouser pockets and produced two silver sixpenny pieces which he handed to Eric.

     “What’s this?” he demanded.

     “You’re not out of pocket and I prefer to pay my way,” Johnny informed him.  “This packet of fags is mine – and I get to keep the profit.”

     Eric Tyrell looked into his eyes and saw the same things that he had seen just three years before.  There was a shrewdness and strength behind them than was not in keeping with the slim frame and the glasses.

     “Fair enough,” he agreed, before he held out his hand that Johnny shook.  “You’ll do good, Johnny.”

     At the end of that week Eric Tyrell quit school and on the following Monday the price of a cigarette doubled and the mugs paid the price.

      Now it was a new term and a new school year and Johnny slipped into the back of the school hall which doubled as the gym.  Johnny leaned against the wooden horse and thought of escape.  Anything was better than listening to the headmaster ramble on about something or other.  When assembly was done the deputy head took to the stage and began calling names into classes.  By the time he reached form 4A Johnny was already in line for he knew which class he was going to be in.  This rankled him a bit because his last term exam results had not been good enough to take him into the top class and, with it, as good as a free ticket to sitting his G.C.E's.  He was going to have to work hard to get to the top of the class this year so that he could go up next year.

      The new class trooped up the concrete path and turned towards the last classroom in the second block of wooden huts.  He was entering Mr. Scott’s domain.  Scott was a big boned six-foot mass that dominated the classroom and it was not just his presence that was felt.  His voice boomed with the right intonation that he sounded like James Robertson Justice in Sir Lancelot Spratt mode.  His usual attire consisted of tweed jacket with leather patches on his elbows; grey flannel trousers and brown shoes; and either a grey or pale blue shirt with the same dark blue tie.  The fleshy, veined face housed a thick nose and mouth and small, piggy eyes of a watery blue. 

     Get him in the right frame and ask the right question and half a lesson could be lost while he told everyone how he took Pegasus Bridge single handedly.

     “Of all the kids in this school I get lumbered with you lot,” he grumbled slamming the register on his desk while his piggy eyes roamed the class looking to spear a victim.  “God boy.  You? Rebello, what are you doing in my classroom?”

     “Because I am,” Rebello mentioned.  “Doing me down in history – it wasn’t enough to put me down.  Just dropped me to sixth place.”

     “Watch it, Rebello,” Scott snapped, his eyes taking up the challenge.  “This time I’m your form master – remember that.”

     Scott’s subject was history and he knew his facts and figures as long as he remembered to consult his notes.  Many regarded him as a good teacher until he made a mistake while taking a second year form and Rebello had been the boy who had to correct him.  Rebello was the boy who could do his written work and add information that Scott had not imparted to the rest of the class.  Most of all it was Rebello who made him look a fool but he was the only one who knew it.  Therefore, when it came to marking he deducted marks for cleverness.

     With one last glance around the subdued room he flipped open the register and began intoning the names recorded there.

      Abbott, Aston, Beamish….the list droned on and Rebello gazed out at the school field.  Faulkner, Fletcher, Foster…. Johnny switched off again …Hood, Hunter…still a way to go…. Kent…. so he had stayed in Johnny thought, good for him.   And so it went on until it reached his name but did not bother to answer.  Scott knew he was there.

     “Answer to your name, boy,” Scott shouted.

     “Woof,” was Johnny’s response that the class greeted with loud laughter.

     Slowly, Scott stood up his right hand reaching for the top drawer of his desk.

     “There always has to be one,” Scott announced.  “The class comedian.” He looked around the classroom his head nodding as he held a face until the smiles disappeared.  “Some of you don’t know me.  Rebello, there, does.  He knows me well and he knows my little friend.  Let me introduce you,” he became hammily theatrical as he plunged his hand into the drawer and hauled out a black size 11 plimsoll.  “to Sammy.  Sammy the slipper and he loves being in action.” He pointed the slipper at Johnny.  “Rebello get your backside down here.  Sammy wants to get reacquainted with you.”

     Johnny shrugged as he slowly came to his feet and grinned as he walked down the aisle and bent over ready for his punishment.  The slipper came down with force and as it connected with his backside he farted.

     “I needed that,” Johnny mentioned as he stood up.

     “Your filth, Rebello, you’re filth,” Scott screamed above the bursts of hysterical laughter.

“Get back to your seat.” Then glared around the classroom as though searching for another victim.   

“The rest of you – shut up.”

     The laughter was slow to subside.

     Scott stormed one of the aisles between the desks with the slipper held before him like an avenging sword as he quietened everyone with a threatening: “Who’s next?”

     Order was restored and the calling of the register was completed.

     Then it was off to the first lesson of the day which was Maths and that meant going to a classroom in the main building.  His classmates soon formed themselves into groups no doubt chatting about their summer holidays but Johnny held back.  Not because he had no friends amongst his peers but because he had no desire to be friends with anyone.  Apart from Mick Hood none of them lived near him nor had they come from the same primary school as him.  When he was done with school he doubted if he would see any of them again.

     There was only one reason why he was at school and that was to get an education.  He knew his weaknesses and the worst of those was maths.  The way he saw it was that so long as he could add, subtract, multiply and divide that was all he would need.  Things like percentages, fractions and decimals would all fall into place like trigonometry.  Who needed logarithms and algebra?  That was rubbish.  X + Y = Z.  What is the value of Y?  Who cared?

     Johnny Rebello didn’t.

     An education, though, that did matter.

     So did a matter of a debt.

     Albert Spooner was the first person to get on the wrong side of the new regime.  Right up until the first break he was resolved not to pay Johnny Rebello the half crown he had demanded.  He came down the steps by the school hall then stopped dead when he saw Johnny standing where Eric Tyrell had once stood.  Then he turned away hoping that he could hide out in the toilets but before he could make a break both his arms were grabbed.  Trying to twist away he knew that he was not going to break free of Billy and Benny who half dragged and half carried towards the bike sheds.

     “You owe me money, Spooner,” Johnny reminded him, casually.  “Half a crown.  Time to pay.”

     “I owe you for three fags,” Spooner protested.

     “You should’ve paid me then,” Johnny informed him.  “We’ve had our summer holidays and I’m out of pocket.  You’ve had my money – so I’m charging interest.”

     “I ain’t got that sort of money,” Spooner whined.  “ I’ve not got anything on me.  Look, I’ll pay you tomorrow.”

    “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Johnny mentioned, sounding as though he wanted to help Spooner out.  “Pay me a shilling tomorrow and do the same for the next six weeks and everything will be quits.”

     “But – but that’s six bloody shillings,” Spooner protested.  “You can bloody well piss off – I ain’t paying you nuffing.”

     “Look you little shit,” Johnny said with steel in his voice and eyes.  “I’m clearing your debt.  You owe me half a crown – I’ve given you half a crown so that’s five bob all told plus a shilling interest.  I want six bob out of you – or do you want someone to beat it out of you?”

     Spooner went a whiter shade of pale and his whole body was shaking but he was quick to agree terms.

     “One other thing,” Johnny mentioned as though it was a subject that had skipped his mind. 

 “Fiona Shaw.  Leave her alone and the same goes for your mates.  If I hear that she’s had problems I’ll be coming to see you.  You understand?”

     There was a swift acknowledgement from the victim who fully understood those last two words.  Finally dismissed Spooner ran to the toilets but this time, not to hide.

     “This something new?” Benny asked after Spooner had gone.

     “Lent him the money to pay me off,” Johnny supplied with a wicked smile.  “Spooner’s lousy at maths so he’ll never work it out.  What will happen is that he’ll spread the word that if debts don’t get paid the price will go up.”

     “I don’t like it,” Billy confessed.  “You’re sounding like a tallyman.”

     “It’s business, Billy,” Johnny pointed out.  “Don’t forget what we make cuts three ways.  I make money – you make money.”

     “When you put it that way –,” Billy faltered, then grinned.  “Like they say there’s always some fool who wants to get parted from their pocket money.”

     Word did get around and boys who could not pay offered other means.  Comics like ‘Air Ace’, ‘War Picture Library’, ‘Combat’, ‘Western Picture Library’, and Sexton Blake came his way.  Also books and toys though with the latter he was very picky and had to have some value but mostly he went for Dinky Toys or the new Matchbox series.  He paid a penny for each item but made it clear that they could be bought back within a school week but at double the price.

     Cigarette cards and bubble gum wrapper cards were something else – value on resale came with how rare it was.

     Whatever, Johnny Rebello never lost out on a deal.

Tuesday, 22 November 2016


As Black Friday approaches it seems an appropriate time to mention The Division a computer/console game from Ubisoft Massive. This game was released in March 2016

This is a third person online only shooter set against the background of a sealed off Manhatten ruled by four factions. The hero/heroine that the player creates is a sleeper agent who is activated by the crisis to take and secure control of the city.

The story opens with Black Friday underway, Scientist and eco-terrorist Gordon Amherst has impregnated dollar bills with a deadly virus that becomes known as 'green poison' or 'the dollar flu'. As the virus takes control the island of Manhatten goes into lockdown.
In Brooklyn the Division agents gather and have to take down a gang of rioters who are attempting to take advantage of the situation. After this intro you join one of the senior officers, Faye Lau, to transfer to Manhatten. However, the transport helicopter is destroyed and Lau is badly injured in the explosion.
After arriving at the base at Hudson Yards the agent is tasked with joining the Joint Task Force ( a kind of home guard) to take the Post Office to establish a base of operations. The place is a mess but as the agent finds various personnel like a doctor who is held prisoner in a sports stadium or a security chief trying to protect the Lincoln Tunnel from being flooded the place becomes habitable.
Step by step the agent becomes aware of the bigger picture as to the origins of the virus. Against the agent are gangs of rioters; cleaners who are armed with flame throwers who believe that burning people will eradicate the disease; Rikers - escapees from Riker's Island prison and the LMB (Last Man Battalion) ex-soldiers who feel dis-enfranchised who have taken over the United Nations building.

As a game it is all very straight forward - it can be played solo or in a group.

Despite a number of patches that are supposed to improve gameplay they have done nothing to rectify how scenery moves like a transparent shield that protects the bad guys but leaves the player vulnerable.

Personally, I found some of the set pieces a touch questionable.
For example a city without infrastructure the lights are still on. Everywhere the Christmas lights are ablaze but there is no one manning the power station.
The first mission sees the agent rescue a doctor who is being held prisoner with her staff in a sports stadium restaurant. At street level the JTF wait to escort them over the road to the Post Office and that is the direction said doctor goes. But no sooner has the agent rescued the doc than the order comes through to clear the roof so that a helicopter can land and carry the doctor over the road. Logic fails and I can't help wonder----why? Doesn't make sense.
In another task the agent is called upon to restore power in Times Square to switch the billboards on. Times Square is all lit up - as are the billboards so that when the quest is completed there is no change.
When the storyline is completed I found myself wondering 'what happened next?'. The bad guy disappears so the storyline is not done. There is no sign of him in the new game add-on 'Underground' but there are still two game additions to come.

Despite my gripes about the storyline there is very little wrong with the gameplay.

The game is available for PC and Xbox One and PS4 consoles.