“How did you know Sampson?” Ron Waring asked. “You’re both artists, of course, but was your acquaintance one of long-standing, or more casual?” Franklin Johnson knocked back his drink before answering. “We used to be good friends,” he said. “Ten years ago, or so.” “Just after the War?” Ernest Carruthers asked. “You served together?” “No. They wouldn’t take Sampson: childhood consumption meant his lungs weren’t up to it,” Johnson replied. “The refusal rankled him. Once he told me some girl had given him a white feather, before the Conscription Crisis. When he was drunk he’d rave about it.” “Quite a few girls did that,” Poppy said. “The recruiters put them up to it. It was terribly childish and cruel, honestly, but it’s amazing what people will do for a dollar.” “But you had served?” Carruthers asked. “Was he jealous of you?” “I wouldn’t think jealous,” Johnson said. “There was nothing really glamorous about the trenches, after all. Still, I think he felt he’d missed out on the event tha...

  Cassie had dreams and visions, but no one ever believed. Girls at school laughed when she foresaw their boyfriends cheating; her family shook their heads if she saw cars crashes, or homes burning down. Cornell might love Cassandra but he never believed her, either. “There you go,” Cassie tucked her silk handkerchief into the breast pocket of Cornell’s suit. “Now you’re ready for anything.” It was a lie, but she’d warned him before, and he’d just laughed it off. Instead of fighting, she kissed Cornell’s lips and let him muss her auburn hair one last time. “I’ll be home for dinner,” he said, getting into his Tesla. ”We’ll have pork chops.” Cassie blinked away tears from her grey eyes, smiled and waved as he left. It was hard watching Cornell leave forever. It was much harder than everyone thinking she was crazy. Once the taillights had disappeared Cassie went out into the garage where her reliable, old Jeep was ready, loaded with supplies, full of fuel, and serviced. The reinforced...

Reynolds smirked like the cat that ate the canary as he came into the bar of the Metropole Hotel. I must have caught his eye, as he came straight over to the table where I was sitting and took a seat. “Hello, Old Man,” he said.  “I thought you were in…where was it? Costa Rica?” I waved the waiter over and ordered him an amontillado. He loved the stuff, purely for its associations, I think. “British Honduras,” he replied. HIs work took him to many exotic locales and, whenever I saw him, he was usually either just returned from some trip, or just about to leave. Lean and tall, with shockingly blonde hair, I was always surprised that he never returned sunburned from his tropical jaunts. But he assured me he never went out until late in the afternoon; I suppose that explained it We exchanged pleasantries and sipped our drinks; I could tell he couldn’t wait to tell me something – probably something as outlandish as most of his traveller’s tales – but he was keeping it secret, for now. T...

“ ¡Gar-ci-a! ¡Gar-ci-a! ” twenty-thousand voices cheered Monte Rico’s president, as he started to climb up the steps to the podium. Every eye was on their hero; no-one was likely to look at the high window where I was hidden.  Garcia had made enemies among the multinationals. He’d nationalised some holdings, forced the big boys to declare their interests, but his real crime was refusing to grant permits for oil exploration and mining. The corporations leaned on the President, and she leaned on the Company; then they sent me to deal with Garcia. I wondered if he guessed his fate was sealed. Graves – head of operations – assured me it would be a simple job, when I was briefed. He seemed right; the security arrangements were laughably bad. But a professional cuts no corners, even on an easy job. Garcia’s head was lined up through the telescopic sight. It was a good one, and the rifle was the excellent Tikka T3, in .308. There was nothing military on this mission, and nothing American,...

It was expected to be the biggest middle-weight fight in years. The Bronx Brawler, Chris McGee was defending his title against Kid Lemon; the hottest prospect anyone had seen in years. The Kid was 19-0-1, quite a record, and most of his victories were skilled knockouts in the 9th or 10th round. The crowd was primed for a memorable evening. And it was, but not the way anyone expected.  The first four or five rounds were classic. Bronx McGee was an old-school, heavy-hitter, who usually took down his opponents with an unexpected blow from his hard left fist. There wasn’t a lot of finesse in his approach, but his fans adored seeing him take a man down. Still, he wasn’t as young as he used to be, and his last few title defences had been against swarmers, and that style of fighter can really wear a boxer out.  The Kid was light on his feet, a real strategist, probing and jabbing as he worked out his opponent’s weakness. Betting was running 2:3 in the Kid’s favour. In the end, it did...

Kid Lemon’s girlfriend reminded me of a beer served in some hoity-toity hotel: tall, blonde, and a head full of bubbles. That was a first impression only, mind you, and it turned out to be wrong.   “So what can I do for you, Miss…” I offered her a seat and waited for her to suggest a name. I’d seen her at ring-side, but we’d never been introduced. “It’s Billie,” she answered, “Billie Harland.” I was almost disappointed; I expected ‘Simone’ or ‘Scarlett’ or one of those names that’s obviously made up by a small-town cutie when she washes up in the big city, looking for her big break. ‘Billie” was pure farm girl. “I seen you at the fight,” Billie told me. “Somebody said you’re a reporter.” So much for any hope she was flying to my arms for comfort, after her unfortunate loss. “That’s right, Miss Harland” I said. “I thought maybe you’d like to look into somethin’,” Billie said. “You know, for a story?” Everything she said ended on a rising note, like a little kid, worried that they’d ...