A Plague of Dissent — Re-write Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Dandelion relaxed in his plush leather seat of his G5 contemplating the questions he would be asked by the inquiry panel and the answers he would give, but events upon the ground in London were taking a turn that even he could never have anticipated. Over the past year there had been four large demonstrations and numerous smaller ones across the UK, many of which had turned into riots.

The reasons for the peaceful strikes and demonstrations were multi-faceted. Much of the dissent had been in response to the present government’s policies of fiscal control, with concerns being about loss of jobs, pay cuts, and a decrease in services and policing. The education sector had been slashed and a great many social services had been amputated.

Despite being woefully overworked police numbers were to be reduced. The government announced that this would not affect their ability to prevent crime. As the police hadn’t been able to quell the earlier riots before they became serious, this government statement was ridiculed by all and sundry. The same was said about similar reductions in the military. They laid their lives on the line on a daily basis only to receive a simple letter upon returning from deployment, stating their regiment was to be cut.

There was hardly a segment of the population that hadn’t been adversely affected and wasn’t extremely unhappy with what the Government was doing and yet more segments of society that would take full advantage of the fire that was beginning to rage amongst the populace. For each peaceful demonstrator another had joined in, some of these were simply looking for either the short term gain they could achieve by looting shops or for the enjoyment they seemed to derive from it. Others were far more organised.

The demonstrations and particularly the riots created great headline for Dandelion’s media companies, but it was also creating problems, one of which was about to get right into his face. About half an hour out from Heathrow his musings were again interrupted by the stewardess,

“Excuse me sir but we are half an hour out of Heathrow and the pilot asked me to tell you that there is a demonstration happening in the centre of London, around Oxford Street. He says it shouldn’t affect your drive in but he wanted you to know”

“The shooting no doubt”

“Yes sir, more of what happened yesterday”

Unperturbed by this news, he decided it was time to get ready for the hearing, due to take place at the Palace of Westminster in two hours or so. He was exiting the bathroom just as the stewardess announced they were landing. Within ten minutes of touching down, he was exiting the G5 past the smiling stewardess.

Thank you God for getting me through another flight with him without him touching me, and I hope he runs straight into the riots

Within minutes of exiting the G5, Dandelion was in his limo passing through security gates at the airport and toward the M5. Near the M5 approach road the driver said through the intercom

“Sir, the demonstration has escalated into a riot, and has spread through the centre of London toward Piccadilly and Green Park. I have the radio on Sir, do you want to listen?”

“No, I don’t, just don’t get stuck in traffic”

…….

The day before, after the shooting of the young man, several small, seemingly insignificant incidents happened around the UK, all of which petered out quite quickly. But that morning, following the start of the demonstration at Broad Water Farm, they took hold again, all in the form of looting. Not in the immediate areas of the day before where the police still had a large presence but a few miles down the road.

This feat of instant and secure communications had taken a lot to achieve but had worked spectacularly, both in its reaction to the first event of the killing and then anticipating the events that would follow. Those that had achieved this act now had control of large bunches of mostly men but quite a few women as well, from no particular affiliation, which could be organised into a mindless horde, intent on larceny and destruction and with only a few hours notice.

One such element had been sent to Oxford Street, the shopping heart of London’s West End believing it would make a good target. They worked on the knowledge that there would be large numbers of police required at Broad Water Farm, thus depleting the West End of London. Their game plan was to split the several large groups along the route that they intended to loot.

Groups of up to a dozen strong gang members all wearing dark clothing with their faces covered in ski masks and armed with pepper spray stormed into shops and department stores. What appeared random on the surface was far from that; each store had been identified in advance, and each group had been supplied with a sketch of the positions of the tills and counters displaying goods they were targeting.

As the gangs entered each store, the first reaction of the shoppers was that of incredulity that quickly changed to panic, as the first that were encountered were sprayed with pepper spray.

“Two minutes. One minute, thirty.  One minute, thirty seconds. Go”

Working with military like precession, two of the gang members remained by the main doors through which they entered, one of whom held a stop watch shouting out to the others what remained of the time each store had been allotted. The other sprayed any shopper or store employee that came near with pepper spray, forcing shoppers toward the back of the shop rather than block the entrance and the gang’s means of escape. 

Within thirty seconds they were gone and on to the next set of targets. Within another thirty, the panicked shoppers who had for the most part kept relatively quiet during the robbery huddled in the back now ran for the exit. As they did so, display stands of goods were knocked over, glass cabinets broken and the shops’ remaining merchandise spread all over the floor.

As the rest followed the initial exodus, some slipped on the glass or fell as their feet became entangled by clothes on the floor and were then being trampled by others still trying to escape the chaos.

Within five minutes of the start of each robbery each store was almost deserted. Of those that remained inside most were injured in the flight, some remained to help the injured but most now milled about in the streets in shock. Only buses and taxis were allowed to drive along this stretch of Oxford Street and those were soon brought to a standstill, blocking the roads and any immediate possible police response. 

This tsunami of destruction rolled along Oxford Street, down Regent Street before turning right along Piccadilly, allowing fresh rioters to enter the fray from the Mayfair direction, where they had initially gathered. As fresh rioters joined in, others left with their spoils moving toward the Strand and the Embankment and to the minibuses that had been laid on to aid their escape.

…….

The entire process had taken this particular crew only ninety minutes from the start of the looting spree in Oxford Street where they hit a high end jeweller, the first of many stores robbed that day, to sitting on a minibus. The minibus driven by the leader, had picked them up on the Mall, they were now nearly over the river and into South London. Home was no more than an hour away.

“Joe come here; have a look what Simon has”

“Yeah, that jewellery store we hit first was the best of the lot, thanks Mr Wayne or whatever it was. You two must have got something good, let’s have a look”

“No! You keep your hands to yourself.”

“Fucking shut up you lot, there’s flashing blue lights on the bridge. I ain’t going that way. I’m going straight on, Lambeth Bridge it is then boys.”

The driver of the minibus accelerated through the junction and looked left over his shoulder toward the police car stationary on the bridge and crashed straight into the back of Dandelion’s limo as it slowed to go through St Stevens Gate and into the Houses Of Parliament on his way to sit before the inquiry. 

The impact spun the limo. As the back end came around it clipped a man, Charlie Parker, who was just passing St Stevens Gate to access the pedestrian gate a few metres further along. Flinging him through the air to collide with one of the concrete barriers, the car completed a 360 coming to rest a few feet from Charlie. The minibus, now stationary at an acute angle over the two carriageways of St Margaret’s, its bonnet knocked open during the impact and now clouds of steam erupted from under it, hissing as it escaped.

The young men, who a few minutes before were jubilant, already taking stock of their stolen goods and estimating what they would fetch once they got home, now exited the bus like a pack of rabid dogs, on the hunt for whomever they could take vengeance on.

The first six spotting the driver’s door of the limo open, charged toward it, screaming. They grabbed the driver, dragged him out of the car and knocked him to the ground, raining in kicks and punches. The driver never had a chance. Within two minutes he was unconscious, and from this he would never regain.

As the six men put in the last of their kicks to the driver’s limp body, the remainder were exiting the bus. Some bleeding from head wounds gained in the crash; they looked about for others to punish. Spying Dandelion in the rear of the limo, they moved toward the right hand side rear door.

Fortunately for Dandelion, the spin the limo took during the collision had pushed both the front and rear against the concrete bollards blocking off the left hand side passenger door. That forced the men to try to drag Dandelion out of the car to the right and over the vacant rear passenger seat.

Hauling the door open, one of the men dived into the back seat, punching Dandelion in the face as he grabbed his collar to pull him out of the car. Just as a shocked and now panicking Dandelion felt himself being dragged out of the car, the man stopped and jumped back out, hearing his friend’s shouts

“Police! Run”

As the man stood up he saw several officers from the Palace of Westminster division of the Met that were trapped by the car at the gates, begin to climb over the back of the limo. Conscious that it is now time to leave, he began to run toward Abingdon St Gardens after his accomplices.

As he came level with the front of the car, he saw Charlie who was trying to make it up onto his knees. Sidestepping left, the man attempted to kick Charlie, aiming at his head with all his might. At the last second Charlie looked up, saw the man coming at him and dived to the right with the man’s lower leg and foot hitting his chest and shoulder.

Instead of Charlie’s head snapping back with the kick and allowing him to keep on running the impact found him tumbling over Charlie, to collide head first into one of the concrete barriers. That was enough to stun him, but he was soon rising to his feet, alternating between looking at Charlie and at his avenue of escape.

Before he had time to make up his mind whether to kill the old fool or run, he was tackled by three officers and once more knocked to the ground. This time with two large policemen sitting on his back and the third fitting him to handcuffs.

Within minutes more police arrived, then the ambulances. As the paramedics attended the driver and Charlie, police officers helped Dandelion from the car. Because of the confines of the back of it, even a limo, it is not easy to get a powerful punch in. As a result, although Dandelion’s face was going to swell, there was no real physical damage but he was certainly in shock.

The unconscious driver was rushed to hospital but would never regain consciousness. Apart from several broken bones, he had massive internal injuries and was pronounced dead upon reaching hospital.

Another team of paramedics worked on Charlie. In reality he had been lucky with the car, it had spun from the collision to the rear and had only clipped Charlie’s right calf, removing large chunks of skin but not breaking anything. The impact with the concrete barrier had broken several ribs and severely concussed him but his worst injury had come from the kick, which had shattered his collar bone. If that had connected with his head as intended, his neck would surely have been broken.

The inevitable media crews arrived very quickly, having already been present in the vicinity, as they normally were during the days when something was going down at the palace.

So they were in plenty of time to witness both Charlie and the driver being put into ambulances, the arrested man into the back of a police car and Dandelion helped through the adjacent gate, St Stevens still being blocked by the limo. They took their cameras into the wrecked minibus, revealing most of the stolen goods strewn over the floor. It didn’t take them long to piece together the visible facts and begin broadcasting the story live from outside the Houses of Parliament.

No one was certain but there seemed to be about a dozen men in the minibus at the time of the accident. All had made their escape before the police officers could get to them with the exception of the man arrested after kicking Charlie. He would eventually provide limited information to the police, in that his crew had received messages over the Blackberry Messenger service early that morning, directing them to Mayfair and Hyde Park where they would assemble before the riot and looting spree.

They had specific targets to hit and had been supplied with the minibus to make good their escape. Although he didn’t know whom these instructions and arrangements had come from, he did supply the names of four of his companions who would eventually be arrested.

Over the next few days several more would be arrested some charged with the murder of the driver and others with a variety of offences. Their identities would come to light after the police appealed for videos taken by the public witnessing the events that day, many of which were appearing on social networking sites, only minutes after each incident.

Officers of the Palace Division had helped Dandelion out of the battered limo, who despite his ordeal and bruised face, was keen to get away from the spectacle. Media may have been the backbone of his business empire, but he didn’t like being under the spotlight of it, particularly now, as he was being dragged in front of a committee investigating his misdoings. With two officers guiding him, Dandelion was soon through the pedestrian gate into the courtyard in front of the palace. They left him with a paramedic, saying they would soon return for his statement.

The paramedic examined him and after a minute or two, then said,

“You may have a mild concussion; I’d suggest you go to a hospital so they can have a better look at you and do something for that bruising.”

Dandelion forever the strategist, decided that he could get mileage from the incident. Firstly he wanted to get the testimony over with and realising, that should he say something now which was later contradicted, he could blame the concussion for his mistake.

“I think I will be okay. I really don’t want to be late. I will be fine for now and perhaps go later.”

Dandelion turned, before hurrying off, he added

“I know the way; I will be fine, could you tell the officers I’ve gone to the Chambers, if they return that is.”

He was gone before the officers could return and delay him further.

…….

The ambulance carrying Charlie arrived at St Thomas hospital some ten minutes after the one carrying the driver, and Charlie was quickly ushered through for treatment.

It was not many minutes later that TV crews began to arrive, although they hadn’t actually witnessed the crash, only the following mayhem. They had pieced together a story of how a long term employee at the palace and former paratrooper Charlie, had foiled a murderous attack on Dandelion, receiving severe wounds in the process.

The story, being broadcast live from outside the hospital, went on to describe the hero, Charlie. He was employed as chief engineer at the palace and was on his way into work as the incident unfolded around him. And, how he intervened as men intent on killing Dandelion were dragging him from the car.

They hadn’t really got the facts right, not mentioning that he was first knocked down by Dandelion’s limo but that didn’t seem to matter. They had a great story here and would milk every ounce from it. It wouldn’t be until next day the whole story would become clear.

…….

Charlie in fact had been the chief engineer at the palace for over 20 years, until two years ago and was about to retire at the end of next year. He had loved his job keeping everything running there. He knew more about the building than any other alive and because of that he had been kept on to assist and familiarise the new contractors with the vast building.

Up until that point, all maintenance work had been carried out in house. Then some bright spark within the government had an idea. That, as the palace was an asset to the country, bringing in hundreds of thousands of tourists every year, why not expand on that concept and open up areas within the palace as hireable function rooms to offset the running costs?

As this was a departure from how the palace had been used and run for hundreds of years, the PM had decided that this service should be independently run. The reason given for this was that the company, who would take on this contract, would pay for the refurbishment themselves which was estimated at running into millions.

On the surface this seemed like a sensible suggestion. In reality it was just another political stunt. The company awarded with the contract to make this happen expected to make a great deal of money out of it; and they just happened to be owned by a businessman who had contributed a large sum of money to the Conservative Party. It was nothing more than the privatisation of another economic asset just as profitable sections of the NHS were being privatised.

Charlie was now little more than a guide to these new contractors but he did know far more about the building than any other alive today. Still Charlie had a job and was thankful for that, which was more than could be said for the majority that had looked after the building up until that point. Most of them had lost their jobs in the government’s cost-cutting measures and the awarding of these new contracts.

Although Charlie was relegated to a guide and wasn’t particularly friendly with the contractors who tended to keep to themselves, he couldn’t complain about the work that was getting done. It was all of the highest quality many of the antiquated systems had been upgraded or totally replaced with each discipline having their own workshops in the cavernous underground bowels of the building.

…….

As these events were being televised around the world, two men sitting in Charles De Gaulle Airport on the outskirts of Paris, were paying particular attention. They were immediately responsible for many of the organised elements of the riots and were very happy with most of the results.

That some of the attention surrounded the Palace of Westminster had them a little concerned. Nevertheless, the majority of the news centred upon the riots, particularly those happening in the West End of London, and with that they couldn’t be more pleased.

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A Plague of Dissent — Re-write Chapter Three

Chapter Three

 

 

Will there be any other guests accompanying us today sir?” She said with her radiant smile.

 

“No,” he replied, “Just get this thing off the ground and bring me some coffee”.

 

The stewardess hoped that coffee would be all he wanted on this flight to London, some of his previous demands had been far more onerous.

 

With all that he had achieved, one would have expected Dandelion to be a happy man; today he wasn’t. Within minutes of him settling into his seat, the G5 took off. The wheels left the tarmac and rotated into their bays, his coffee arrived and he began ranting to himself.

 

How dare they summon me like this? It was me who put them into power in the first place. If I hadn’t shifted my support from the Labour Party to the Conservatives four weeks before the election, Labour would still be in power and the Conservatives would still be the opposition. Perhaps some compromises had to be made but that‘s no reason to humiliate me like this.

 

In Dandelion’s opinion, the compromises were the real reason he was being summoned to the House of Commons, to be grilled by this damnable Robertson Inquiry committee.

 

Blain should be kissing my arse not humiliating me; it was Blain’s policies that were in place not that of Labour or the bloody Liberal Democrats.

 

Dandelion had built his empire on the knowledge that information and how it was disseminated or not, was the key to everything. Any slant could be put on any story and made to convey precisely what you wanted it to. Since his early days as an assistant editor, he knew that reporting a story in a certain light would put a spin on it. This could be positive or negative. When shown in a positive light, the recipient of the article benefited, they were usually very grateful and often demonstrated that gratitude.

 

He used that knowledge well over the last 50 years to build the world’s largest media group. He had been in the news business all his working life. At the age of 16 he joined his uncle’s newspaper. He had worked his way up through assistant editor to where he was now, the sole owner of one of the largest and probably most powerful media companies.

 

For fourteen years he had supported the Labour Party. His media outlets had been intrinsic in the shaping of New Labour’s media image and that of their leader. He, had also benefited enormously both by Labour’s new stance to the Unions and their embracing the fiscal policies begun by Margaret Thatcher a decade before.

 

Many would have said he was a friend of the party’s hierarchy. He spent a lot of time in their company, but to him, it was purely business. During those boom years, where further fiscal relaxation made everyone money, he put the might of his media empire behind them.

 

In 2010 he saw an opportunity. For three years the country had been in the midst of a recession. A general election was due which, he felt sure, Labour would lose.  The recession was not confined to the UK, it was endemic and worldwide. It was known as the Banker’s Crisis, where years of relaxing the fiscal policies had brought about a very unstable condition. The retail banking system: the consumer and commercial banks were so intertwined with the investment banks and their worth so artificially inflated, that they had become vulnerable. This wasn’t the first time this had happened.

 

After the Wall Street Crash of the 1920’s, it was recognised that having institutions that did both retail banking and investment banking had a serious flaw. In that, a series of bad investments on the investment side could bring down the consumer divisions, which is precisely what caused the crash in the Twenties. Thus, after this crash, fiscal banking laws had been put in place to prevent it happening again. 

 

But, over the past 20 years these fiscal controls had been gradually eroded, allowing the big high street banks once again to buy up investment houses, creating mammoth institutions. Property formed the mainstay of the bank’s physical assets and as they bought, so did the general public. Facilitated with the easily available credit the banks now supplied; prices sky-rocketed.

 

Until the inevitable happened, the bubble burst. The result: cascading property prices worldwide, followed by a run on the liquidity of the banks as the value of the bank’s assets rapidly decreased. Firstly one bank was brought down, then the next, and so on, causing a domino effect worldwide.

 

In late March of 2010, a month before the General Election, the consumer polls still had Labour slightly ahead of the Conservatives with the Liberal Democrats showing a poor third.  

 

Despite the Conservatives laying all the blame of the present economic worries firmly anchored at Labour’s front door, they had made little gains in the polls. Dandelion expected the Conservatives to be much further ahead, but the Labour Government had responded very well to the crisis. They kept economic stimulus going, and, as a result, they had hung on to a lot of public support. Not enough support had gone to Blain, the leader of the Conservative Party, but in this Dandelion saw the opportunity.

 

He had on many occasions advised prime ministers how to influence public opinion, but now he could have people inside the government helping create policy: policy which benefitted him and his associates. With a new government came new ministers. These new ministers usually knew very little about what they were suddenly the minister of and then relied very heavily on their advisors, advisors he would have put in place, making almost anything possible. Getting the right information out to the right people was going to be the key.

 

In a meeting with David Blain he outlined his plan to put the Conservatives into power. Predominantly, this relied on getting their message across and to make sure they did, he would arrange for one of his editors to become the media advisor to Blain. He would then use his media outlets from press to TV news, to denounce the Labour policies of economic stimulus, claiming they were putting the country in huge debt and would very soon bankrupt it.

 

Dandelion delivered as promised and swung the election to the Conservatives, maybe not quite as much as he would have liked or had led Blain to believe. Blain had been forced, in the end, to form a coalition with the Liberal Democrats to gain the required majority.

 

It was now 18 months after the election and he had five senior advisors within the Conservative coalition government; there was the media secretary to the Prime Minister, senior advisors to the Treasury, Defence, National Health Service and the Ministry of Justice.  Only the former was ever directly employed by him, the others, associates, he had picked up along the way but all were directly experienced in the areas of work of the departments they were now working in and all had agendas that complimented Dandelion’s.

 

He and his associates were now in a superb position, to influence both policy and appointment of contracts that resulted, making them vast amounts of money. Should that agenda be the privatisation of the National Health Service or the invasion of an oil-rich foreign nation, the amount of money spent on both the health service and military appropriation contracts was astronomical, and it was all there for the taking. He was beginning similar policies of interaction with other countries’ governments, all of which looked as though they would be just as fruitful. And next time no such compromises would be made.

 

Despite the annoyance of the coalition and his general dislike of the Liberal Democrats, in particular Richard Smeg, the leader of that party, he was still greatly amused whenever he saw footage of the Prime Minister in the House of Commons with that nodding dog of his deputy PM, Smeg, sitting next to him. His head would nod sagely at every comment of his lord and master and of course, would never utter a word himself.

 

Should he, he would be shouted off the floor by the Opposition who despised him for the opportunist he was. Dandelion didn’t know whether he despised Smeg more for taking the job, which everybody knew was purely reward for abandoning his electorate or less for at least having the balls to do it. But Smeg, that chinless wonder actually was beginning to look like the bulldogs they used to have in the back of cars nodding their heads back and forth.

 

Still despite everything he had achieved of late, the summons to the Commons rankled him; it had got so far under his skin as to make him physically itch. In reality he knew he had little to worry about. The spying operation had been shut down and physically removed from the building and there were no monetary trails leading back toward him. Jonathan and his team would not say a word to anybody. He knew they were planning to set up elsewhere, and he could still use them as necessary. It was therefore in their interests to keep quiet. The only others that knew what had been going on were his two Vice Presidents, and both knew where their bread was buttered.

 

In his opinion, the Robertson Inquiry was toothless. The editors called would just deny any knowledge of phone hacking at their paper, which would be disputed by victims and perhaps a few reporters. The net result would just end up with a situation where one said this and another that. No Proof. It was nothing more than a political manoeuvre.  So the plan was to deny all knowledge, keep it limited to a rogue reporter and it would all blow over. But the audacity of having called him in to testify would be remembered, along with those who had done it.

 

They will pay for this, every one of them. That lot at the paper I’m going to fire tomorrow and the rest of them I will deal with later.

 

He didn’t stop to think that maybe he had got himself into this; he had supplied the critical information, equipment and a location for his surveillance group to capture almost any kind of electronic data and had benefited greatly from it.

 

“Sir would you like some more coffee?”

 

Disturbed from his thoughts by the stewardess, Dandelion noted that he already been in the air for over three hours.

 

“No.”

What do you want? leave me alone can’t you see I’m busy?

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A Plague of Dissent — Re-write Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Several hours after Rosie’s death, Carl and Fred were in their office at The International’s HQ, or what used to be their office until recently. The office was hardly recognisable to what it had been only a week before. The four interconnecting rooms that made up the office space had been crammed with electronic monitoring equipment. It looked more like mission control for a space flight than a typical media office. Banks of flat screen computer monitors lined each workspace and a touch screen commanded the majority of most desks with more monitors hung from a metal lattice work attached to the ceiling.

There wasn’t a communication device, computer or data network in the UK, even those that didn’t officially exist, that couldn’t have been accessed from here. Now all that remained was the metal framework hanging from the ceiling, a few desks and hundreds of cables sprouting from every conceivable point or coiled upon the remaining desks.

A TV on in the corner of one of these rooms, the boss’s office, showed the Secretary of the Treasury getting out of his limo, outside No 10. The scene was a complete free for all; every TV crew in the western world seemed to be there, all jostling for best position to record the action. They had only one theme to their shouted questions

“Did he have any comments on the news stories that morning? Did he think the girl had committed suicide by running in front of the bus? And had he been summoned to No 10 to hand in his resignation?”

Carl, Fred and their boss Jonathan sat in his office watching the breaking news. Through the glazed wall at the rear of office in an adjacent suite of rooms, three others could be seen packing away the last of their delicate and expensive equipment. When the breaking news bulletin finished, Jonathan turned to Fred and angrily spat

“What the hell went wrong?”

“I sent the two of you to get the damn photos not to instigate this shit fest. What were you doing?”

He certainly hadn’t intended it to be all over the airways that day, if ever. Carl handed over the shots on the memory card to his boss. They were even better than expected the last few he’d taken captured the politician naked, the dropped towel at his feet, his hands attempting to cover his face, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Look I’m sorry boss, the guy just wouldn’t shut up, he screamed louder than my teenage daughter does when I say No. I was no sooner out the damn door before every fucker on the floor was poking his head around the door to see what was going on. The security guys were there in seconds and I thought they worked for us. It’ll be one of those bastards that sold the story to that lot”

Carl explained whilst pointing at the TV, still on in the corner.

“They’ve all got it, every bloody one of them”, he added referring to the International’s competitor news networks.

This really did not please Jonathan; he had plans for the Chief Secretary of the Treasury, Alex Great. Or more to the point, his private clients, Roseau and De Costa had plans and were willing to pay a great deal of money to ensure they came to fruition. The pair had approached him a little over a year ago, and, on the surface both seemed like successful businessmen. Although, they seemed prepared to do whatever it took to keep ahead of the competition.

Their business was that of contract services, and they now wished to acquire government contracts. Jonathan could easily help with that, with the right introductions and a little insider information. He had so far supplied everything they asked for and more, doing very well out of it. But there was something about them that worried him. It was nothing that he could really put his finger on, but he was now beginning to suspect they were involved in organised crime. Not that that bothered Jonathan, their money was as good as anyone else’s, but he would need to tread carefully with them.

It wasn’t so much the business with the Treasury Secretary; he could easily understand how they might fit him into their plans. But, there were two other pieces of information that he had supplied as requested, without considering what they were to be used for. One was on a company CEO involved in an insider trading scam. He had committed suicide by taking a swan dive from the roof of the bank where he was CEO into Canary Wharf within a week of this info being delivered. Another was the name of a gun-runner who was in the witness protection scheme. He was about to provide evidence on the people he worked for, and then, he just disappeared.

Considering the business he was in, Jonathan knew that it was wise to take precautions and had always done so. His insurance policy was a list of all those he had business transactions with, including names, dates, amounts of money paid and information supplied. And, as a consequence of his suspicions, he was also in the process of trying to discover more about these particular clients, both as further insurance and as a potential future revenue generator.

He would need to find another way of gaining the leverage Roseau and De Costa wanted. Jonathan prided himself on always delivering and this business with Alex Great would be no different. Fortunately he and his colleagues were the best in the business and Roseau and De Costa were well aware of it. He had demonstrated that with the information his informants had supplied about the gun-runner, information that could only have come from high up within the Metropolitan Police Force.

For over four years Jonathan had been running a project for Dandelion, the International’s owner. Their brief was to collect data, every conceivable piece of data they could, from every source open to them, legality notwithstanding. Initially this was limited to data that they could intercept electronically but was soon expanded to include information supplied by the police and public officials, at a hefty price.

Dubious methods of information gathering had always been employed within news organisations. They needed to obtain information for their stories from somewhere. Now, with the prevalence of electronic communications these days, that’s, where the bulk of information came from. But, Dandelion always wanting to be one step ahead of the game centralised those that knew how to get this and provided them with all the tools available to excel at it.

This created a very powerful information gathering machine. A tool Dandelion wanted total control of, hence the reason to run it from the International Building.

Jonathan and his five colleagues supplied phone intercepts, text messages, voice mail, e-mails and computer files as well as the human intelligence to reporters and TV crews of the International group on anybody of interest. From Prime Ministers to murder victims, if it was in an electronic form or on the airwaves and they wanted it, they had had everything they needed at their disposal right here in these rooms to gather it. For several years, they built this capability with state of the art equipment and employed the best in the business to run it.

That was, until public scrutiny began to examine how media organisations, particularly the International Group obtained their information.

The scrutiny their methods were now receiving made it necessary for Dandelion to be able to deny all knowledge of his enterprise. Therefore, as of two years ago, to all intents and purposes Jonathan and the group were no longer employed by the International Group, although in reality they continued with their work from the same office space, just as they had done before. The costs of the project including all the wages had gone down in the Internationals budget as entertainment, which, in some sense of the word it was, it certainly entertained the general public every day.

Really, they had been too good at their job and the International Group was now under intense investigation. For years the Internationals editions published story after story, exposing which footballer had yet again been caught with his pants down, which public official had been taking bribes, which pop star had been caught taking drugs or caught soliciting for sex in public toilets or which actress had confided intimate sexual details to a friend. Many complained about the International’s tactics, but all too often, these complaints fell on deaf ears.

Then two years ago official complaints were made by Buckingham Palace. It was claimed stories containing private conversations between Prince William and his girlfriend and between him and his brother Prince Harry had been published by the International. The content of these conversations could only have been known through the interception of their texts. The police had no choice but to investigate these claims. So far only one reporter had been charged and convicted but that was about to change.

The police investigations revealed the editor at the royal desk had intercepted these messages with the help of a private investigator; both were prosecuted and eventually jailed. Or that was the official story. In truth, the information had been supplied by Jonathan and his group. The private investigator had been implicated by Jonathan hacking into his computer and planting incriminating evidence for the police to find. Both the editor and the investigator were paid handsomely by Dandelion for their silence.

For a year or so with the help of certain police officers that ruse had held. But politicians, footballers and show business celebrities began to make claims that they had been targeted by eavesdroppers. That their phones were being bugged and their texts intercepted, as stories appeared about them in the International’s papers and news channels. The police investigation resumed, and a government appointed committee had been formed to investigate the claims.

Jonathan was aware of the investigations and that the committee appointed by the Prime Minister would soon be calling the owner of the International Group, Dandelion, or Dandy as they all called him behind his back, to testify. Naturally, Dandelion also was aware and decided it would be wise to cover the tracks.

The Surveillance Group, as he called them, and all their equipment needed to be removed from the International Building. He instructed the only two others that actually knew of the project, his two vice presidents; print and electronic media, who had disseminated the information throughout his news network to get the Surveillance Group dismantled and covered up.

Although many at the International knew information from texts and e-mails were being collected, none knew the specific details or the extent of it, other than nine of them. Those were the six members of the Surveillance Group, Carl and Fred, who looked after the physical surveillance, the eyes on stuff and the three electronics experts, Jonathan and Dandelion of course along with his two VPs.

The members of the Surveillance Group where given very generous bonuses, told their services were no longer required and they had two weeks to get out of the building. That was nearly two weeks ago and today they were packing up the last of their equipment.

The fact that Dandelion wanted to distance himself from their operation came as no surprise to Jonathan. He had always suspected that there was a finite time limit on how long they could remain secreted away within a news group before drawing attention to themselves. But more importantly, he had for some time wanted to expand their enterprise and herein came the opportunity.  Thus far whilst based at the International he had unable to do that, other than his single very private group of clients, and this was the perfect opportunity. He had already acquired the premises that they needed, all their equipment was being packed away ready to be moved through a series of cut-outs, so it couldn’t be traced. It would be installed not five miles away from the present location.

Once the installation was complete, in about a week, he would ready to begin again but this time their endeavours would be far more profitable. Blackmail and corporate espionage paid much better than news stories. Perhaps his last voyage into that field hadn’t gone exactly as planned, but he had got the girl into the Treasury Secretary’s bed and he had got the photos he wanted. If the stupid man hadn’t screamed the place down it all would have gone as planned. He would have kept the evidence to himself and his clients. It was a shame about Rosie, but now she couldn’t say anything to incriminate him and there were plenty more around like her.

…….

As Jonathan and his team packed away the remainder of their equipment, the rest of the International Media Group were experiencing a very busy news day. On top of the drama occurring around Alex Great, another demonstration had erupted. This one, an impromptu affair, was likely to have the same side effects as the other demonstrations earlier in the year.

Certain groups were hijacking the demonstrations to further their own ends their goals had not been revealed but their methods were clear. Small bands were using the peaceful demonstrations to conduct riots and lootings in several large cities around the UK, whilst the police were distracted at the demonstrations.

It was also the first day of the committee hearing, with Dandelion the first to be brought before them. With this flurry of activity in the news rooms, nobody would notice what was going on in their remote corner of the International building.

Before Jonathan got his team up and running in their new offices he had two problems to deal with. His private clients wouldn’t be happy with the way the business with the Secretary of the Treasury had turned out. He had received an e-mail from them saying that they would be back in London in a few days and wanted to have a meeting. Then there was a problem of a more private nature to deal with: his wife.

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A Plague of Dissent — Re-write Chapter One

Rosie had sat there all that night, in the dark, not daring to turn on a light and far too frightened to sleep. Fear crept through every pore of her body. How could she sleep, when she knew that there were men outside, waiting for her to leave the house, and that knowledge terrified her. The men banged on her door, shouted through her letter box and checked every accessible window.

All night she’d been in the dark, huddled alone on the couch, fearful of every sound outside. Each creak of the old house filled her with panic.

Had the men somehow got inside?

She saw them arrive outside the front of her apartment only minutes after arriving home. She’d parked her car in the car park just around the corner rather than outside the apartment. She didn’t want to advertise her presence. Uncertain if they knew she was home but Rosie was convinced they wouldn’t leave until they’d found her.

Rosie’s heartbeat pounded in her ears, her breath caught in her throat, acid rose in her stomach and the urge to be sick consumed her.  She needed to focus, clear her mind, but the fear of being captured overshadowed all her thoughts.

The events of the past week churned through her mind. How had they discovered what she’d done? Everything had been arranged by text. No one could have overheard a thing, but evidently someone had. And the news of that, how had the news spread so quickly? One second she was committing the act and the next these men were everywhere.

Over the past hour, her thoughts gradually turned from fear to the desperate need to escape, weighing her options as she paced her small living room in an attempt to calm her thoughts. The front door was out of the question. She could climb out of her bathroom window, sneak out through the rear garden of the apartment below and into the back lane and then get to her car before it got light. That was her best option. No, it was her only option. Dawn was an hour away and she was nearly out of time. It was now or never. She had to make a decision.

She slipped on a pair of trainers and slung a small bag over her shoulder. Necessities only, her car keys, a pair of pants, cash she’d frantically scraped out of a drawer, her passport and credit cards were the only items she carried in the bag. Her only coherent thought was to get the hell out of town before the shit really hit the fan.

 She opened the bathroom window and slid out with her bag in tow and dropped the few feet into the garden, trembling as she did so. It was dark, very dark what little light the moon would have provided was soaked up by the thick black rain clouds that hung overhead. Cautiously, she made her way down the garden path, taking care not to kick one of the numerous potted plants that lined it, towards the gate and the back lane.

She checked and the lane was clear. She could see the car where she had left it the night before. None of the men were in sight. She thought it’s now or never. They would spot her soon enough. Then the chase would begin. 

With all the strength she could muster, Rosie took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she had to do, before she slowly eased open the gate, hoping it didn’t creak and give her escape away. She entered the lane. The street lights at each end of the short lane, normally welcome, would tonight spotlight her to anybody at either end. She took her first steps as two men appeared under the street light at the far end. Too late now, they’d seen her. The shout went up

“There she is! She’s going for the car park”.

 These words were quickly replaced by the sounds of running feet as close to a dozen men appeared around the corner illuminated under the street light.

She had no choice now running was her only option. Frozen only for a moment, then Rosie ran.

Three hundred metres to the car park, into the car and away, she thought.

I can do this. 

Rosie ran, heedless of the numerous potholes brimming with water from the overnight rain that contrived to bring her to her knees and dodged the randomly placed waste collection bins overflowing with rubbish. She crossed the road at the end, the car park and her car close now, just the other side of the road but could hear her pursuers’ feet splash through the puddles getting closer with every second. Venturing a glance over her shoulder, she could see they were gaining on her, but she never saw the double-decker bus until it was far too late.

When she turned her head back, the bus was on top of her, the shock on the driver’s face clearly visible as he tried to brake and steer away. Rosie screamed. The scream was followed by a sickening crunch. The number six bus flung her ten metres through the air, to crumple like a rag doll into a parked car.

As Rosie lay crumpled and broken on this wet, forlorn morning her dying thoughts were,

Why?

…….

The seduction that started it had been going on from the moment she first began to temp in his office. Yes, of course she had known Alex Great was married but his power and all that money he controlled as Chief Secretary to the Treasury really pressed her buttons. After all, all the politicians did it, didn’t they? The more senior they were, the more they slept around and the office temps seemed to be the nature of the game. At least that was what her friend Jonathan had told her.

For the past five years, ever since her divorce, she’d had a succession of temp jobs. The first, in the International’s office, where she had met and had a brief fling with Jonathan Mason, and then one Fleet Street office or another followed. None being quite what she really wanted, they left her unfulfilled, her true worth never recognised. The men she worked for saw only one thing, her stunning figure, which if truth be told, she’d always displayed and used to her advantage. But, she craved more, much more; one day the right job or man, perhaps both, would come along but until then she would make the most of her situation and her assets.

When she ran into Jonathan at a party, she’d told him quite innocently of her new job and the attentions she was getting from her new boss. She’d jumped at the offer Jonathan made.

The Chief Secretary had been pleading with her to have dinner with him for several weeks. Following Jonathan’s suggestions she had capitulated, accepting an invitation to dine at the penthouse he kept at the Soho Hotel. He not wanting to be seen out in public with her, she assumed.The thoughts of the eventual big pay day that Jonathan had promised removed any residual doubt she might have had.

That fateful night, Rosie knew she looked very good, she always did. Her office attire was revealing enough but the dress she wore tonight, was little more than a spray on. A sheath of red, clinging to her every ample curve, revealing more than it concealed. She’d expected that they would eat before she got her clothes off, but it hadn’t happened like that. No sooner was the door closed, than Alex began to hungrily pull off that tantalizing dress, quickly revealing her stupendous body.

Later, lying back on the bed she thought, for an old fat balding guy he was quite an attentive lover. It had been far better sex than she had anticipated. He certainly talked a lot in the office and she had just discovered his tongue was quite good at several other things.

A knock on the suite door followed by,

“Room Service”

Alex opened the door and invited in the waiter with a service trolley.

“Over there” he said.

Yes, the hotel does like to look after their important guests; I wonder what they have sent me?

The waiter pushed the trolley through the doors and into the centre of the lounge of the hotel suite and then proceeded to remove one of the silver domed lids covering the plates.

As he did so, it struck against a metallic object underneath, the sound of metal upon metal caught Alex’s attention. As the lid cleared the plate, Alex had been perplexed to see not a plate of food but a camera.  This, the waiter playing paparazzo quickly picked up, shooting five frames per second before he even had his eye to the viewfinder. It captured the balding fat politician wrapped only in a towel, with his pretty blond temp in bed behind him, clearly visible through the wide open double bedroom doors.

“What do you think, ah ..?”

As soon as the paparazzo had picked up the camera, Alex Great raised his hands to try to cover his face, letting go of the towel around his waist which had quickly slipped to the floor. The final shots captured him naked, red faced and screaming obscenities.

“No, stop, get out, get out!”

It was over before they knew what had hit them; a precursor of the double-decker bus that would take her life twelve hours later. The paparazzo was gone within a minute, his memory card full containing over a hundred compromising shots of them. It really was far too late to panic, but that is precisely what the politician had done. He was still screaming obscenities at Rosie, accusing her of setting him up, that his career was over and his life in ruins.

It had all seemed like such a good idea at the start. The plan, as suggested to her by Jonathan, had been very simple. Sleep with him for a few months and get something on him which Jonathan could use. The affair in itself would probably be enough and she would be amply rewarded. The five figure sum Jonathan mentioned would have been very useful indeed.

 She hadn’t bothered to think what Jonathan was getting out of the arrangement or why he was prepared to pay so much for it. She had worked with Jonathan as his secretary at the International and should have been aware of his unorthodox methods. But, like most dead certainties, it really wasn’t turning out the way she expected, although this was exactly what Jonathan had planned. It never crossed her mind he wanted the dirt on Alex Great now, not in a few months.

Rosie unfortunately hadn’t anticipated this result at all. Lying in bed with a hysterical and profusely sweating politician standing naked in front of her as he screamed obscenities at her was not what she’d had in mind. Definitely time to leave town for a while. One thing was for sure, he was not going to be a minister much longer and he was no use to her anymore.

Grabbing her things, she’d slipped back into her dress. It wasn’t the sort of thing she would wear underwear with, so there was no need to search for them. Then she’d run as fast as she possibly could, pulling on her shoes as she ran down the hotel corridor and arrived home minutes before the hordes of press arrived at her door.

…….

The bus driver had not seen the men chasing Rosie, so hadn’t realised quite how the accident had happened. Nor did it occur to him to think how the press had arrived so quickly.

Rosie was splayed, motionless, over the bonnet of the parked car, her head sagging down over the front, her neck broken. She was clearly dead, having taken the full impact of the bus as it accelerated away from the bus stop.

The driver immediately phoned for an ambulance before jumping out of his cab, and checking for a pulse which he felt sure was not going to be there. He grimaced as he did so and tried to look away. Streams of blood ran down the bonnet, over the front of the car and pooled on the street. The tips of her long blonde hair, already beginning to stain the colour of her blood, nestled in the widening red pool.

Her eyes were wide open and her crimson blood ran from both her mouth and nose clearly illuminated by the cameras’ flashes.  The paparazzi had arrived.

The first two, surprisingly did not go for their cameras immediately, but as the rest arrived with their flashes blazing, Carl turned to his associate Fred and said,

“Stupid bitch! We might as well get something for our trouble”.

 They too pulled up their cameras and recorded the scene, in all its gore.

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Bloody Valentine Blog Hop

Isobel made her way through customs; it was slow today but knowing she soon would be in Adam’s bed made it all easily bearable.

As she came through baggage and out the doors, she thought about her shopping trip and the underwear she would buy for Adam to remove. As she looked around for the best route to a taxi stand, she was surprised to see her husband standing there.

He hadn’t called or texted whilst she was away and she didn’t expect him to be meeting her. Trying not to look worried, she smiled walking up to him, kissing his check, as he liked her to do in public.

He didn’t look in a good mood, but then he never did these days, always far too preoccupied with his work. She wished she knew what he was really like when she first met him; she certainly wouldn’t have married him and probably wouldn’t have gone out to dinner with him on that first date. But had she taken that course, she would never have met Adam, a man she knew she loved and would happily spend the rest of her life with.

Jonathan informed her in his usual authoritarian manner, that he had his car in short term and that they would be going to stay in his London apartment for a few days. This shot a jolt of despair into her; all she could think about was getting back to Adam, assuming that her husband would be staying alone in London, as he always did.

The drive into London was done in silence; she knew something was wrong, thinking that he couldn’t know about Adam, nobody knew except her mother knew, whose blessing she knew she had.

Once in the apartment she noticed suitcases everywhere, her suitcases, on closer examination she saw that they were full of her clothes. In fact it seemed that almost all her clothes were there. She looked at Jonathan as if to ask what was going on. He turned to her and said

“Do you really think I’m that stupid, I know all about him, I have received every text he has sent you whilst you’ve been in Cuba.”

Isobel replied angrily “But, how can you know that? You don’t have my phone”

“I don’t need your phone, what do you think I do that pays for all this and everything else I give you?” waving his hand around the apartment, he continued.

”If I can read every one of the Prime Ministers texts, listen to his calls and read his e-mails, don’t you think I can just as easily do the same to you. We will be staying in London for the foreseeable future and I have closed down the house in Plymouth”

Isobel didn’t know what to do or say; all she could do was burst into tears. To which her husband sneered, telling her to get into the bedroom have a shower and get dressed as they were going out to dinner, pointing toward a door off the hallway.

“And before you can text him” he said “give me your phone”

She had no choice but to comply with his demands

……………………………………………………………………………………………

She spent that day in bed thinking about what she could do; only venturing out to the kitchen to make some coffee, when she heard Jonathan go out. He had her passport, her purse with her credit cards in it and whilst briefly venturing out of her bedroom she noticed that there seemed to be no keys to the door. The door was locked with a mortise bolt preventing her from leaving, even if she knew where to go.

She thought Adam loved her, he would be expecting her today but how would she get down to Plymouth with no money and what would he think when she didn’t arrive. She couldn’t ring him as his number as with all her contacts were on her mobile, which Jonathan now had. There was also no landline at the apartment, no computer only a wireless system which Jonathan used for his laptop.

A slamming of the front door stopped her musing; she could hear footsteps which suddenly stopped outside her bedroom door. As she looked up she saw the door handle turning and a felt the dread start to crawl up her belly.

Jonathan now in a better mood, having decided how he was going to destroy Adam’s life for sleeping with his wife, had now decided it was time she really knew who was boss. Upon entering the bedroom he looked at Isobel sitting on the bed and wearing only a large baggy tee shirt. As he walked toward her he started to remove his jacket, then he unbutton his shirt.

As Isobel realized his intent, she began to tell him that she didn’t want to and was not feeling well, but before three words come out of her mouth, he said.

“You will do what I say, when I say and do exactly what I say, do you understand, now get that thing off and come here”

She understand all too well what he wanted her to do and is not about to do so willingly. She tried to crawl across the bed but he quickly grabbed an ankle and pulled her toward him. He   a big man, not fit and muscled like Adam but tall and fat, but he was much stronger than Isobel.

With little difficultly he dragged her to the edge of the bed face down, whilst she kicked and screamed at him. With one hand pushing all his weight into the middle of Isobel’s back, he used the other hand to unbuckle his trousers. Moving forward and kneeling on the bed he pushed Isobel’s thighs apart with his knees, punching her hard across the back and shoulders as she tried to resist.

His punches quickly knocked the wind out of her. All his weight pinned her down, she realized that she couldn’t stop him but still continued to struggle as much as she could, as Jonathan forced himself inside her.

Knowing that it useless to continue to fight, Isobel tried to force better images into her mind, to deflect to the act of violence that was happening to her. She thought back to the last time she made love to Adam. He had started kissing her on the mouth and worked his way down her body covering every inch of her skin in kisses. Stopping to suck and lick the more sensitive parts as he worked his way down her torso, then down her legs.

At her feet, he sucked each of her toes as she watched him, her back arching in pleasure. He then gently reached up to her hips and turned her over, working his way back up her legs, then gently biting her bum. Sliding his fingers inside her he soon brought forth her second organism; then raised her hips and slid inside her. Holding her by the hips, Adam lifted her until her knees came off the bed; he pushed deep into her, eliciting moans of pleasure.

But this wasn’t Adam making love to her, it was her husband raping her, making her not only experience considerable pain but making her feel ashamed and dirty. Fortunately it didn’t last long after a minute or two, Jonathan got off her and quickly left the bedroom, leaving her in tears as he closed the bedroom door.

Chapter One A Plague of Dissent

Having decided to have  a new cover designed for the book, I have  also decided, on the what I think is very good advice of a friend, to do a little edit. So here is Chapter One.

Let me know what you think.

Email A Plague of Dissent Size 4

Rosie had been sitting there all that night in the dark, not daring to turn on a light and far too frightened to sleep. She wondered what she should or could do now; she knew that there were men outside, waiting for her to leave the house and that knowledge terrified her. The men banged on her door, shouted through her letter box and checked every accessible window.

She’d seen them arriving outside the front of the apartment a few hours before, only minutes after she arrived home. She’d parked her car in the car park just around the corner, rather than outside the house, not wanting to advertise her presence. She couldn’t be certain whether they knew she was home but she was convinced they wouldn’t leave until they’d found her.

All night, she’d in the dark, huddled up on the couch, fearful of every sound outside. Each creak of the old house filled her with panic. Had the men had somehow got inside? The events of the past week churned through her mind. How had they discovered what she’d done?

Everything had been arranged by text, no one could have over heard a thing, but evidently someone had. How had the news spread so quickly? Over the past hour her thoughts turned to escape. Sneaking out the through the rear garden, into the back lane and to her car, before it got light, was her best option. It was now nearly 6 and only an hour before dawn.

She needed to think clearly but with each her beat heart, blood coursed through her brain like a raging torrent. She couldn’t think; it was all she could do, to stop herself from being sick. But it was decision time.

She slipped on a pair of pumps and slung the small bag over her shoulder. It contained nothing more than a pair of pants, cash she’d frantically scraped out of a drawer, her passport and credit cards. Her only coherent thought to get the hell out of town before the shit hit really the fan.

She eased out of the back door. It was dark in the garden, what little light the moon would have provided was soaked up by the thick black rain clouds that hung directly over head. Tentatively she made her way down the garden path, taking care not to kick one of the numerous plant pots that lined it, towards the gate and the back lane.

She checked the lane was clear; she could see the car where she had left it the night before. None of the men were yet in sight. She thought it’s now or never. They would spot her soon enough. Then the chase would begin.

Should she walk or run?

Easing open the gate which thankfully didn’t creak, she entered the lane. The street lights at each end of the short lane would silhouette her to anybody at either end. She took her first steps as two men appeared under the street light at the far end. Too late now, they’d seen her. The shout went up

“There she is. She’s going for the car park”.

These words were quickly supplanted by the sounds of running feet. Close to a dozen men appeared around the corner, illuminated under the street light.

She had no choice. Running was her only option. 300 metres to the car park, into her car and away. It was still possible, she thought.

Rosie ran down the lane, heedless of the numerous holes brimming with water from the overnight rain. She dodged the randomly placed waste collection bins overflowing with rubbish, awaiting collection at some point during the week. Then across the road at the end. She could hear the splashes the men’s feet made in the puddles. They were getting closer. Venturing a glance over her shoulder, she could see they were gaining on her but she never saw the double-decker bus. Not until it was far too late.

When she turned her head back, the bus was on top of her, the shock on the driver’s face clearly visible as he tried to brake and steer away. She screamed. The scream was quickly followed by a sickening crunch. The number 6 bus flung her 10 metres through the air, to crumple like a rag doll into a parked car.

– – – – –

It was an unfortunate sequence of events that now found Rosie crumpled, broken and dying on this wet and forlorn morning.

The seduction that started it had been going on from the moment she first began to temp in his office. Yes, of course she knew Alex Great was married but his power and all that money he controlled as Chief Secretary to the Treasury really pressed her buttons. After all, all the politicians did it didn’t they? The more senior they were, they more they slept around and the office temps seemed to be the nature of the game. At least that was what her friend Jonathan had told her.

For the past five years, ever since her divorce, she’d had a succession of temp jobs. The first in the International’s office, where she had met and had a brief fling with Jonathan Mason, and then various Fleet Street offices’s followed. None being quite what she really wanted, they left her unfulfilled, her truth worth never recognised. The men she worked for saw only one thing, her stunning figure, which if truth be told, she’d always displayed and used it to her advantage. But, she craved more, much more; one day the right job or man, perhaps both would come along, but until then, she would make the most of her situation and her assets.

When she ran into Jonathan at a party, she’d told him quite innocently of her new job and the attentions she was getting from her new boss. She’d jumped at the offer Jonathan made.

The Chief Secretary had been pleading with her to have dinner with him for several weeks, following Jonathan’s suggestions she now capitulated. An invitation to dinner at the penthouse he kept at the Soho Hotel. He not wanting to be seen out in public with her, she assumed. That and thoughts of the eventual big pay day that Jonathan had promised removed any residual doubt she might have had.

That fateful night, Rosie knew she looked very good, she always did. Her office attire was revealing enough but the dress she wore tonight, was little more than a spray on. A sheath of red, clinging to her every ample curve, revealing more than it concealed. She’d expected that they would eat before she got her clothes off, but it hadn’t happened like that. No sooner was the door closed, than Alex began to hungrily pull off that tantalizing dress, quickly revealing her splendid body.

Later, lying back on the bed she thought, for an old fat balding guy he was quite an attentive lover. It had been far better sex than she had anticipated. He certainly talked a lot in the office and his tongue was quite good at several other things, she had just discovered.

A knock on the suite door followed by, “Room Service”, was all it had taken to get Alex to open the door and invite in the waiter with a service trolley. The waiter pushed the trolley through the doors and into the centre of the lounge of the hotel suite and then proceeded to remove one of the silver domed lids covering the plates.

As he did so, it struck against a metallic object underneath, the sound of metal upon metal caught Alex’s attention. As the lid cleared the plate, Alex was perplexed to see not a plate of food but a camera.  This, the waiter playing paparazzi quickly picked up, shooting five frames per second before he even had his eye to the viewfinder. It captured, the balding fat politician wrapped only in a towel, with his pretty blond temp in bed behind him, clearly visible through the wide open double bedroom doors.

It was over before they knew what had hit them; a precursor of the double-decker bus that would take her life 12 hours later. The paparazzi was gone within a minute; his memory card full, containing over a 100 compromising shots of them. It really was far too late to panic, but that is precisely what the politician did.

As soon as the paparazzi had picked up the camera, Alex Great raised his hands to try to cover his face, letting go of the towel around his waist as he did so, which had quickly slipped to the floor. The final shots captured him naked, red faced and screaming obscenities. He was still screaming obscenities at Rosie; accusing her of setting him up, that his career was over and his life in ruins.

It had all seemed like such a good idea at the start. The plan as suggested to her by Jonathan had been very simple. Sleep with him for a few months and get something on him, which Jonathan could use. The affair in itself would probably be enough and she would be amply rewarded. The five figure sum Jonathan mentioned would have been very useful indeed.

She hadn’t bothered to think what Jonathan was getting out of the arrangement, or why he was prepared to pay so much for it. She had worked with Jonathan as his secretary at the International and should have been aware of his unorthodox methods. But, like most dead certainties, it really wasn’t turning out the way she expected, although this was exactly what Jonathan had planned. It never crossed her mind he wanted the dirt on Alex Great now, not in a few months.

Rosie unfortunately hadn’t anticipated this result at all. Lying in bed with a hysterical and profusely sweating politician standing naked in front of her as he screamed obscenities at her was not what she had in mind. Definitely time to leave town for a while. One thing was for sure he was not going to be a minister much longer and he was no use to her anymore.

Grabbing her things, she slipped back into her dress. It wasn’t the sort of thing she would wear underwear with, so there was no need to search for them. She ran as fast as she possibly could, pulling on her shoes as she ran down the hotel corridor. She arrived home minutes before the hordes of the press arrived at her door.

– – – – –

The bus driver had not seen the men chasing Rosie, so hadn’t realized quite how the accident had happened. Nor did it occur to him to think how the press had arrived so quickly.

Rosie was splayed, motionless, over the bonnet of the parked car, her head sagging down over the front, her neck broken. She was clearly dead, having taken the full impact of the bus as it accelerated away from the bus stop.

The driver immediately phoned for an ambulance before jumping out of his cab, and checking for a pulse, he felt sure was not going to be one there. He grimaced as he did so and tried to look away. Streams of blood were running down the bonnet, over the front of the car and pooling on the street, the tips of her long blonde hair, already beginning to stain the colour of her blood, as they nestled in the widening red pool.

Her eyes were wide open and her crimson blood ran from both her mouth and nose, clearly illuminated by the cameras’ flashes.  The paparazzi had arrived.

The first two, surprising not going for their cameras immediately, but as the rest arrived with their flashes blazing, Carl turned to his associate Fred and said,

“Stupid bitch, we might as well get something for our trouble”.

They too pulled up their cameras and recorded the scene, in all its gore.

My Yarn with Nic Taylor by Writers On The Wharf

By the time I come back from seeing that Peggy Williams was tucked away safely in her car, the by’s have managed to sneak out to Destiny’s Goods, our local convenience store for two dozen beer.
However, they their darndest to hide the tell tale silver coloured box with the majestic blue mountains, when I walk in and stare them down.
“Bit early for a refreshment is it not, fellas?”
“Oh, it is never too early for a good cold brew, especially after ogling two hot mamas!” Frank carolled after popping the top off another brown bottle.
“Speaking of which, Terrance, Jack, are you going to behave yourself with my next guest? Your behaviour with Shannon and Peggy was deplorable!” I scolded.
“I make no promises, because I get all weak in the knees and starry eyed when a beautiful woman is in the room! Shannon and Peggy where lookers alright! Tell me, is this next one going to be a looker?”
I chuckled to myself, yes, the next one is a looker, but they foolishly believed that my next guest is female.
I will not tell them any different.
Call it my little revenge for embarrassing me.
“Yes, yes, my next guest is quite easy on the eyes!”
Whoops and hollers reminiscent of wolves in heat vibrated off the rafters as I set about preparing for my next visitor.
When a loud knock came at the door, the whooping stopped as I answered the door.
Premature lustful whistles erupted from my mates, but halted mid way when my friend Nic Taylor sauntered in wearing a very fashionable leather jacket, his signature baseball hat and sunglasses shielding his eyes.

While he looked rather dapper, I hoped he was going to be warm enough.
“Welcome, Nic Taylor  have a seat, sorry that it is not more comfy, but a poor fishing season has forced me to reduce my furniture to two milk crates, but I have plenty of refreshments, care to have one?”
“I like the furniture it reminds me home and I’d love a coffee.”
I give Nic a quizzical glance, wondering just what kind of curious surroundings he lives in, giving a new meaning to struggling.   I pour up a freshly brewed cup of fair trade coffee beans in a oversize mug,  mix it the way Nic likes it and hand it to him.
“Thank you for coming Nic, though I have known you for years, these yahoos are unfamiliar with you, share a little about yourself.”
“I think I can best describe myself at the moment as a struggling writer, although I have also struggled at being a researcher in renewable energy and as photographer and cameraman in the past.”
I was right about the struggling part, but I hear him, I struggle to even breathe sometimes.
Especially when the elastic in my decade old sweat pants are threatening to sever me into as I try to daintily sit on the milk crate, but end up plopping on it instead letting loose a noise no lady should emit from that particular body part.
I blush with the embarrassment and pray that Nic does not notice, and continue to chat with him.
” I have seen A Plague of Dissent on Amazon and Goodreads and I would love to pick it up, but before I do, could you tell me a little about it?”
” Well, it all starts with a bit of a bang, no not that sort, and the first body falls on page 3. The book is best described as a thriller although there is a little romance going on and a bit of sex, purely because it’s my favourite pastime”
Nic is interrupted by a normally quiet and ornery Gerard crudely stating “Is there any other kind of past time, buddy? I likes you dude, a lad after me own heart!!”

“Okay, enough horsing around, I am talking with my friend here!” I growl at Gerard, who just gives me a sexually suggestive gesture before reaching for another beer.
“I am so sorry, Nic, please continue.”
I give Nic this, he seems completely unaffected by the crude comment and the interruption and continues describing A Plague of Dissent.
 “The story takes place in the UK at the present time and bears a great deal of similarities to events that are transpiring at present although I will stress that all my characters are fictional (wink wink) Political and police corruption are rife, the media has surpassed all traces of common decency in their efforts to find their next headline and the streets are becoming a battle ground as protesters demonstrate against the government and their fiscal policies. Amongst this backdrop a small group of men are attempting to use this anarchy that is rapidly consuming, the country to further their own agendas.”
“Wow, A Plague of Dissent sounds intriguing, is there a particular part of the story that you really enjoyed writing?”
” Apart from the sex which is always a given for me the action scenes are always lots of fun to write and I really enjoy trying to capture the scene to make the reader feel they are witnessing it firsthand.”
I sit and wait for Jack to interject his usual question at this point but, I am surprised to see Jack’s wife, pipe up and ask the question. I did not even know she was there.
“Hey dude, tell us who your favourite characters are!”
“That would have to be by main characters, brothers by the name of Adam and Dan Young. They are dragged kicking and screaming into the story and really have no choice but to be reluctant heroes. Then of course there is Isobel, she makes me horny just thinking about her.”
“Oh, thank you Nic, I am very flattered that you get so aroused when you think of me!”
I see Nic look at the tall petite blond with curiosity.
“Nic, this is Isobel, my friend, Jack’s wife. Jack is the fuming bull barely being held back from beating the living blood out of you.”
I turn to Jack, who is being led out the door by Gerard and Frank, who I hear mumbling “Don’t be so serious b’y it is just a coincidence.”
“Sorry about that, but Jack just needs time to cool down, I hope you are okay.”
Nic says nothing, but just smiles his eyes filled with mischief.
 “The question  inspires me to ask you, if A Plague of Dissent were to be optioned for a movie, who do you see playing your main characters?”
” There are so many to choose from but I think I would go for Liev Schrieber and Tom Hardy and for Isobel, I adore Roselyn Sanchez “
“They will be perfect, Nic I could really see that actors  playing that part!  I was wondering, as a person who writes on the side, during my down time, my writing process starts with forming the story in my head before I put pen to paper, what is your writing process like?”
” Yeah for sure, the ideas are floating around my head long before I put pen to paper or finger to keyboard. I think I probably forget more of my ideas than I actually write down, many occur as I am dropping off to sleep and I have even used my iphone to jot down quick mores before I forget them.”
Then, Terrance staggered over to us, nearly falling into Nic’s lap, spilling some of his beer on him.
“Thanks for that it is probably time for a real drink, got to be dark soon”  Nic quips.
Without missing a beat, Terrance hands Nic a beer from his inside pocket.
“All of this sounds fascinating but I heard writing is a hell of a lot of work, why do you do it, what do you get out of it?”
“First I enjoy telling stories and one of the biggest buzzes I’ve ever had is reading a great review of my book. In fact I was recently compared to Ian Fleming and that was great and makes it all worthwhile.”
“I am impressed Nic, Ian Fleming is one of my favourite authors, that would make all the hardships worthwhile.”
 “However, thanks for the awkward segue, Terrance, now go over with the rest of the b’ys and let me and Nic have our yarn. Terrance asked you why you like to write, now I want to ask you, is there anything about writing you don’t like?”
“Easy, the publicity, I want to write stories not spend hours slaving over social media pages trying to get people to read my stories.”
“Oh my lord, Nic, I totally agree with you! I dread that part of being a writer! However,  when you write, what is it that you hope your readers take away from your story?”
” When I read a book I want it to take me away from where I am (often in an airport waiting for a bloody plane) So I like my readers to be transported into the world I am describing for them and to feel a little sad when they are done as if losing a new friend but also anticipating the next to come along.”
“Do you have any other stories you are currently writing or are planning to write?”
” Yes I have four outlines on my hard drive, two of which continue the story of some of the characters within A Plague of Dissent along with two more thrillers.”
“Thanks a million for answering all my questions…and the others, Nic it has been a real pleasure. As I said before, I have seen A Plague of Dissent online at Amazon is there anywhere else your book is available and what formats?
“Smash words I believe and it is available in all the digital formats.”
“You must be frozen solid by now, Nic my mates have been pretty greedy with the heat, so I am going to let you go so you can toddle on home and warm up, but before you go is there anything else you want to add?”
” No, just it’s been a pleasure and great meeting you all, this part of the publicity I do enjoy. Oh there maybe one thing, I am involved in community rugby and coach at a local club, we are in the process of developing the ramshackle club house that we use and turning it into a centre for the local community to use as well as rugby mad buggers. And part of the sale proceeds for A Plague of Dissent is going into a fund to help us achieve this. “
“Then we must make sure to promote your book A Plague of Dissent to the hilt to make sure that you are able to achieve your goal in developing your centre! All my best to you, Nic.”
I take Nic’s empty beer bottle, looking around outside to make sure that Jack is no where to be found to jump poor Nic and beat him, but I have a feeling that Nic is quite capable of taking care of himself, maybe he has his rugby ball with him.
Please find A Plague of Dissent on:
and

A Plague Of Dissent

Hi Guys.

I have received some excellent reviews of late and it’s about time I shared them on here and thanked those involved. Firstly the thanks. So thank you to the gorgeous Hunter S Jones, the hilarious Jim Wright, the excellent DA Meyrick, the lovely Suz form Page Bookshelf Central and the honourable Dianne  Harman and all my FB friends for their kind words of advice and publicity.

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Now the latest  5 star reviews

Jim Wright

Synopsis: A Plague of Dissent: A fast paced thriller, bursting with political intrigue and corruption. It paints a picture of the UK, where media companies hack into personnel communications at will, in search of their next headline. Of politicians lining their pockets with falsified expense claims and crooked practices operate within the police force. Where government contracts can be bought and sold by those that have the Prime Ministers ear; that to, also on sale for the right price; with banks and corporations making millions at the expense of the man in the street.

A story of greed and corruption; where riots and civil unrest are turning the country upside down and a small group of men attempting to use this anarchy that is spreading across the country to further their own agendas.

Into this nightmare scenario are dragged a young man Adam, his girl friend Isobel and his brother Dan. They are pursued by the faceless men who believe they are party to information that could comprise their mission and have two choices, to run or, to turn and fight for their lives.

I just love it when the first page of a book grabs me by the throat, gets my heart pumping and terrifies the hell out of me. That’s exactly what Nic Taylor did in A Plague of Dissent, and by page 3 we had our first dead body. Everything just went to hell in a handbasket from there.

Political corruption, mobsters and their minions, and a media hell-bent on destruction came into and out of this very strong story. It kept me constantly on my toes. One minute I thought I could trust a character and the next minute, I wasn’t quite so sure. The brothers, Dan and Adam gave me a serious case of hero-worship, despite the fact that I was afraid they were in further over their heads than they imagined. This tale could easily have been ripped from the current news.

Taylor has delivered a whopping good tale that kept me in suspense right up to the end. His masterful prose and intimate knowledge of crime fighting in the UK is on par with Ian Fleming. Every scene is so well described, throughout, that I felt like I was right there. It’s a consummate storyteller that he is!

DA Meyrick

I cannot recommend this book too highly. If you’re a fan of breathtaking thrillers, pick up Nic Taylor’s A Plague of Dissent today!

Ever wonder when you watch the news if you are being told the truth? Have you tried to read between the lines when listening to the government, big business- vested interest?

Well, wonder no more! Intrigue and the dark side, with a truly memorable ending- a thriller well worth picking!! Buy it now- you’ll love it.

Page Bookshelf Central

This is allegedly a work of fiction, but one only has to be aware of current news for this story to feel true. And that adds further thrill to an already exhilarating thriller. Nic Taylor has encapsulated the nation’s mistrust of the Government, media and big companies and written a book that is fast paced and will keep the reader on the edge of their seat.

The Rich Mosiac of Wumni

The Rich Mosiac of Wumni   Previously posted on Expats Post

In the world of dance music, Wunmi is the artist. The manifestation of her art is like a mosaic reflecting many beautiful elements and textures through her artistic expression in music, design and dance. We have been connected through the network of the fierce and fab Jane Stoosh of StooshPR. I have been fortunate enough to work with Wunmi over the last few days. She is eloquent, elegant and effortlessly joins the dots that draw us into her world.

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Born in London, Wunmi aka Ibiwunmi Omotayo Olufunke Felicity Olaiya lived in Nigeria, returning to the UK at age 14.

“Moving back to England, the same feeling of not fitting in haunted me and it was at that point my identity started shifting, like …who am I?”

She retreated into a world of her imagination, finding expression in clothes, dance and on the dance floors of London Clubs.

“With time I became Wunmigirl!” I became comfortable with me.”

The enduring image from Wunmi’s early years in music was when she danced silhouetted in Soul II Soul’s ‘Back To Life’ video. As an integral dancer within the Soul II Soul set-up, Wunmi quickly established a bold, self-styled image with flowing braids and her own unique costumes which became a vital addition to the Funki Dred identity. She evolved as an icon of London underground club culture.
“I love dancing and love DJs because they can make me travel.“

And travel she did. In the late ‘90s, she teamed up with Kenny “Dope” Gonzalez and Louie Vega for Masters At Work’s classic 1998 re-work of Fela Kuti’s ‘Expensive Sh*t’, ‘M.A.W. Expensive (Tribute To Fela)’ and the equally strong follow-ups, ‘Ekabo’ and ‘Time Is Now’.

The tracks paved the way for many Nu Yorican Afro-house workouts from the likes of Dennis Ferrer and Jerome Sydenham. It stamped Wunmi’s unique vocal style on dance floors worldwide. The collab continued at Masters At Work’s legendary Nu Yorican Soul parties in Miami. There Wunmi often performed through the Havana cigar smoke along with performers Stephanie Mills, Jocelyn Brown, Jody Watley, and Roy Ayers.

Wunmi also inter-weaves the sounds of Nigeria’s Afrobeat heritage, New York’s house pedigree and London’s jazz, broken beat and classic street soul into her mosiac. After ten years of classic collaborations working with production heavyweights like Masters At Work, Osunlade, Seiji and Truby Trio, Wunmi is now flying solo.

Wunmi’s single, ‘What A See’, brilliantly re-worked by A Guy Called Gerald, and Osunlade’s ‘Rader Du’ for Soul Jazz was followed by her acclaimed debut album, A.L.A. (Africans Living Abroad). Wunmi linked up with many of the top producers that have featured her vocals over the years as well as working with Fauna Flash, Pastaboys and Morten Varano.

Paper Magazine voted Wunmi as one of their 50 Beautiful People. Premier league producers continue to queue up – King Britt requested Wunmi for his ‘Oba Funke’ album project as did studio wizard Ras for Germany’s Sonar Kollektiv. Wunmi released a remix EP titled A.L.A Revisited in collaboration with Jellybean Soul Records and will release a new album later in 2013. (More on that later.)

When the Red Hot Organization commissioned an album paying tribute to Afrobeat Godfather Fela Kuti, Wunmi was at the top of their list. The result? A dynamite version of Fela’s ‘Zombie’ backed by Bugz In The Attic’s razor sharp beats. It became the track from the project and was accompanied by memorable live dates. The most memorable of the Red Hot and Riot live shows was at Europe’s largest multi arts venue- the Barbican in London. Wunmi shared the stage with Manu Dibago, Cheike lo, Les Nubians and Baaba Maal.

On-stage, Wunmi is a revelation. Her shows are known for explosive energy combined with her trademark outfits, hi-octane dance moves, a super-tight band. Her infectious spirit draws in crowds wherever she plays.

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Highlights? A memorable appearance at Out Of Africa’s London Summer Street Party, Jump ‘N’ Funk in New York, and the legendary Body & Soul parties in NY and Sapporo Japan. Her fans at Brooklyn’s BAM Café are notorious for stampeding the stage every time she appears.

There’s more…651 Arts presents: Live at St Ann’s Dumbo featuring Wunmi & Ameil Lareaux. A concert still talked about by those fortunate to have been witness to the performance.

Last but certainly not least…The Setai Hotel in Miami where she was invited to perform as part of their New Year’s Eve celebration party with Oscar award winner Jennifer Hudson.

Wunmi has been involved in a number of high profile charity events, starting with a headlining performance at the Millennium Promise and Malaria No More Gala at the Lincoln Center in New York. She was invited by White Ribbon Alliance, an international coalition to save the lives of pregnant women and their newborn children in 90 developing countries. She participated in their ten day musical convoy tour across South Africa. Her song ‘Talk Talk Talk’ was used as their theme music for their short documentary film.

At the end of the tour, Wunmi was enlisted to perform at their New York event for the delegates. This event lead to her performing later that year at the Mazawine Festival in Morocco along with Tony Allen, and touring Europe with Pee Wee Ellis and Fred Wesley as part of the Still Black, Still Proud – an African artist tribute to James Brown.

Alongside her music, Wunmi has become a vital link between today’s global dance music culture and the rich musical history of Nigeria. She narrated a history of Nigerian music for Strut Records’ Nigeria 70 anthology in 2001. She presented a 3 part audio documentary on Fela Kuti for BBC World Service Radio. She was called back for further programs. Living the High Life, on which she hosted live performances by some of the great High Life Musicians including her uncle, Dr. Victor Olaiya. Next came Wunmi’s Urban Groove, based on Wunmi’s travels to three continents to meet and interview local artists who were creating their own style and brand of music.

Wunmi has been profiled in numerous media including UK’s Radio One, One Extra, BBC World Service, France’s Radio Nova, and in the US; National Public Radio, WCRW, BET J and the African Channel.

Now, back to her highly anticipated 2013 release. Wunmi has teamed with co-producers, Jeremy Mage and Kwame Yeboah. Kwame is known for his collaboration with Craig David and Afro funk legend Band Osibisa. He is a multi-instrumentalist, singer, songwriter, producer and composer.

Her influences for the tracks are wide – she draws as much from Kate Bush and Sade as she does from U.S. funk and soul. Of course, Wunmi draws on the Yoruba styling of Nigerian Afrobeat, highlife and juju. Behind the trademark Wunmi grooves, she tackles difficult issues. There are tracks exploring the alienation of living away from home, the stark choices faced by those who fall outside of the system and the indifference of governments.

It is Wunmi – from the heart and her artistry. It represents some of her best work and solidifies Wunmi’s solid dance music pedigree. This is not African music, world music or any other genre. This is Wunmi’s world and there is nowhere else quite like it. Listen for music which evokes her physical and spiritual pilgrimage back to Africa and the evolving richness of her mosaic.

UK Musical Director http://www.kwameyeboah.com
US Musical Director http://jeremymage.com/

httpsv://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=oKi10HE8khs

http://www.sonicbids.com/wunmiOliayia”>http://www.sonicbids.com/wunmiOliayia
http://www.facebook.com/wunmiakaswunmigirl”>http://www.facebook.com/wunmiakaswunmigirl
httpv://www.youtube.com/superwunmigirl

Why I am an Experienced Ghost Writer By Karen Cole

I have worked as a professional freelance ghost writer since 1980 and before then, but mostly I have worked as a ghost writer since January of 2003, when I began working through the Internet. So I have a lot of experience, but especially as a ghost writer. This was however not what I originally intended. In the beginning, I just wanted to be a copy editor, not a regular writer. When I had written for magazines and newspapers, I had done all right, but liked editing people’s work more than I liked writing from my own original ideas. So I first set up my shingle as an editor of other people’s copy.
This however morphed shortly into my ghost writing for people. Most of my copy editing clients needed rewriting work done on their copy, so even though I preferred and only took editing jobs, I was stuck rewriting and thus ghost writing copy on a regular basis. In some cases what had appeared to be mere copy editing jobs were strict ghost writing ones, where I had to do ample background research and writing from scratch in order to fully appease my clients.
This led me to a widely varied career. I have worked on manuscripts about every subject imaginable, helping clients create both their books and screenplays and also being a “second set of eyes” when needed in order to prepare my clients’ work for review by literary agents and publishers. When I started out, my first idea was to specialize in copy editing people’s work for publication. But like I said, in many cases the work entailed so much rewriting, I wasn’t just an editor for it any more.
So I became a ghost writer, after having done ghost writing since before 1980 anyway. It’s not hard work for me, as I am highly proficient at writing and editing in English. I have scored as a creative writing genius on more than one test, and was passed through an English class in creative writing in college. They said I didn’t have to take the initial class and only had to pay for the credits. So I am an experienced ghost writer of nearly three decades standing, and I love both editing and writing copy for people. It’s a living, and also I can set my own hours, be my own boss, and don’t have to come up with my own ideas – in most cases, anyway.
AUTHOR’S RESOURCE BOX: I am Karen Cole, President of Ghost Writer, Inc. We have worked on the WWW since 2003 helping our author clients with ghost writing, editing, marketing and promoting their books and screenplays. I have worked on some 250+ books and other works myself, and I send work out on a regular basis to our team of over 100 writers and other artists in the writing field.
LINKS:
Website: http://www.rainbowriting.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ghostwriterwriting
Twitter: http://twitter.com/karencole37
LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/in/karencole37ghostwriter62929-Royalty-Free-RF-Clipart-Illustration-Of-A-Hand-Writing-With-A-Feather-Quill-Near-A-Bottle-Of-Ink