Million Would Be Nice

Ken Scott

Description

Good looks, top job in the city, Ferrari, second and third homes in Paris and Cannes, not to mention a spacious penthouse overlooking the Thames. Yes, it seemed Donavan Smith had it all. And the girls. ready and willing. And if, every now and again, they weren't so willing, Donavan had his own way of persuading them. Jenny McArthur was different though. She knew something terrible had occurred during a ten-hour period of her life that was a total blank. But, as it all gradually came back to her, she relived the horrors encountered at the hands of Donavan Smith. And she wanted to get even. Donavan would have to deal with her. Vicky Mackenzie harboured a secret, a secret that she hadn't disclosed to anyone. So why was she spilling the beans to a total stranger from London, a stranger who she'd only met that night? She told him all about her past life, the cold-blooded murder of her husband, the phoney bank raid and how the money was still out there somewhere. Donavan listened and wondered how he could get his hands on the money; wondered if it was possible to plan a premature retirement. It would get nasty, that was for sure. But why not? Donavan Smith had done nasty before, just ask Jenny McArthur. Donavan Smith and Vicky Mackenzie: two soul mates, two secrets; it was a match made in hell.

Sujets

• Adventure (Guyana)
• Adventure
• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 24 juillet 2015
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781905988891
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
A MILLION WOULD BE NICE
Ken Scott



Publisher Information
First Published by Libros International in 2006
www.librosinternational.com
This Edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Ken Scott 2006, 2015
The right of Ken Scott to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.



Prologue
The little boy couldn’t understand it. He wanted to love his mother, hug her, hold her, and kiss her like he had seen his friends do with their mothers. He wanted her to be like the other mothers in the small terraced street where they lived. A little peck on the cheek as he left his back gate for a day’s adventure in the long summer holidays. Charlie Gilbert’s mum did that, kissed him gently, and then waved with a big beaming smile until Charlie and the rest of the gang had disappeared out of sight. But she wasn’t like that. She couldn’t be. Her smile, for example - well, it wasn’t exactly a smile - more a grimace. In fact, come to think of it, he couldn’t remember her ever smiling. He had caught a slight smirk every now and again, generally when she was beating him. Didn’t care what she used: a cane stick, a leather strap, a slipper occasionally, and then, more frequently these days, the well-worn wooden rolling pin.
The other mothers in the street smiled. They smiled at him every day he passed, a strange, sympathetic smile. Even at ten years of age, he had noticed the other mothers in the street smiled at him differently to the way they did the other small boys. What was different about him? However, the smiles were infectious and he couldn’t help smiling back.
He felt good raising a smile, something he just couldn’t muster behind the darkened door of Number 13 Gladstone Terrace. The sunshine seemed to bring more smiles than the dark and gloomy grey days that were generally par for the course in the small village where he lived. The sunshine was what he lived for. Rain meant staying indoors, getting under Ma’s feet and, occasionally, a beating for no particular reason. The sunshine or even a calm, still, overcast day meant Ma would kick him out every morning after his daily ration of porridge and a cup of sweet tea.
Christmas. Yes... he remembered now. Last Christmas she had smiled. He remembered it well. She had handed over the leather copy of the Bible at 6.30 a.m. on Christmas Day together with an orange and a few pennies which he would ultimately be forced to place in the collection box of the local church. Come to think of it, he couldn’t even remember eating the orange. But she had smiled; smiled as she placed the gift into his sleepy, limp hands. Called it a gift from our Lord.
So, he had been left with the Bible. He didn’t know why. He had a collection of six now and, as he read them through, he realised they were all exactly the same. He expected them to be different, couldn’t fathom out why someone would give six copies of the same book, even if it were the greatest book ever written, (according to Ma, that is).
He could just about recite the Bible word for word, starting with the first book of the Old Testament. The Old Testament, that was Ma’s favourite, and he could recite it almost perfectly. Ma certainly could as she stood to the side of him with the cane stick, administering a stroke across his backside when he slipped up. The tools of her beating came out every time he stepped out of line. Be it an occasion when his face was too dirty or a problem with an unfastened button, or perhaps his hair had moved somewhat from the style she’d set earlier in the day with a touch of lard and some hot water. And woe betide him if he ever came in muddy after a day’s adventure with his two best pals who lived along the street. Climbing trees was outlawed, as, on the one occasion he dared to climb the old yew tree in the meadow just outside the village, he’d slipped and a particularly sharp branch had pierced his shirt. Ma had noticed it immediately as he ran up the stairs seeking the sanctuary of his sparsely furnished room. He tried to push the door shut but, with her immense strength and the fact that the key to the lock was always in her flowered apron pocket, it was a hopeless task. She threw him violently onto his bed, about-turned and locked the door behind her. It wasn’t over. The young boy knew that Ma had gone downstairs to select her instrument of torture.
She returned after about forty minutes. Why did she take so long? Why did she torture him mentally as well as physically? He wouldn’t have minded if she had returned straightaway, inflicted the beating and got it over with, but no, she always seemed to labour that part, always seemed to sit downstairs quietly contemplating.
Contemplating with her good book. And a grimace. That grimace, as her head appeared around the doorframe; that grimace that signalled the beating was about to begin. And begin it did, but not before Ma had recited several passages from the Bible. She had selected them carefully, for each passage seemed to coincide with the crime he’d committed, and, as she beat him, she reminded him it was God’s will. God was always the punisher.
And yet Father Macdonald each Sunday from his pulpit in St Mark’s Church spouted on about what a nice man this God figure was, as was his son, Jesus . Jesus, whom God sent to save us - he too was a special man; a kind man; a man who could perform miracles; a man who helped the poor and fought against evil. Why then when his mother carried out this ritual evil punishment was it God’s work? Religion - the small boy couldn’t understand it. The little boy had one religion... the religion of fear.
The small boy would never know and he would never question God’s will or his wishes or his work. On the one occasion he had questioned God’s will and why God’s work seemed to be so evil, his mother had returned another forty minutes later with a different instrument of torture, a wooden ladle and he had received twice the usual beating for his question.
Ma’s face was different, different to the other ladies in the street. She didn’t seem to have the lines that spreadeagled out from the corner of the other ladies’ eyes. The lines that were more visible as the ladies laughed. There were no lines extending out from Ma’s eyes, just the lines or rather bitter, twisted cracks from the corners of her mouth . Hard lines, which had gradually appeared on her face from the years of grimacing and frowning and scowling.
“Run along to the shop,” she’d said, “get me a loaf of bread and some soap.” She handed him a few pennies and, without hesitation, he had jumped up and walked out into the street. “Run along quickly, I can’t wait all day,” she had screeched, as the door closed. A simple instruction, a 200-yard walk to the bottom of the street, to the general dealer’s, Mr Cooper. Only the young boy never made it.
The clouds up above seemed to gather, darkening the cobbled street and blotting out the huge, shimmering globe that the little boy loved so much. He shivered, took stock of how cold it had become and marvelled at the power of this mysterious star fifty-three million miles away.
There was a clap of thunder in the distance as he took a short cut down the back alley of Bedouin Street. A sign perhaps? A sign from God, the small boy thought to himself.
He broke into a trot, then a gentle jog, and then, as a flash of lightning lit up the gloomy grey street, a full sprint. No rain. Strange, he thought. Perhaps if he ran that little bit harder he could complete his errand before the rain started to fall. Surely Ma wouldn’t beat him for getting wet? After all, she had sent him.
Two of the street gang appeared at the bottom of the back lane. By the look on their faces the young boy knew they meant trouble. Without even thinking, he made a quick about-turn and ran back up the alley. He was a tantalising twenty yards from the top of the lane when another three members of the gang appeared. They were smiling. Taunting the younger boy. He looked over his shoulder and, to his horror, the other two members of the gang were advancing towards him. They marched slowly, like a division of soldiers marching in on a massacre.
He looked again to the top of the alley - the other three boys had started their procession too. Within seconds, but what seemed like hours to the small boy, they had cornered him. He looked all around for an escape route. It was hopeless - an eight-foot wall that he’d surely never manage to scale was his only chance. And even if he managed to climb it without the boys dragging him down, where would that leave him? Never mind, he’d give it a try .
Without thinking or even realising what he was doing, he charged the biggest boy who was loitering by the alley gate. Fearing a punch or an elbow to the face, the boy instinctively put his hands up to his head for protection. A fat, meaty thigh was exposed and the small boy leapt up onto it. He positioned his small foot perfectly into the thigh knocking the older boy noisily into the gate. He screamed out in pain as the heel of the small boy hammered into his femur. And the small boy jumped and reached for the top of the wall, grinning as both hands hit the spot. Several hands clawed and gr