Time To Abolish Child Benefit

Let me make it clear right now. I'm left of centre. I believe in redistribution of wealth. I believe in free education for all including university. I believe in free health care for all including dentistry. And so on. So why do I say it's time to get rid of Child Benefit (or as I still call it, Family Allowance)?

To understand why, we have to go back to why it was ever introduced in the first place. It was NOT because the government of the day went all gooey and said 'Ah, everyone has a right to have children' like they do now. The reason was purely practical. After two World Wars, the British Government believed that there was a real danger the population would fail to grow sufficiently to drive the necessary regeneration. It was brought in to actively encourage people to have more children (it was not paid for the first, but subsequent children). After WWII, women had grown accustomed to working and earning, thus the payments were substantial enough to entice them back to the marital bed and the nursery.

Things have changed. We need fewer people. We don't want the population to explode. If you haven't followed Sir David Attenborough's comments, here's a link:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/7996230.stm

There may even be an argument for inducing people to have fewer or no children but, that left aside for another day, there is now no logical or defensible argument for paying people to have children. The only argument is the emotional one, the romantic notion that ah, we all have a right to have babies. Bollocks.

People who are considering buying a pet are told to consider the costs of looking after it. Why should it be any different with children? As to the argument that people have a right to have a family, what about the rights of the children? Don't children - who after all don't ask to be born - have a right to a decent, humane upbringing away from poverty and neglect? Tell me exactly how Child Benefit protects these rights - because it doesnt! The payment today is not enough to make that much difference to an underprivileged family; it makes pocket money for the kids of better off familes, while other benefits in the system make the real difference to the poor (or should do).

Child Benefit is a huge amount of money thrown away for all the wrong reasons. Above all, it fails to help children, and it serves to damage the planet and the population's future. Its abolition is overdue.

The Importance of Book Covers

Did you know that book buyers consider the cover for just three seconds before deciding whether to pick the book up or not? I interview two of the top cover artists over on my creative writing site: http://wp.me/P1RSEb-1M

My New Website

The Blog has served me well but I'm now updating at my new website:

http://steve-emmett.com/


Please come over and remember to follow!

Sample Sunday - Diavolino

Here's a new excerpt from my horror novel, Diavolino. If you'd like to buy it, links are around the site.

They hurtled down the corridor to the central flight of stairs and leapt down two steps at a time. Without hesitation they both charged into the girls’ toilets, startling one of the older pupils who was furtively trying to extinguish a cigarette in the basin.

“She’s not here!”

Annamaria was running toward them. “Elspeth, please calm down, we’re checking all the classrooms now.”

“Calm down? My daughter is missing, for Christ’s sake. I don’t understand, how could she leave the classroom without Signora Neri seeing her?”

The hesitation in Annamaria’s voice presaged the words. “She says that Alice didn’t come to school today. She assumed she was ill.”

“What?” said Paolo. “She came in with my mother.”

“She did what?” Annamaria’s jaw dropped.

“Paolo and I brought Alice to school this morning. We met Paolo’s mother at the gate, and Alice walked into school with her.”

The color drained from Annamaria’s face as she leant back against the wall.

“What?” asked Elspeth. “What is it?”

“Clara didn’t come to work today. She called in sick.”

“It’s not possible,” said Paolo, “we met her at the gate this morning. We saw her come into school with Alice.”

“I’m telling you, no one has seen your mother today. The secretary took a call from her this morning to say she was sick.”

“What time did she call?” asked Elspeth.

“A quarter to nine.”

Elspeth looked at Paolo. His eyes were shut, his face tight.

“That’s fifteen minutes after we handed Alice over to her,” said Elspeth. “Come on Paolo, where’s your house?” She grabbed his arm and ran to the main door, tugging him along. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” she called over her shoulder.

There was no car parked outside the Gilli house.

“She’s not in,” said Paolo.

“I think we should still look inside,” said Elspeth.

The hallway was dark and quiet. The little table on which Clara always left her purse and keys was empty.

Paolo checked the other rooms and said, “She hasn’t been back here. I’m sure of it.”

Elspeth burst into tears, the first real tears since they’d arrived in Poggio. “What does your mother want with Alice? Tell me, Paolo. What’s she going to do? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, Elspeth. Honestly I don’t. I’m as shocked as you. But she can go fuck herself now, her and her Order and Clavelli. As far as I’m concerned, it’s over. Come on, we have to find Alice.”

Meet Author Peter Giglio

Today I'm talking to fellow Etopia Press horror writer Peter Giglio about his latest book, A Spark in the Darkness, and other dark matter.

Click to Buy

Steve: Welcome, Peter. I have to say I loved the book. Can you start by telling us a bit about yourself – who you are, your background? I assume from the name there’s some Italian blood around?

Peter: My Dad’s a proud Italian American. From the time I was a child we’ve watched Fellini’s Amacord and Coppola’s The Godfather every Christmas. So he also has good taste in entertainment. I grew up watching great movies with him, which helped cultivate my need to tell stories. I grew up in Springfield, Missouri. Mom taught ESL, Dad was a college professor. Many of my earliest memories involve towering shelves of books and awards on the walls. I went to an oppressive private school in my formative years, which piqued my curiosity for things that weren’t in the curriculum, things that weren’t respected by my teachers—horror, science fiction, fantasy.  

Peter Giglio

Steve:  What inspired you to write?

Peter:  At the tender age of 11, I checked Stephen King’s Firestarter out at the library and fell in love with King’s prose. Though Firestarter isn’t, in my humble opinion, one of King’s better works, it was the first I read and therefore will always be close to my heart. I should clarify: the book, not the film. My Dad is a respected historian and writer, so I have fond memories of watching him work. Putting the two together, the processes that I saw Dad take part in and the newfound love I had for Andy and Charlie McGee, I thought the whole writing thing might be something I could do, too. I was already a creative kid, spending a good part of my free time drawing and painting. And I was a pretty good artist! I wasn’t very good at writing. But I worked on it and worked on it, because, frankly, I had a deeper appreciation for books than I did paintings.  I gained traction in college, even though I learned the mechanics of writing and not much more. Around the age of 22, my work a hair away from being publishable, I gave up writing so I could make a living in Corporate America. Two years ago, at the age of 37, I realized something was missing from my life. I started writing again, this time with a vengeance. I’ve sold 2 novels (1 published, 1 coming soon), 2 novellas (1 published, one coming soon), 8 short stories, 3 anthologies (1 published, 2 in development), and I completed (with Scott Bradley) a feature length screen adaptation of Joe R. Lansdale’s classic short story “The Night They Missed the Horror Show.” With Joe’s endorsement of the work, Scott and I are currently working to make the film a reality.

Steve: And why horror?

Peter: I’ve had a love/hate relationship with horror. The first horror film I saw was The Omen. Though an edited for TV version, it terrified me! I spent the ensuing weeks studying my scalp in the mirror, looking for the 666, convinced I was the spawn of Satan. I wanted to be Han Solo, not the antichrist! Once I got over this stumbling block, I decided that horror wasn’t my bag. Why I checked out Firestarter a year later will always be a mystery to me. Something about the cover and the description on the back made it feel like a different kind of horror. A few months after reading Firestarter, a friend and his mother took me to see The Dead Zone, David Cronenberg’s adaptation of the King novel. If Firestarter was my first taste of what horror could be, The Dead Zone was an epiphany! Some kids have memories of crying during E.T. But the first movie that made me cry was The Dead Zone. Strange? I don’t think so. Remember, E.T. was made of latex. Johnny Smith, played expertly by the great Christopher Walken, was a human being, flesh and blood, someone I could relate to! When the ‘80s, the so-called heyday of horror, came to an end, I lost interest in horror. The sequels were growing increasingly ridiculous. The new novels I was reading grew more and more derivative. It was clear the genre was sick. Even the greats like King and Koontz and Lansdale were pushing themselves away from horror faster than a feral cat runs from an overzealous child. So I turned back to my first love, science fiction. Everything I wrote in college was sci-fi. I wanted to be the next Philip K. Dick! Then something happened about 8 years ago. I started reading horror again. It wasn’t the new zombie movement that pulled me in. It was seeing a new John Farris novel at the bookstore, remembering how much the man’s work had meant to me, and buying it. I realized I’d missed a lot of great stuff from great writers by turning my back on the genre. I also reread the complete works of John Farris, Skipp & Spector, Stephen King, Ramsey Campbell, and Robert Bloch. I was shocked by how well the material held up. I devoured everything I’d missed in the ‘90s, great novels from Ray Garton, Poppy Z. Brite, Jack Ketchum, and many more! I fell in love with horror once more. And, I swear, I’ll never again turn my back on it.

 Steve: I know the vampire has a special place in my heart, how’s your relationship with it?

Peter:  I love a good vampire tale! For decades, it was the indestructible force in the horror genre. You could make vampires romantic, you could make them funny, you could make them really scary, and any way you looked at it, it all seemed to work on some level. Then something happened a few years ago, vampires became sparkly, starry-eyed teen-looking things who listened to Emo and needed to be loved. And at long last it happened: the mythos was tainted, scared, forever changed! Neil Gaiman abandoned his vampire project! Vampires became the source of ridicule in the serious horror community. Don’t get me wrong, I love romance and I love YA. And I don’t want to point fingers, because I think the Twilight novels were written (even if not written well) with the best of intentions. But watching my favourite horror monster die an unceremonious death at the hands of those who no longer got the metaphor was something I couldn’t do. So I wrote my own vampire novella. I’m so proud that Joe McKinney said, “A Spark in the Darkness has put the bite back in the vampire tale,” because that was my intention.  The feedback I’ve received has been great! And I feel very good about my little contribution to the fang-gang.

Steve: Was this your first vampire story – and will it be your last?


Peter: Yes! No, it will not be my last. I plan to write a novel length sequel to A Spark in the Darkness, dealing with an older Tim as the protagonist. I’ve outlined the new book, tentatively titled The Jewel of Eternity.  And it’s really great! I’ll start writing this book in early 2012.

Steve: What makes good horror?

Peter:  Storytelling is storytelling. You need conflict. You need likable characters that you care about. You need to relate to readers. There’s no formula for this. An author must dig deep, be willing to reveal things about themselves that others would be afraid to whisper when alone. Whether your villains have fangs or guns or sharp words is inconsequential. The real trick is to withhold the horror, build tension through terror. What is the scratching sound coming from the cellar? When it’s time for the horror, make it hurt. We learn a lot through the exploration of pain and tragedy. We learn nothing from gore for gore’s sake. 

 Steve: What’s your favourite horror novel to film, and why?

Peter: Wow! There are three. Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining, Roman Polanski’s Rosemary’s Baby, and William Friedkin’s The Exorcist. I can’t choose between those three films because they are all perfect. All of them are works of finely focused scope and painstaking craftsmanship. And, in my opinion, each is better than the source material. Not to take anything away from King, Blatty, or Levin—three of my favourite authors! They are also claustrophobic works. Polanski puts us in that apartment. Friedkin puts us in that bedroom. Kubrick puts us in the Overlook Hotel. I could go on for hours about why these films are great achievements, but I won’t bore people with my analysis. Bottom line: I LOVE ‘EM!

 Steve: Horror is bad for people:- discuss.

Peter:  Horror isn’t the bad guy. Think of it this way: fast food is bad for people, and the fast food version of anything is bad for people. Be it romance or literary fiction or mystery or westerns or science fiction, a society that feeds on material with the lowest nutritional value is in serious jeopardy. Is there a lot of crap in the horror genre? You bet there is! We’re surrounded by crap! When the value of science fiction is lowered to the latest Michael Bay film, when romance becomes overly manipulative and formulaic, when mystery gives you all the answers in the first act then tries to shock you with something out of left field, then entertainment becomes irrelevant. No genre is the enemy. Horror can be bad for people if it’s bad horror. But horror at its finest is actually good for people. There’s a lot of truth to be found in horror. And truth is never a bad thing. The monsters under the street, under the beds, behind the walls are metaphors for the things that lurk in each of us, the things that dwell beneath the pretty facades. Do these things demand exploration? I think so.

 Steve: What’s ahead for you?

Peter: I’m finishing up a novel with Scott Bradley called The Dark. In November I’ll be in New Hampshire at Anthocon, promoting HELP! WANTED: Tales of On-the-Job Terror, an anthology I edited that includes contributions from Stephen Volk, Jeff Strand, Joe McKinney, Gary Brandner, Vince Liaguno, Lisa Morton, Eric Shaprio, Amy Wallace, and many more! I’m leading a project to bring some classic novels back into print, and I’m working as editor on a few other novels. I have three novels and 1 screenplay I plan to write in 2012. My zombie novella Balance is coming out soon and I’m very excited about it. And I plan to do a lot of work with my writing partner Scott Bradley, including the quest to get “The Night They Missed the Horror Show” made.

Click To Buy

Steve: If you were forbidden to write, what would you do?

Peter: Write. I’d find a way. I don’t like to be told what I can and can’t do. As it is, I can’t think of any other profession with a lower hourly rate of pay. So the world, in its own dismissive way, screams, “Stop Writing!” every day. And I don’t stop. Won’t stop! I fell for the lies of what happiness is when I was in my twenties. I won’t fall for it again. I’ve never been this poor, and I’ve never been this happy!  If I gain any form of wealth by doing what I love, I will relish it! But rewards for self-torture are hollow.

 Steve: Which single person has had the greatest influence on you?

Peter: My Dad.


Steve: How would you like to be remembered?

Peter: As someone who had something to say that was worth hearing.

Steve: Thanks, Peter, I hope you'll come back again when the next book comes out.

You can find, follow, interact with Peter Giglio here:
Website: www.petergiglio.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/#!/petegiglio
Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/PeterGiglio1

And here are the trailers for the two books mentioned in the interview:-
A Spark in the Darkness: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KHuwoTS31Xw
HELP! WANTED: Tales of On-the-Job Terror: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-GARSU7qi8

Diavolino - Sunday Sample

Here's an excerpt from my novel, Diavolino:

As the heat wave sweeps the nation we are receiving reports from up and down the country, the radio announcer said. In Puglia a lorry delivering propane gas bottles exploded, killing the driver and fifteen passersby. One eyewitness said it was like a fireball trapped between the buildings on either side and a miracle there weren’t more casualties. Still in the south, the airport at Lamezia Terme is at a standstill this morning after suffering a total blackout. In Rome, ninety-two tourists have been hospitalized after collapsing with heat exhaustion. The Department of Health advises the elderly not to go out unless it is absolutely necessary. And here’s some breaking news…from Umbria there are reports that the entire fish stocks in Lake Trasimeno have been killed by the heat…

Clara Gilli turned off the radio to answer the phone.

“Clara,” said Clavelli. “It has begun. Do you see? Can you feel it?”

“Yes, I certainly can.”

“You know I rely on you, Clara. With your help, I will defeat them. Poggio will be given back to the people. The Order will be secure once more.”

Clara was silent.

“That is what you want, isn’t it Clara? You are not wavering are you?”

“No. No, I’m not wavering. It’s just—”

Clavelli hissed like a threatened viper. “Does not God destroy his enemies, Clara? If we don’t destroy them, they will destroy us. Do you want that?”

“No, of course not. When will you come?”

“Soon. Maybe tonight. Tonight, tomorrow. I am not quite ready, but if things go smoothly, it won’t be long now. It is a pity that we have had to bring things forward but…” That cough again. “God be…with you, Clara. You know what you have to do.”

She replaced the receiver. That niggling feeling was back in her stomach. It had been there when she awoke. She’d put it down to heat sickness but it was more than that. Paolo hadn’t been home. She knew he’d spent the night on Diavolino at the Lupton’s. He’d told her that the girl, the dark one, was in some kind of trouble. She knew he’d fallen for her. She knew she was losing him. Maybe it was already too late.

She checked herself in the mirror and scurried off to school. With any luck, she wouldn’t be the only one running late; this heat was slowing everything down. Before she reached the school, she was caught up in the torrent of sweaty bodies moving inexorably toward the Town Hall, and she had to fight to avoid being swept along.

She spotted them at the gate and for a moment hesitated, wondering if she should wait until the child was in the building and the adults had left. She remembered Clavelli’s warning, that time was short. She took a deep breath and went ahead.

“Mamma,” said Paolo as she approached. “May I introduce Mrs. Lupton?”

Minions of Misery

Oh, go on then. I admit it. Today is my birthday. Fifty three years ago in Harrogate District Hospital my mother, without a care for what I wanted, brought me into the world. Damn her! And know what? Looking at my ancestors there is every chance I might last another fifty three. So all I can do is make the best of it by delving into the darkest corners where my real friends lurk and fester. And what a birthday present I got from Julia Kavan - she nominated me a Minion of Misery.

All I have to do to gain admission to this exclusive club is divulge a dark secret, share my choice of dark book and recommend a dark film. Andiamo...

Dark Secret
Having brought me into this world my parents forced me to attend a Roman Catholic Primary School as soon as I was old enough. They in turn made me go to church. How I loathed it, all that piety and mumbling. A five year-old doesn't have many options for revenge so I used to pick my nose during the service and stick the bogies under the pew.

Dark Book
This is harder because there are so many. Hmm. Clive Barker's In The Flesh, or The Damnation Game? M R James's Ghost Stories? Gary McMahon's The Concrete Grove? No, they are all serious contenders but I'm going to pick Vampire Vow by Michael Schiefelbein. I've really had it up to the neck with vampires but this is something different. It's a gay vampire story told by a truly talented writer and it ventures into the blackest of pits. I recall I said Vampire Wow when I reviewed it.

Dark Film
Guess what? I'm going to be contrary. I thought about all my treasures - Hellraiser, Candyman, Halloween, Nightmare on Elm Street, Texas Chainsaw Massacre and, of course, Child's Play which is so dear to my broken heart - but you don't want them. No, my choice is The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover by the utterly brilliant Peter Greenaway. Not horror, but what a monster he created in Albert Spica, the oafish and crooked gangster cum restaurant owner. And Helen Mirren enjoys such sweet revenge. She has to have one of the best lines ever with; "Eat the cock, you know where it's been."

Thanks again, Julia. Nice present!

And now for my three nominations to join the Minions of Misery:

Gary McMahon

Geoff North

Jeffrey Hollar

'Tis time for me to go. I'm having a friend for dinner tonight and need to buy a nice Chianti...

Feel Sorry For The Mayor? Sample Sunday Excerpt From Diavolino

This Sunday I'm posting an exclusive excerpt from my acclaimed novel, Diavolino. I hope you enjoy it. Buy links are around the site - ooof!

Mayor Palmerin paced up and down in his study chewing on the stem of his pipe. “Calm down,” his wife had said. “You’ll make yourself ill. You know what the doctor told you.”

“Fuck the doctor,” said Palmerin, “I have problems he can’t even imagine.”

So she had marched out of the room and left him to his pipe. “Well fuck you, too,” he shouted at the back of the door. The old German shepherd lying by the fire took no notice. “Fuck you all.”

It was then that the phone rang. He waited for his wife to answer. It rang and rang. He picked up the receiver. “Pronto! Hello?”

“Palmerin?” The sound of the voice propelled a cold serpent through the mayor’s stomach, and the unmistakable tang of bile tingled at the sides of his mouth; the dog dragged itself up into a sitting position.

“Mayor Palmerin? Is that you?” Palmerin was certain the lights dimmed as the voice came through.

“Yes. Yes, it’s me. Who is this?”

“You know very well who it is, Palmerin. You and I need to have a little chat.”

“W-what about?” Palmerin’s hands were shaking. “I thought we had cleared everything up.”

“So did I. But you are out of order, making decisions before discussing them with me. You know we can’t tolerate this behavior. Action will have to be taken. You, Palmerin, will have to make some changes. Before too much damage is done.”

“But I…I can’t. Not now. It would be unthinkable.”

“Unthinkable is what I will do to you if you don’t do as I say, you little turd! Don’t believe me? Do you still doubt that I can do whatever I want? I’ll show you. Can you imagine if the truth got into the newspapers?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me. Now, if you know what’s good for you, stay in town until you hear from me again.”

The caller hung up leaving Palmerin trembling, pipe in one hand, receiver in the other. He put the phone back, lit his pipe, and paced up and down, his shoes tapping on the terracotta floor. The room seemed to brighten.

This is all her fault. That bloody woman is nothing but trouble. All because I gave the job to Mangionami. It’s turning into a fucking nightmare.

Disturbed from his slumber, the dog stood by the French windows whining, his breath forming dusky patterns on the glass. Palmerin nipped into the hallway to get his Barbour and hat, the light from under the living room door confirming that his wife hadn’t gone to bed. “Balls to you,” he muttered, deciding not to tell her he was popping out. “She’d probably rejoice if I never came back. Come on Dante, old friend.”

Palmerin held the door while the dog tottered down the broad steps into the garden. “We’ve been together a long time, you and me. When all these dickheads want their pound of flesh you’re always there, my loyal old friend.” He bent down and beckoned Dante to him, rubbing his coat briskly. “Right. Exercise time.”

The gravel crunched underfoot as Palmerin made his way down the drive, the avenue of cypresses casting long, rhythmic shadows in the bright moonlight, like a neat row of Roman centurions. Dante darted in and out of sight, his nose welded to the ground as he sniffed at the myriad scents left behind by the enigmatic wildlife. When Palmerin reached the heavy iron gate, the dog came running, and he stooped to attach the dog’s lead before stepping out into the road.

“Good evening, Mr. Mayor.” The streetlight blinded Palmerin, but the panting female voice was familiar. As she bent to greet Dante, her face became clear.

“Oh, Signora Mangionami. How nice to see you.”

“Taking Dante for his evening stroll?”

“More like the other way round. He knows where he wants to go—I just follow. Bit like being with the wife. And you? If I may ask, that is. I don’t usually bump into you at this time.”

“I’m normally at home doing paperwork at this time,” she said. “No, tonight I decided to walk down to the Laguna Blu for a quiet pizza.”

“Very nice. Toni makes the best pizzas in central Italy. And cheap,” said Palmerin, nodding approvingly. “It was an excellent move giving him permission to open down there. Very good for the tourists, especially from the campsites.”

“Well tonight it was just me until, of all things, Paolo Fedi came in with the Luptons’ assistant. Lovely girl, very intelligent, dark and attractive. Persian background apparently.”

Palmerin’s heart sank at the mention of the name. “Paolo? With the Luptons’ assistant? Persian? Oh God! I can’t imagine how his mother will take it. No, no—I can imagine.”

“She didn’t look too happy, I must say.”

“What? Clara was there, too?”

“Not exactly. I asked Paolo and Sima to sit with me. It was selfish in a way. I wanted to get to know her, but I’m sure they had other plans. We’d just about finished when Clara burst into the pizzeria like a whirling dervish, her face a picture of rage.”

“Oh my God! I’m so glad I wasn’t there,” said Palmerin, his face turning gray.

“She marched across to our table and then, as if Sima and I didn’t exist, let rip at poor old Paolo, telling him to get himself home. It was her expression, her face. I’ve seen the wrong side of her before, but this was something else. She was like a woman possessed.”

“Oh, Annamaria. What are we going to do about her? If she really starts one of her crazy campaigns, she could ruin all the good work we’ve put in.”

Annamaria took out her pack of Merit and offered a cigarette to the mayor. He declined, waving his pipe at her, but flicked back the lid of his Zippo lighter and offered her the flame. She drew in the smoke before speaking, her words accompanied by staccato clouds. “Someone is going to have to have a word with her. Tomorrow, Alice Lupton starts school. She seems like a nice girl, and I’m looking forward to having her. Do you realize how important it is that Alice is made to feel welcome? That she settles in as quickly as possible?”

“Yes, yes, of course, you know I do. Her family is very influential. It could be the making of this town.”

“If Clara plays on her Wicked Witch of the West image, she will have Tom and Elspeth to answer to—and they’re not the types to just pack up and move away.”

“I agree with you 100 percent,” said Palmerin, sucking on his pipe. “As you are the head teacher and Clara is, therefore, under your employ as it were, I can think of no one better. Call her into your office in the morning and sort her out.” He jabbed the stem of his pipe at her shoulder, “Make her see sense, Annamaria.”

“Very well. I’m happy to have a talk with her, but you know what she thinks of me.”

“That’s just professional jealousy. You can do it. I know you can.” Dante tugged on the lead. “Must dash,” said Palmerin. “The best of luck.”

Book Review: Sequence

I'll begin by quoting the product description from the publisher. Any errors are original:

SEQUENCE is a hi-tech conspiracy thriller with a difference a high-concept story that s as cool as Raymond Chandler, as compelling as Dan Brown and as stunningly inventive as Michael Crichton. Fusing high-end technology, myth, religion, cryptology and noir fiction, Adrian Dawson s narrative fizzes with thought-provoking ideas, wit and tension. SEQUENCE Adrian Dawson s second dazzling thriller takes readers from LA s mean streets to the heart of a conspiracy that will help to define history itself. Trouble s been stalking detective Nick Lambert since he pushed his luck a little too far in the line of duty. As punishment, his boss moves him onto low-level assignments, but Nick has no idea that his first errand to simply check out an autistic girl who may be linked to a bizarre murder will pitch him into the most shocking and bewildering case of his career. Of any detective s career. Then, when a beautiful woman in an S&M club tells LAPD detective Nick Lambert that he s now in a damn sight more trouble than he can imagine he begins to realise he's on the edge of a huge, almost incomprehensible crime. Because this is no ordinary case. The slain man had secreted a Latin message inside his body and the girl harbours a disturbing secret. When a chance remark from the girl s nurse sends Nick after her elder sister Sarah, a freelance archaeologist Nick finds himself entering a labyrinth of hidden secrets that leaves the world of ordinary policing far behind. Why does the beautiful Sarah live in a luxurious, high-tech apartment hidden in a city slum? What is the coded meaning of the 17th-century painting of St Anthony and St Paul by David Teniers the Younger? What is the perplexing object uncovered in the wastes of Siberia? And why is the seventh-richest man in the US using his government-backed corporation to explore outlandish concepts which defy the laws of science? When Nick finally accepts the recurring offer of early retirement from the Los Angeles Police Department, he is free to confront forces which want to control a power that no living person should ever possess. At its core is a young woman who might just be the most important human being who ever lived - important, because she quite literally holds the key to shaping world events. Not just once, but over and over again. From the wastes of Siberia to 12th-century France, interweaving narratives switch between Nick s increasingly unsettling investigation and a dark vision of the future, as the action speeds towards a shocking climax


And now this is me, as a certain impressionist used to say. Sequence, in the form it was supplied to me by the publisher (Last Passage), is 546 pages. In a busy week I would expect to read a novel of this size in about four or five days. Sequence took me the best part of a month. At times it felt like wading through dough and more than once I felt my eyelids growing heavy, the book slipping from my fingers and heading for the floor. But promised to review the book I had, so the end had to be reached.
Now, don't get the wrong impression. Few books are all bad and this is certainly not a hatchet job. I have to say that Adrian Dawson is obviously a very clever chap. He deserves congratulating on devising and holding together such a complex novel. It's just that Sequence leaves me with very mixed feelings and, as you know, I am usually pretty clear on things. I guess that he deserves credit for that, too.
I have little doubt that Sequence will be enjoyed by readers who like sci-fi thrillers and, perhaps, by Dan Brown fans, but when clues in paintings and the Knights Templar turned up I started to groan, like when I see the Jehova's Witnesses coming up the path. And this is the problem with the book. It is well thought out and presented but it feels so derivative. Time travel, a universal code, paintings, Cathars and Knights with red crosses on their chests. I didn't know if I was in the Louvre or the Tardis.
Dawson also confused me with his writing technique. Giving Nick a voice straight out of The Big Sleep could not have been more of a deterrent to reading it. God, I wanted to rip his vocal chords out. Then there are sections which are beautifully written with wonderful phrases, but at the same time others are pedestrian and over-written with head-hopping that adds to the confusion.
So what do I think? I don't honestly know. It has some good points, but it's not for me. Of course, someone may have interfered with my sequence.

If you read Sequence, you may want to look at the competition on Dawson's website here.
His homepage is here.

Sequence by Adrian Dawson. Published 5th September 2011 by Last Passage. ISBN 978-0956577016

A Sample From Diavolino

This Sunday I'm revealing a new  excerpt from my novel Diavolino. Remember you can buy it from Etopia Press directly in all e-formats, or from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Omnilit and Smashwords if you prefer. 

Click To Buy From Etopia Press

Instead of taking the direct route across the car park and up the steep flight of steps that led to the center of town, Annamaria followed the narrow footpath alongside the lake. It meandered between a pitiful woodland of umbrella pines, furnished with the occasional broken bench, and the shoreline. At one point the beach gave way to weathered cubes of rock on which had been constructed a perilous jetty, rotting bits of timber protruding out from the sides. She hauled herself onto the platform by means of a handrail that snagged her skin. She cursed the local council for not spending money where it was needed. Tourism. Fundamental to the area. God damn them!

From the edge of the jetty, she could see the sparse lights of Polvese winking at her from under their roof of leaves. The water lapping at the base of the pontoon churned up a stench of dying algae that marred the sweet scent of jasmine from the nearby bushes. She took the pack of Merit from her handbag and lit one, inhaling deeply. The match hurtled through the air like a comet, fizzing when it hit the water. She looked up into the night sky, perfectly clear, and without the interference of the big city lights, it was still possible to see the stars here. So many of them, glowing like a scattering of dandruff on a velvet gown. Life seemed so insignificant. All the struggling, the fighting, the sheer effort, and for what? In the end it was always the same old story of Good versus Evil—and these days it seemed that evil was on the winning side. Or was it simply that the Devil bought better advertising than God? She ground the cigarette butt under her heel and resumed her walk along the pathway. A trash can overflowed onto the track, and an unseen drinks can clattered as she caught it with her toe, what was left of its contents leaving a dark trail in the dusty surface. Vermin scuttled into the vegetation, their scavenging interrupted. The track finally swung inland to make way for the old waterworks, and as she joined the pavement along the main lakeside road, she suddenly had the feeling that she wasn’t alone. She looked behind her but could see nothing. She certainly hadn’t seen or heard anyone on the lakeside path. On the other side of the road there was no sign of life, just the sealed up tunnels that the locals said once connected Poggio with the monastery over on the island. She shook her head and continued.

It was there again. A footfall, just a split second after hers. She stopped. It stopped. When she walked faster, the following sound came faster. But each time she turned, there was no one and nothing.

Before she reached the flight of steps that would take her into town and home she spotted the seasonal bar, no more than a brightly painted kiosk, already open for business. It represented refuge from what she considered totally irrational neurosis and she entered. Her mouth was stale, as much from fear as from the tobacco, so she ordered a decaf and a large glass of water. Perched on a stool at the bar, she noticed the place was once again under new management. This barman wasn’t Italian, Moroccan possibly. Nevertheless, in the corner, over the door to the toilets on a small shelf, was the ubiquitous television set. It was tuned to RAI news. A story was just finishing about the latest political scandal. Annamaria had long ago lost interest in politics; none of them was worth voting for.

“Promises, promises,” she muttered under her breath. When a story about the Northern League started, she reached for her purse. “If they get their way we’ll need passports to visit Bologna.”

“I’ve seen what nationalism can do. Nationalism and religious fanaticism,” said the barman. “I came here to get away from it.”

Poor sod, she thought, leaving a generous tip and steeling herself for the seventy-three steps to the top.

Sample Sunday - Kid

Kid uncovered his ears and slipped off the log on to his feet. For the first time in his adult life he heard the thud as his boot grounded, and the crunching sound as his deformed foot parted the dead leaves. He kicked the sere pile and laughed. He stopped. The sound of his own laughter! He laughed again and threw his head back, his hands in the air. The chirruping in the canopy overhead reminded him of the birds in his mother’s apple tree and he peered into the trees to try to identify the source. In the distance, a constant rushing sound beckoned him away from the clearing. He hurried as best as his twisted legs and damp pants would allow, with each turn discovering new sounds. Yet he knew from the direction in which he travelled that the sound he followed was the great cataract. Even before he rounded the final bend, he clamped his hands over his ears to stifle the deafening roar.

Never in his wildest dreams had Kid imagined a sound like that of the cataract. He sat in his usual place, on a flat spur of rock that jutted from the crag half way up the cascade and just out of its reach. With the cool spray dampening his skin, he repeatedly covered and uncovered his ears with his hands until the sound became bearable. Then he sat motionless, absorbing his surroundings with all his senses.

Engrossed in his new world, Kid didn’t see the sky darken. Only when the howl of the wolves greeted the night did he snap from his trance and make his way home. He went to bed that night the happiest man alive, serenaded by the sounds of the forest and his own blood coursing through his veins.

Kid is available from Smashwords and Amazon for a few cents. Or you can get a free copy if you buy Diavolino (see earlier post for details).

Sample Sunday 21st August 2011

Kid returned to the tree trunk with his eyes fixed on the ground, raising them only when he was almost at his destination. He stopped short. His heart beat against his ribs. The light shimmered over the log and a figure appeared. Sulfur lingered in the air.
From the back, the figure had all the semblance of a man, sitting down in Kid’s usual place. But what man, and from where?
“Come and sit with me, Kid.”
Kid lost control of his muscles, dropping his ale to the forest floor. His pants felt warm and wet and, as the sensation crept down his legs, he knew it was not the ale. How could this be? He hadn’t heard a voice for years. The singing of the birds, the clatter of the oxen, even the cries of pain as he went about his work had all been denied him. Yet now this voice spoke to him? He looked up into the trees, his mouth gaping as if to corral the sounds into his head.
Silence. The same deathly silence as always.
“What’s the matter, Kid? Pig got your tongue?” The visitor turned his head. The face of a man, framed by garlands of black hair that coiled over his head and tumbled down his back. A nobleman, judging from the rich fabrics of his clothes and his neatly trimmed beard. Maybe even a prince. Kid bowed, a reaction beaten into him over the years.
“Come, sit with me. I have a gift.” The visitor patted a patch of bark next to him and turned his face away.
Kid trembled as he approached. He limped bow-legged from the discomfort of his sodden crotch. The voice that he heard – heard! – made his soul seek shelter. As he drew near, his legs refused to cooperate and he came to a halt. If his work had taught him anything it was to recognize fear. Now he recognized his own. He could taste it, smell it.

KID, a short horror, is available from Amazon and Smashwords. Read the post below for the latest review.

Epic Horror In A Compact Size

Kid is my first short horror story and when I released it into the public domain I held my breath. The first review from Susan Roebuck was tremendous as you will know if you follow me. Today I received another from American horror writer Jeffrey Hollar. He says on his blog -

My first acquaintance with the writing of Steve Emmett came through my wife, a fellow writer of horror. She read and greatly enjoyed Steve's debut novel Diavolino. I subsequently read it and assessed it to be excellently crafted horror writing. So it was with great pleasure we received the short fiction piece Kid from Steve. It is an axiom that writers are their own worst critics. Steve is no exception. He admitted the piece was, basically, something to keep his presence in the writing world alive while he completes the sequel to Diavolino. He expressed concerns that Kid might not be very good. Steve needs to lighten up on himself and take a bow for a truly remarkable work of short fiction.

Read the full review at Jeffrey Hollar's blog The Latinum Vault.
Kid is available for Kindle at Amazon, and in various formats at Smashwords. Check out the limited time special offers, too. And if you enjoy Kid, you may want to consider buying Diavolino.

Free Frights

I've not only let Kid loose, but for a limited time only you can download him FREE from Smashwords. Just click on the caption below the image:

Click HERE for your free copy

Sometimes It's Better Not To Hear...Kid's Coming

Last night, when the sun had gone down, I unleashed Kid on the world, my short horror story available now from Amazon in e-book format for Kindle and from Smashwords. Here's the cover, followed by an excerpt:

Click The Image To Purchase From Amazon

Kid trembled as he approached. He limped bow-legged from the discomfort of his sodden crotch. The voice that he heard – heard! – made his soul seek shelter. As he drew near, his legs refused to cooperate and he came to a halt. If his work had taught him anything it was to recognize fear. Now he recognized his own. He could taste it, smell it. The stranger glanced back over his shoulder. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not here to hurt you, Kid.”
Kid dared to look into the eyes of the visitor and at that moment he knew he was not hearing the voice. It came from within. The stranger lurked inside him, making him feel the words. And those eyes. What should be white was red, pools of blood in which floated black holes. Blood. Kid glanced down at his hands and rubbed at the blackened gore.
He knew about blood.

Thrilling Review For Diavolino

Clifford Bye wrote a wonderfully insightful and intelligent review of Diavolino on The Deepening. He said, "As a whole, Steve Emmett gives us a mystery, laces it liberally with suspense, and eventually creates a horrific tableau that can hold its own with any of the masters.
I can understand why readers have given this author so many 4 & 5 stars. Diavolino is a terrific effort and an example of why Horror is such a popular genre."

Read the full review here.

Acting and Writing

Author Susan Roebuck asked me about acting and writing. You can see the full interview here.

Another Etopia Press Release

July 1st sees the release of my Etopia Press colleague Carolyn Rosewood's Haunted Heart. I'm happy to showcase it here. Carolyn, I wish you well.

SEXY ROMANTIC SUSPENSE Rowena Sommers thought moving back home to restore her beloved Aunt’s home was the key to starting over. Van Whitney thought taking the job would keep his business afloat. When a ghost hunter tries to convince Rowena the home is haunted, can these two escape the past and find a future together?

HAUNTED HEART - SEXY ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

EXCERPT:

She didn’t need Hollywood, or Brett Fontaine.

Rowena Sommers stuffed the latest issue of Celebrity back in the magazine rack, glancing around the Pilot gas station to see if anyone was watching. She sipped her coffee, fuming over the slant of the article.

Contrary to what the reporter said, her relationship with bad-boy leading man Brett Fontaine was in trouble long before she filed a libel suit against him for leaking her personal e-mails to the tabloids. The dumb-ass reporter should have checked the back issues, like the ones with candid photos of Brett and his female costars, taken every time he went on location. They ran right next to the stories with headlines like: Who’s Keeping Rowena Company While Brett Romps in Australia?

A woman in denim cutoffs and an Ohio State T-shirt plucked a copy of the magazine from the rack and glanced sideways, her eyes wide. “This is you. On the cover.”

Rowena studied the picture, taken on the steps of the Van Nuys courthouse three weeks ago. The day she won her lawsuit against Brett. The same day she found out her great-aunt Lunette had died. She’d trade twice the settlement amount to hear Aunt Loony’s voice again. “Yes. That’s me.”

Rowena took another sip of coffee as she tried to formulate an answer that didn’t involve telling this woman where she could stuff that magazine. Her cell chirped. Saved by the ring tone.

“I have to take this. Excuse me.” She headed for the counter as she opened the phone with her free hand. “Tricia, impeccable timing, as always. You just saved me from an inquisitive fan.”

“And judging by the sarcasm in your voice, I’m guessing you’ve seen this week’s Celebrity?”

She glanced back toward the magazine rack, where the woman and a teen dressed like Lady Gaga were reading the article out loud. “Yeah, I’ve seen it. And as if this day could get any worse, I’m forced to drink gas station coffee.”

Tricia laughed. “No Starbucks in Creek Ridge, Ohio?”

Her best friend’s voice reached across the miles, tugging at her heart. Had it been a huge mistake leaving LA? “God, I hope there’s still a Starbucks here.” She took another sip. “This is actually better than the brown goo they tried to serve me at the Holiday Inn Express this morning.”

“Have you been to Aunt Loony’s house yet?” asked Tricia.

Rowena swiped her credit card through the machine. “On my way now. I’ll call and let you know what the contractor said.”

Ohio State and Lady Gaga moved behind her in line, still talking about the article. Rowena’s fingers trembled as she put the card back in her wallet. She pushed past them without a glance. As she opened the door to the parking lot she heard one of them mutter something, but only caught the words “Hollywood” and “bitch.”

Wonderful. Back in town less than twenty-four hours and already someone thought she had an attitude. So much for believing the gossip wouldn’t follow her home.

She waited until she pulled out of the parking lot in her brand-spanking-new Infinity SUV before screaming. Dialing her iPod menu to Led Zeppelin, she turned up the volume, loud. Angry, frustrated, rebellious. Perfect.

The readers of Celebrity weren’t interested in the story behind the lawsuit. They didn’t care about the string of bullshit promises Brett had made. Or the callous way in which he’d trashed her costume design career and her industry contacts with a few keystrokes, all because she’d dared to issue him an ultimatum.

They only cared about two things: reading her personal e-mails, and how much money the Superior Court of Los Angeles had ordered him to pay her because of what he’d done.

They didn’t care why she was in Ohio, or that Aunt Loony was dead. Brett’s money wouldn’t bring her back. Fun and zany, she’d been dubbed Aunt Loony by Rowena’s father when he was a teen, and she’d loved Rowena and her five siblings as if they were her own.

Fresh grief mixed with anticipation. Willow Lane was less than two miles away. Would she be able to handle walking through Aunt Loony’s house, knowing she’d never see her warm smile again?

Spotting a cop parked in front of a strip mall, she braked. Just for good measure, she turned down the volume on Jimmy Page and Robert Plant. She could see the headlines now: Rowena Sommers Arrested for Speeding in Hometown!

The memories overwhelmed her when she turned onto Willow Lane. She’d spent almost as much time on this street as her own, two blocks over. It hadn’t changed in ten years. The oak tree in front of Traci Westphall’s house, where she used to hide from her older sister Emma, still had dead branches along one side. Two doors down, she half expected Bud Williams to materialize in his driveway, sweeping up leaves and twigs while he muttered about the damn, dirty trees.

The scent of roses, lavender, and freshly cut grass filled the air. May sunshine shimmered on the pavement. The smells evoked memories of the end of each school year, when the magic of summer stretched out endlessly. Summer vacation meant going barefoot, walking down by the railroad tracks, and staying outside after dark to catch lightning bugs.

She was home, ready to be part of this town again. To be with people who made her feel safe, wanted, and who didn’t measure their lives by the latest Nielson ratings or market shares.

But would they welcome her? Or had they read the tabloids while laughing at the girl voted Most Likely to Trip Over Her Own Shoelaces? She’d tripped all right, landing smack in the belly of the gossip machine.

The imposing Queen Anne at the end of the street, just before the entrance to Oak Park, rose into view. Despite the faded siding and missing shutters, the grandeur of the home still took her breath away. As her eyes settled on the four-story tower, she remembered summer nights in the second-floor bedroom, wishing she could live with Aunt Loony. Her own room, with no Emma harassing her or parents screaming at one of her brothers.

She slowed the car, turning off her iPod. Letting her gaze travel up to the top floor of the tower—the lookout point—she recalled her big brother Jake and his friends pretending they were pirates. Part of the game included the ability to see all the way to Cleveland, where ships from exotic places like Spain or China would pull into port, stuffed with treasure beyond imagination. She was usually stuck playing the kidnapped damsel in distress or a cabin boy. They’d ignored Emma when she repeatedly pointed out Lake Erie had never been plagued by pirates, nor had treasure ships sailed on the Great Lakes.

The trim lawn and pristine flower beds brought a smile to her face. Her little brother had actually kept a promise. If a contractor showed up, he’d have kept two. For Mike, that would be a record.

She raised her eyes to heaven. “Thank you for the house, Aunt Loony. I promise to take good care of it.” She could almost hear Aunt Loony’s hearty laugh and see the twinkle in her green eyes.

Her smile faded at the sight of a silver Mercedes parked in the driveway. If that belonged to the contractor, she was about to get ripped off.

She parked the SUV in front, then caught the hem of her favorite summer skirt in the door as she tried to make a graceful exit. She glanced toward the Mercedes. Too late. The driver’s side door was already open. Classy way to make a first impression, Rowena.

In the towering maple on the front lawn, a pair of robins started to chirp, probably about her clumsiness. She released her skirt then took a deep breath, turning to look at the man leaning against the Mercedes. Her mouth fell open as she scanned his face. It couldn’t be…

Vance Whitney—everyone calls me Van—belonged to the perfect, popular crowd of cheerleaders and jocks that had made her existence at Creek Ridge High a lesson in insignificance.

He crossed muscled arms over a forest green polo shirt that set off his luminous blue eyes, even at this distance. Broad shoulders tapered to a trim waist, and the khakis he wore accentuated his long legs. The same confident grin she remembered spread across his tanned face.

This is the contractor Mike called? No way. Not happening.

No matter how hot he still looked.

Why not visit Carolyn Rosewood's website here.