New London Writers Anthology: Volume 2

New London Writers Second Anthology

Writing from around the world

volume 2

Copyright © 2014 New London Writers. All rights reserved including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author. First serialisation rights only. Copyright reverts to each author/contributor upon publication.

ISBN-13: 978-1502802231

The Red Lion

(Novel excerpt by Mikey Flynn)

The Red Lion pub is a watering hole for a motley crew of disgruntled locals. A sinister stranger entices them into a world of darkness, changing their lives forever.

Let's Talk

(Long Short Story by Shmavon Azatyan

USA. A young Armenian struggles to come to terms with his best friend’s homosexuality.

The Girl Who Wants Out

(Novel excerpt by Nic Penrake)

A London dentist falls in love with a beautiful Thai girl and is drawn into a web of violence and deceit.

The Silence of the Slaves

(Novel excerpt by Noor Sabah Tauqeer)

A young Pakistan woman grapples with the misogynist attitudes of her female relatives in a household full of 'slaves'.

The Friendly Desert

(Novel excerpt by Diane van der Westhuizen)

The Romero family are living ordinary lives in Dubai until they rescue Nelson, an injured black-backed gull. This sets off a chain of events that will jeopardize the family’s livelihood and ruin their comfortable lives in the Emirates.

Contributors

Alice Wickham/Editor

Shmavon Azatyan/Author

Nic Penrake/Author

Noor Tauqeer/Author

Diane van der Westhuizen/Author

Mikey Flynn/Author

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The Red Lion

(Novel excerpt by Mikey Flynn)

The Red Lion pub is a watering hole for a motley crew of disgruntled locals. A sinister stranger entices them into a world of darkness, changing their lives forever.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/oakside/ 1

The Red Lion was one of the oldest pubs in Teddersfield. It stood manfully on the corner of Stanley Road and Teddersfield High Street. The building was turn of the century Victorian, its stout frontage of pale maple tinged with a lemon hue. There was a sign mounted on a pole next to the boundary wall, the emblem being that of a lion. One warm spring evening a lone stranger dressed in black appeared, he was sitting on the sofa next to the wood burning stove when Molly Fitzgerald, a local, walked into the pub. She cast a furtive glance at the stranger and hurried over to the bar. When she checked her iPhone for the time, she saw that her partner-in-crime - Marcus Mills - was late. They were to discuss a book Marcus was writing about his prison years and even though the project never seemed to get off the ground; both Molly and Marcus were confident of its eventual success. They spoke about film and television rights, and whether Marcus should remain incognito.

The barmaid was engrossed in Hello! Magazine. Molly saw the flashy photos of William and Kate and new baby George. She waited for the girl to finish reading.

Eventually, the barmaid dragged her eyes away from the page, Yes?

Molly pointed towards her favourite tap. A pint of the golden nectar, please.

I’m sorry? The snooty girl said.

Kronenberg, said Molly.

The girl handed the pint glass to Molly without a word. Some of the lager sloshed onto the bar counter. The barmaid snatched the five pound note and bashed opened the register. Molly made a face behind the girl’s back, only to realise that there was a mirror in front of the cash register where she could see her reflection.

The barmaid gave Molly a frosty look along with the change. Through the window, Molly spotted Marcus ambling across the road in his usual carefree manner, as though the traffic would part like the Red Sea just for his benefit.

She was relieved when he entered the pub, greeting her with his customary ebullience. Molly, you old tart!

He was wearing the faded relic from his glory days in the city. A grey pin striped suit. What are you doing gaping out the window you daft Irish cow! You look like a fucking pigeon!

Marcus roared with laughter, amused as ever by his searing wit. Meanwhile Molly’s wry editorial brain noted the mix of animal metaphors. She complained to Marcus about the new barmaid.

Marcus threw his eyes heavenward. Oh, give it over Molly, she’s a brain-dead bimbo.

Yeah, but who does she think she is? Molly moaned. Rude, snatching my money from my hand, not even a thank you. What am I? Myra fricken Hindley?

Now that you mention it … grinned Marcus.

Get lost you!

Marcus laughed again. So! Did you pinch the recorder like you said you would?

I did indeed. Molly reached in her handbag and showed Marcus the digital-audio device she’d stolen from work, and which she intended using for their interview sessions.

"Trez professionallo, Marcus said, all we need is a good agent, and not some darkie like last time!"

Molly winced. It irked her how casually racist Marcus could be, but she had long given up reprimanding him. Yes, the Jamaican book agent had turned out being crooked, but that didn’t mean all West Indians were cheats. Or was it better to say Afro-Caribbean these days? Molly shrugged it off. Marcus was Marcus; he’d never change.

We’ll do it back at mine where it’s good and private, Marcus said in a hopeful voice.

No, we can do it here, insisted Molly. She did not relish going back to Marcus’s tiny one bedroom flat; not after the last time.

Nah, too many spies.

What are you talking about? The place is empty!

What about him? Marcus said, jerking his thumb at the stranger in the corner. Who’s that dickhead?

Ignore him, Molly said, it looks like he’s got other things on his mind.

I don’t care, said Marcus. "The place could be bugged for all I know.

Don’t be ridiculous.

It could be! Marcus insisted, growing irate. He did not like to be contradicted, especially not by a woman and an Irish woman at that. Most places are these days!

Why should it be bugged? Asked Molly. "Oh yes of course, the notorious Marcus Mills lives in Teddersfield, and he was let out of prison ten years ago, let’s bug every god awful pub and restaurant in the village! Pullleeese!"

Marcus said in a rasping voice that spelled danger. You don’t know how serious this stuff is, and you don’t know what boys is involved. As he spoke, he flung his thin shoulders back and gesticulated wildly with his hands, it reminded Molly of one of Adolf Hitler’s hand-flapping gestures. Marcus’s narrow old face had turned red; the bald patch on his head was a strawberry colour too. He was on the edge of regally losing his rag. "So don’t tell me this place ain’t bugged, there’s a lot of people who know me around here!"

Molly clucked her tongue in disdain. You're paranoid.

Look! If you don’t believe me then, I see no point in us going any further with this project. Marcus threatened. After all, conspiracy is what my book is about!

I understand, said Molly, backtracking. The last thing she needed was Marcus ditching the book. Not now when she needed the money so badly.

Marcus put on his fake street voice. D’ya get me!

True, said Molly, thinking, let the old bugger keep his delusions. Look, fair is fair, we’ll do it over at your place later.

Fine!

Bloody bus took ages to get here tonight, Molly said, changing the subject deliberately.

Which one?

The 281. Fit for the scrapheap it was, no brakes, and the driver was lousy. I nearly broke a bone trying to get off at Stanley Road bus stop.

You mean Prince’s Road, Marcus said.

No, I mean Stanley Road.

Yeah, but it’s called Prince’s Road bus stop?

Well then that’s a misnomer …

A what?

A wrong name.

Don’t be so stupid.

The misnaming of the bus stop was a bone of contention between them. Molly’s argument was that strangers to the area would wander off and get lost, to which Marcus always replied, good!

"How is that good? It’s wanton inaccuracy. May as well call it any old street bus stop, and then at least people know when they’re stranded."

"Any old street? Prince’s Road isn’t any old street. It’s named after Prince Albert, don’t you know your history girlie?"

There followed a lecture from Marcus on the royal significance of the street names in Teddersfield and their accompanying carriage stops. Marcus’ armchair-history was wasted on Molly, whose own knowledge of the kings and queens of England was scant.

But it ain’t Prince’s road, is it? Prince’s road is two roads farther back and opposite the pub. The bus stop is Stanley road?

What’s the fucking difference?! It’s close enough.

It’s not the point though is it?

Well, I don’t expect you to get it Molly, after all you’re a Pikey at heart.

Molly said calmly. My grandparents were Irish; that doesn’t make me a tinker.

Or even a thinker. Sneered Marcus.

They sipped their beer in silence.

Eventually, Marcus said, that bloke in the corner gives me the creeps, look at his ridiculous outfit, what is he? A fag?

Molly knew that Marcus disliked people who seemed out of place. That was one thing they had in common, they both distrusted strangers. Molly peered over at the man again. When he rose and strolled to the bar, she could see what Marcus meant. He was eccentric, with dark kohl around his eyes, and a creepy leather coat that swung open as he walked. He was a giant of a man, around six foot two, and with an aristocratic air, oddly dented by the eyeliner around his eyes, and the piercings on his nose.

He looks minted. Molly remarked noting the bling and gold watch.

They watched him ordering a whiskey at the bar. The barmaid was all over him like a rash, and he didn’t appear too eager to pay for his drink.

Marcus called him a faggot again. I’ve got news for you, he said, changing the subject.

What’s that?

The Lion is up for sale.

Say again?

I said it’s up for sale.

Molly felt devastated; the Lion was her favourite watering hole. Does that mean we can’t come here to argue anymore?

Marcus laughed.

Is it going to be converted into flats do you think? Molly asked despairingly.

"Who