‘The Strange Whistle’

by Harry Riley

“But I don’t want to, I’m scared mum…”

“Don’t be silly, there’s nothing to worry about, death is something that comes to us all Edgar. Just go in there and do as he says, he has something for you, never mind the smell, it’s only medicine and stale tobacco. They haven’t had the windows open for a day or two whilst he’s been so ill. And listen…don’t go showing us up and doing anything silly, they’ll all be watching you!”

“But I can’t…can you come in with me?”

“No, there are too many people around his bed as it is, the doctor won’t allow it, and I shall wait in the front room with your dad. We are not far away so no screaming or shouting remember, he’s dying so you have to whisper.”

Two minutes later young Edgar Watson stood at the bedside as the doctor left off checking the old man’s open pyjama front with his stethoscope and made way for the awkward looking boy.

“You can have two minutes, mind and no longer” said the tall stern faced physician as he glared down disapprovingly at the youngster, “we can’t afford to tire him too much…he hasn’t got long.”

Edgar wondered why the doctor was so concerned, ‘what did it matter if he spent two or even twenty minutes or a whole day with his granddad if he was going to die anyway. And why had the nurse been tidying the sheets so carefully, she didn’t have to do the washing! Mum was right though; the smell was horrible.’ He felt like gagging.

Several uncles and aunts reluctantly made way for him as he entered the room clattering over a bed-pan in his clumsy way.

Remembering his granddad was deaf the ten year old boy shouted loudly down his good left ear.” It’s alright granddad, it’s me Edgar and mum says you’re to give me a present before you die.”

A bony hand reached out from the covers and grabbed the lad’s wrist in a grip of iron. Edgar was pulled down towards the frail figure in the bed by the surprising strength of his grandfather’s withered arm. Then his face was within inches of the old man’s slobbering mouth. He could hear the hoarse death-rattle in the sick throat as strangled words were forced out from between the broken gravestone of a tooth “Good-lad, don’t be scared, we all have to go, I’ve had a long innings…just open the top drawer in the cupboard over there and…and take out the silver whistle…it’s yours.” The dying man relaxed his grip and his head fell back on the pillow with a deep sigh as the effort took its toll on the shattered body.

Importantly: as on a mission, Edgar did as he was bid; hearing the whispered curse from his Uncle Roland as he trod on his foot in his rush to get at the old wooden chest.

“That whistle was meant for our George, mother, and this little tow-rag will have it now, it’s not right!”

Edgar couldn’t help hearing the hushed comment and noticed Uncle Roland’s face was puce with hardly concealed anger.

Opening the drawer the boy retrieved the whistle complete with silver chain and waved it over his grandfather’s face staring hard into the yellow rheumy eyes. “Can I keep it granddad?”

“Well done lad…now remember…always wear it round your neck…only blow it when you’re in real trouble.”

Unceremoniously Edgar was hustled away by the nurse as he shouted his goodbyes.

Three years later Edgar Watson was crossing the stepping-stones of a brook dividing two fields when suddenly he was set-upon by a gang of louts from his school. He was ruthlessly pushed to the ground and within seconds smothered in mud. His new Scouting Uniform was torn, he had a bloody nose from the beating the gang leader had dished out and his knees were grazed from the fall.

“Give us your money and your phone Watson or you’re dead meat!”

Painfully he dug his right hand into his trouser pocket and then remembered his whistle. He wore it round his neck but it had lost its pea, probably after his mum had sterilised it. He’d long since given up on trying to blow it as nothing ever happened. Now in distress he blew on it hard as the leader made a grab for the chain.

The little glass covered compass; set in the top of the whistle spun round dramatically as Edgar closed his eyes and puffed with all his might.

In the fast flowing stream the gang leader struggled to keep his head from being pushed under by the stranger holding him down. The rest of the gang had fled as the big tough looking gypsy with the wild hair and bulging biceps toyed with their mate. They wanted nothing to do with him. He was well out of their league. The man kept their leader’s head down until he was within an inch of drowning before releasing his grip and allowing the choking bully to sit up. Not a word had been spoken but the frightened lout scampered away with his tail between his legs and the gypsy vanished as quickly as he came.

Back at home Mrs. Watson was amazed to see her son home so early and looking like a drowned rat. Edgar gabbled out his story, omitting to say how the whistle had saved him. That was his secret.

End.

A Spiritual Experience by Harry Riley

‘A Spiritual Experience?’

by Harry Riley

First of all let me say that I was baptised in the Church of England but have since acquired no great religious leanings or spiritual convictions. If there is a God up there I cannot think why he would want to concern himself with our short little lives.

My mother was of Irish Catholic extraction and eloped from a nunnery to marry my father, the son of a Methodist Lay Preacher in a small Derbyshire village.

During the summer of 1982 when I was fit and in my early forty’s I was recruited as a salesman for T. C. Thompson, a large Manchester Engineering Works manufacturing the Thompson Crown and Regal lithographic machines. Then supplied with a new company car and a set of road maps I was told to go to it and bring in lots of ‘serious customers’ for on-site factory demonstrations of the many virtues of the British Printing Press. My working day was to be a mixture of fixed appointments and some cold calling.

One day I was in Stoke on Trent, one of the English Staffordshire ‘Pottery Towns’ on business and with a free couple of hours, having already fulfilled my quota of appointments, I decided to hunt around for printing works in the backstreets of the town. To me this was the fun part of the job, never quite knowing what I might turn up and if this day might bring me the ‘Big Order.’ I had never been to this region before and had no connections, friends or relatives living there, it being a good many miles away from my hometown.

As I parked up and walked further from the centre I saw the streets were lined with rows of neat back-to-back houses. Turning a corner I became rooted to the spot. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I felt a cold chill running down my spine.

Looking to one side my gaze was drawn to a small red brick terraced house with a grey slate roof that showed no outward signs of having been modernised, unlike some of the others in the street. I instinctively recognised this dwelling as familiar. ‘I knew this house!’ The feeling was so intense it was déjà vu. Yet in truth I also knew I had never been to this town before. The building was so welcoming that I had the strongest urge to open the plain front door and walk right in. I had to literally drag myself away. This false memory, weird experience, hallucination, call it what you will, has lived with me since then. I hasten to add I am not of a nervous or excitable disposition and have never returned to that spot.

Science has given us many answers but it cannot explain away everything; for instance we know that gas and electricity are around us but we cannot see either. I have since learned, that over half the population have had this phantom feeling of déjà vu at some time in their lives. With some folk it has happened as a repeat conversation and with others it has been just like mine.

As it was a very personal sensation I was totally perplexed, unclear what to make of it, if anything at all, but the memory of that house just got stronger as the years went by and so to exorcise the demon and to try my hand at something entirely new, I eventually decided to write a novel that I called ‘Sins of the Father’ whilst building my own experience into the plotline.

The main character of the story is James Parker, a young doctor who feels very close and protective towards Rosie, his crippled younger sister. When she becomes hooked to a man the doctor believes to be a psychopathic killer he is terrified for her safety and yet no one else believes him. He is very intense and there are times when he hallucinates; he knows he doesn’t have all the answers and that some things remain a mystery even to modern medicine and so he questions if ghosts exist. Rosie is eventually killed and Brother James takes his own form of retribution for her untimely demise that lands him in the death cell awaiting the hangman’s rope. It is then that he seriously considers the merits of spiritualism as Madam Gloria, a Psychic Medium and relative of his cell guard, smuggles a note into the prison stating he will not hang. At a time of great stress he begins to believe his dead sister is watching over him.

I have just finished writing an anthology of short mystery and ghost stories, ‘Captain Damnation’ and other strange tales, exploring the paranormal theme in many different ways, suggesting ghosts or spectres really do exist, if only in our minds. This book will be released for paperback publication on 28^th. May 2010 by Pneuma Springs

~~~~~~~~~

A reader’s review of Harry Riley’s: ‘Sins of the Father’ Pneuma Springs Publishing.

A brilliantly executed murder mystery novel which is ideally suited to reading whilst either lounging under the hot summer sun or curled up in front of a fire on a dark winters evening. A book that is riveting and kept me engrossed with its sinister plot and many twists and turns. Set in the beautiful countryside of Northumberland, in a typical village close to the River Tweed the story sets a fast pace from the outset. The leading characters are believable and the author manages to draw the reader into the dark depths of the psychotic and terrifying mind of Billy Turpin. A strong and at times, enigmatic character, evoking varied emotions from sympathy to outright disgust. The other main man, Doctor James Parker is a complete opposite and one with which the reader can probably identify and sympathize. To begin with he comes across as an unassuming and timid character but his strength and tenacity shine through as the novel takes the reader first to the Congo and eventually to New York. There are numerous murders some of which are surprising and the plot keeps the reader on tenterhooks right up to the last page. I now await with eager anticipation a sequel featuring some of the other minor characters from the village of Norbridge. Review by Heather Webster.

‘Is Writing a Spiritual Experience?’

by Harry Riley of Nottingham England.

First of all let me say that I am Church of England and have no great religious leanings or spiritual convictions.

My mother was of Irish Catholic extraction and eloped from a nunnery to marry my father, the son of a Methodist Lay Preacher in a small Derbyshire village.

Apart from the fact that my mother was very superstitious I think I may have had a reasonably normal childhood.

During the summer of 1982 I was recruited as a salesman for a large Engineering Company making Printing Presses. Then supplied with a new company car and a set of maps I was told to go to it and bring in the customers whilst working from home.

One day I was in Stoke on Trent and decided to hunt around for printing works in the backstreets of the town. I had never been to ‘Stoke’ before and had no relatives living there. As I parked up and walked further from the town centre the streets were lined with rows of neat terraced houses. Turning a corner I became rooted to the spot. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I felt a cold sweat running down my back.

I gazed at a small house and instinctively knew I had been there before. The feeling was so intense. Yet in truth I also knew I had never been to this town before. The house was so familiar that I wanted to open the plain front door and walk right in. I had to literally drag myself away. This false memory, weird experience, hallucination, call it what you will, has lived with me since then, getting stronger as the years have gone by.

We try and find our answers through science but science cannot explain everything. We know that gas and electricity exist but we cannot see them.

I couldn’t bring myself to write this down at the time as non-fiction, as it was a very personal experience so in order to try and exorcise the demon I eventually decided to write a novel called ‘Sins of the Father’ whilst building this experience into the plot.

The main character is James Parker, a young doctor who feels very close and protective towards Rosie, his young crippled sister. When she becomes hooked to a man the doctor believes to be a psychopathic killer he is terrified for her safety and yet nobody else believes him. He is very intense and there are times when he hallucinates; as a doctor he tries to find his answers through science but science cannot tell us everything and so he questions if ghosts exist. Rosie is eventually killed and Brother James takes his own form of retribution that lands him in the death cell awaiting the hangman’s rope. It is then that he seriously considers spiritualism as a Psychic Medium smuggles a note into the prison stating he will not hang. His dead sister is watching over him.

I have just finished an anthology of short mystery and ghost stories, ‘Captain Damnation’ and other strange tales, exploring this theme in many different ways and questioning if ghosts really do exist, if only in our minds. This book will be released on 28^th. May 2010

A reader’s review of Harry Riley’s ‘Sins of the Father’

A brilliantly executed murder mystery novel which is ideally suited to reading whilst either lounging under the hot summer sun or curled up in front of a fire on a dark winters evening. A book that is riveting and kept me engrossed with its sinister plot and many twists and turns. Set in the beautiful countryside of Northumberland, in a typical village close to the River Tweed the story sets a fast pace from the outset. The leading characters are believable and the author manages to draw the reader into the dark depths of the psychotic and terrifying mind of Billy Turpin. A strong and at times, enigmatic character, evoking varied emotions from sympathy to outright disgust. The other main man, Doctor James Parker is a complete opposite and one with which the reader can probably identify and sympathize. To begin with he comes across as an unassuming and timid character but his strength and tenacity shine through as the novel takes the reader first to the Congo and eventually to New York. There are numerous murders some of which are surprising and the plot keeps the reader on tenterhooks right up to the last page. I now await with eager anticipation a sequel featuring some of the other minor characters from the village of Norbridge. Review by Heather l. Webster. Nottingham.

A personal book introduction from Harry Riley to 'Painting and Poetry' by Don Brown

‘Painting and Poetry’

(a new lease of life)

by Don Brown 2010

ISBN: 978-0-9563030-3-5 paperback edition

Published by smileawhile-enterprise@hotmail.com

I have travelled the length and breadth of Britain during my work selling printing machinery to industry, large and small, and have met many hundreds of clever people but I can truly say hand on heart that the ones that have really impressed me would be very few. I am proud to say Don Brown is amongst those people, for he is an engineer with a terrific imagination and a love for his fellows creatures.

Don was born in 1925 and is still with us, fit and extremely active, with a wonderful zest for life.

I have only known Don a short time, since I joined the Eastwood Writers Group but in that time I have begun to see what an extraordinary chap he is with his diverse interests. In this true story of his humble beginnings in a Derbyshire village he gives us a glimpse of a time we shall never see again. He writes of Eastwood and Heanor, Langley Mill and surrounding area, of the family of David Herbert Lawrence the world famous Eastwood Writer, of other characters, of local sporting clubs, schools and colleges, of the war years and of Christianity, his own close relatives and of his likes and dislikes, with a frankness rarely seen in these days of clever hype and cynicism.

It is in his poetry and paintings that he bares his soul for all to see and lets us into a world of modest heroes (he was a distinguished fire-fighter) commended for rescuing three residents from a fearsome death in an horrendous house fire. Not once but three times he ran back into the dense, smoke-filled building to bring out the occupants. He has had a very incident packed life as his story so graphically illustrates and has known deep tragedy and severe illness along the way, especially with the sad death of his wife. But to really get to know the man you have to view his paintings and read his poetry. This is a great book and I feel it is the small things that bring it to life, for instance he tells us that apples are his favourite fruit and this strikes a cord with me, as I also am an unashamed apple cruncher.

There is so much more that makes this man tick, far too much for me to include in this brief introduction but if I had to pick out one thing that makes him so memorable I believe it is the infectious grin that rarely leaves his face. Read the book and I defy you too not to raise a smile or two.