AND introducing...THE GREAT DANE ROBBERY one of the stories in the New Writers Telling Tales anthology by John Baird..

John Baird also writes short stories, one of which, The Safe Option, is to be published next month as part of the charity anthology, 100 Stories for Queensland. Here is a sneak peek at one of his other published short stories, (one of the stories in the New Writers Telling Tales Anthology)

The Great Dane Robbery~

You could say I had a balanced upbringing; both my parents were light fingered crooks. Seriously, it was like being raised by Gibraltan monkeys. As a result, I was picking pockets before other kids were picking noses.

Now in my mid-twenties, I’m awaiting my mandatory chinwag with the parole officer when screams of rape reverberate around the cop shop. They’re coming from Mrs Turpentine, a burly pensioner with a plastic hip. Barging past me, she delves under her fur coat and lifts a white lap dog onto the reception desk.

“It’s Fluffles,” she cries, “My girl’s been raped!”

The duty officer, old boy Compton, swaps a half bitten sarnie with a look of incredulity as the pooch tootles along his counter sporting a sequined waistcoat.

Shifting seats, I see that Fluffles sports the same curly locks as her owner. Not unlike her pet, Turpentine even has white fuzz on her chin - the kind of whiskers that arrive free with your bus pass.

“Well,” she demands, her voice reeking of old money, “what do you intend to do about it?”

Noticeably confused, Compton, a stooped man with a facial wart the size of a Malteser, flips the dog over like he’s an expert on The Antiques Roadshow.

“What’s happened to you then?” he asks, unaware that sequins are shedding like dandruff.
Turpentine snatches back her dog. “Stop faffin’ around. Get out and impound Derrick.”
Compton cocks an ear. “Derrick?”

“My grandson’s Great Dane,” explains the treasurer for the Society of Gossips and Complainers.

“The beast wants locking up.”

“I’m not sure that a crime’s been committed,” says Compton, his wrinkles perspiring.

“Don’t fob me off.” Turpentine thumps the counter. At five-ten, she looks down her nose at the whole village. “I watch Discovery Channel. Rape carries an average sentence of seven years.”

I wade in, “Technically, that’s one dog year.”

As loathing eyes bear down on me, I am spared reprisal by the emergence of Stickler, my parole officer. He makes a beeline for Fluffles as Compton answers the phone.

Grey haired, save for his bushy brows, Stickler’s a hybrid of Alistair Darling and a Jim Henson puppet.

“A Bichon Frise, if I’m not mistaken,” he enthuses, petting Fluffles in a manner prohibited in a public bath.

“Indeed she is,” says Turpentine flashing lashes at the snappily dressed stranger. “Someone knows their toy breeds.”

Compton returns with news:

“I just had a call from a man who witnessed a Bichon Frise being, er, compromised. Only he’s adamant that it wasn’t a Great Dane.”

“Preposterous,” says Turpentine.

“Did you actually see the incident, Madam?”

Tapping her hairy chin. “Not exactly.”

“The caller claims it was an Alsatian, called Heinz.”

She sucks her teeth. “Half the dogs in the neighbourhood have been sired by that mutt. He rooms with a traveller in the next field.” Glancing my way. “A ghastly bunch of wasters.”

Her face reads contempt and repulsion; a look I’ve received many times solely for my appearance. It irks me that there are no laws protecting the ugly. When it comes to getting on in life there is no greater handicap than an ugly mug but do we, the genetically challenged, get a disabled badge? Do we heck. We are the most marginalized group in Britain but the closest we come to a self help group is a Dungeons and Dragons chat room.

Before I say something she’ll regret my parole officer leads me into the small interview room that doubles as a cell. Leaving Flufflesgate, I locate my usual seat and calm myself by considering the merits of owning a dog. It can’t be that difficult, I conclude, or expensive. All the homeless have one, and theirs are always so well behaved.

“Let us open, as we always do,” says Stickler, a jovial sort whose bite is worse than his bark. Parking his bum, he begins to rhyme,

“Stickler will be my friend, so long as…” he motions me to finish.
“…I don’t re-offend.”

“You got it cowboy. So how are you finding the straight and narrow?”

“As the poor get poorer the rich keep getting richer. It’s playing havoc with my Robin Hood complex. I now avoid anybody with money. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“Well, hang in there Dimples, it gets easier.” He pulls on braces. “Besides, you are not my immediate concern.”

“Oh?”

“In the parole game you hear things.” Stickler scoots up a chair. “Word has it your father has fallen behind on his rent. I’m told that he’s got until the end of the week to pay up.”

A wave of dread washes over me. Dad’s landlord is Frank Stern; a renegade priest with a penchant for brutality. To sum up: bad news.

“Since leaving prison your father has, by and large, kept his nose clean but I’m worried that owing money might tempt him to reach for his balaclava.”

“No chance,” I say. “Those days are gone.”

“You may well be right, but I’m told his landlord can be awkward. Just remind your father that if he steals so much as junk…”

I roll my eyes. “…he’ll be back in a bunk.”

“You got it.”

The meeting ends.

On my way out I pass Turpentine, demanding justice and dismissing her dog’s prospects at Crufts. She clutches her handbag - a Pavlovian reaction to my presence - whilst Fluffles paws an interest in Compton’s wart.

It’s enough for an idea to invade my noggin; one to keep the psychotic landlord at bay.


Website: http://www.johnbairdauthor.com/
Blog: http://johnbairdauthor.blogspot.com/

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Excerpt from CHASING SHADOWS ...

Blood engorged my throat, clogging my airways. But dying was exactly what I needed. The lack of oxygen ignited involuntary reflexes. Suddenly I came to, gasping for air. Nothing.

Panic rising.

I coughed up my insides; desperately sucked oxygen into my burning lungs.

Where the hell am I?

Wiping swollen eyes I searched for familiarity; recognised the oak tree spinning in the moonlight. Clambering to my feet, I stumbled to the path. My thumping head weighed me down. My legs buckled.

I never made it.

My eyes opened to a brilliant light in which floated a beautiful angel. Gazing up at her, thoughts of my own mortality evaded me. All I ever wanted was there in the form of this heavenly creature. As the light faded her face illuminated and I was immersed in love.

My senses returned and unwelcome feelings gate-crashed my body; love displaced by suffering and confusion. This wasn’t heaven; it was the Northampton General Hospital. Opposite me an elderly man lay on his side; naked but for a pyjama top and head bandage.

Elaine I mouthed to my beautiful angel. A searing pain confronted me as she slid open a green curtain and disappeared behind it.

Attempting to sit up I felt my brain bang against the inside of my skull. Steadying myself, I managed to pull my arms free of the bed sheets and fished for injuries. I located bandaging to my face as Elaine returned, a tiny nurse in tow.

Her hands shaking with emotion, Elaine pulled her blonde hair away from a wet cheek. “Ed. It’s me. You okay baby?”

She looked pale, her blue eyes swimming with tears.

“I’d like a glass of water,” I uttered hoarsely. It felt like a hot water bottle was lodged in my throat.

At full stretch, the nurse reached over with a plastic cup, guiding a straw to my grateful lips. I swallowed painfully. “What happened?”

Confusion registered on Elaine’s face. “We thought you would know.”

“I’ll go and fetch the Doctor,” said the pocket-sized nurse before giant doors swallowed her up.

Shuffling up close, Elaine cupped my face. “I have been so worried about you. They told me you were found unconscious, in the park. Beaten up.”

“I don’t remember.”

Then a picture developed in my mind, as did feelings of panic. Having entered the park I had become unable to breathe, as if a hand gripped my face. Soon I recalled the oak tree and regaining consciousness.

“What is it Ed?” Elaine broke my memory. “You alright?”

I smiled reassuringly. “How do I look?”

She nodded at the geriatric recuperating under his head bandage. “Much like him, only worse.”

“Thanks. Bet he gets sympathy, where are my red grapes?”

Elaine whispered in my ear, “They’re haemorrhoids.” She kissed my cheek. “Speaking of which, your best mate’s here. I told him I’d fetch him when you woke up.”

“Go get him,” I replied, eager to find out what Sam knew. Sergeant Sam Chapman had been with me before I entered the park. That much I remembered.

In my thirty-seven years I had never been in a proper fight, let alone been beaten up. My one and only punch was thrown at school; my six year old knuckles painfully clashing with the seven year old mouth of a name caller. Since then I had avoided violence like a naked dwarf avoids nettles.

Within moments of Elaine leaving, the double doors swung open and in walked a doctor holding a serious expression and a clipboard. His face displayed more hair than skin; an interesting mix of Indian and West Midlands evident in his accent as he introduced himself and asked how I was feeling.

“Groggy,” I replied. Then: “What’s the damage?”

“There is a fracture to your nose. It’s difficult to say how badly broken it is at this stage because of the swelling but we’ll do an x-ray in a few days. For medico-legal reasons if nothing else.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Medico-legal?”

“With assaults it is often necessary for the true extent of damage to be ascertained, for the purposes of any legal action brought against the accused. In your situation I would expect this to be the case.”

“In my situation? Do you know what happened to me?”

Swerving my question, Dr. Patel shone a light into my eyes. “There’s cotton packing with a splint to protect your nose. It will probably heal itself. If there is any deformity surgery’s an option.
But that’s the future, just relax for now.”

For some reason the words deformity and surgery weren’t relaxing me.

Walking the curtain around the bed, Dr. Patel closed off the rest of the ward. “A nurse will be along later to give you a tetanus injection.” He slowed his speech, “And there are a few further tests that we need to do.”

“Tests?” Didn’t sound good.

“I just passed your fiancée. She tells me you have very little memory of what happened?”

“That’s right.”

“When you arrived here you were unconscious despite paramedic attempts to bring you round.”

He put down the clipboard, pressed his palms together as though arm-wrestling himself.

Whatever he had to say wasn’t coming easily. “A blood test revealed a chemical in your system.”
What? My heart thumped at my ribs.

Dr. Patel looked stern, all beard and disapproval. “Firstly, I have to ask. Have you recently injected yourself, Mr. Taylor, with any substance at all?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I feared as much.” He sighed. “I have some rather worrying news. We found Ketalar in your blood stream, an extremely powerful anaesthetic. I’m afraid that you have been drugged.”

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See what the CRITICS are saying about CHASING SHADOWS ...

Wow! This book blew me away! The plot doesn't halt for a pause with twists, turns and new discoveries unfolding in every chapter. With its short chapters and John's concise, to-the-point writing style, this book was unstoppable; it had me gripped from the first page until the shocking and genius conclusion. A fantastic book!'
BORDERS, Leicester


‘Clever red-herrings, unexpected twists, and a totally surprising ending, which left me thinking: What a writer! What a read!’
Novelist, Helen Hollick





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Getting to "KNOW" Author John Baird...

A lover of crime thrillers, John Baird began writing his debut novel, Chasing Shadows, whilst working as a college lecturer.

John is now the chair of New Writers UK http://www.newwritersuk.co.uk/ a non-profit making group, set up to support writers, and a member of the Crime Writers Association.

Visit John on the web- http://www.johnbairdauthor.com/
Blog: http://johnbairdauthor.blogspot.com/

Our SPOTLIGHT is on CHASING SHADOWS by John Baird...

Your father’s dead. Your fiancée’s missing. You’re next...

When Ed Taylor’s fiancée disappears, he follows her trail to Los Angeles where he becomes embroiled in a deadly game of cat and mouse between the FBI and an infamous crime boss.

Ed must confront the past, and the conspiracies and betrayal surrounding the present, but who can he trust?

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Visit John on the web- http://www.johnbairdauthor.com/
Blog: http://johnbairdauthor.blogspot.com/