The book is out this week, you should start seeing it in shops by the end of the week, I’m told. As a little teaser here’s the prologue of ‘The Order of the Phoenix Park’.
I was going to post the epilogue but they said this would be better idea.
——-
Monday Night
Renowned record-shop-owner Tom O’Farrell staggered from the store room at the back of his shop. Terrified and unable to understand what was happening, he only knew that escape was impossible. He had already locked up the shop, the shutters were secured in place … he had nowhere to go. Nevertheless, he made for the door, frantically hoping that a passer-by might see what was happening and raise the alarm. With the lights off though, that was unlikely, and the darkness caused him to stumble over a display of Tears for Fears Greatest Hits DVDs. He lay on the ground, out of breath, looking desperately for somewhere to hide.
Then a voice spoke, alarmingly close, ‘Stay very still.’
Crouched on all fours, the record-shop-owner shuddered, turning his head very slowly, like some kind of retarded owl. Just 14 feet away, bathed in the light that pushed its luminous tentacles out from the store room, loomed the enormous silhouette of his assailant, who stared contemptuously down at him with shining, pink eyes. He was freakishly tall and built like the offspring of a farmer and a professional wrestler crossed with an old-school East German female Olympic athlete. His skin was so pale it was almost translucent, and from under his flat cap sprung a shock of bright orange hair.
‘No. It can’t be,’ gasped Tom, ‘the ginger albino! It was supposed to be just a legend.’
Christ, this was bad. If only people knew.
The ginger albino pulled a pistol from his duffel coat and pointed it at his victim.
‘You shouldn’t have tried to escape.’ His accent was a mix of nasal American and Wicklow council worker, with a strange northern twang that Tom thought might be Donegal. ‘Now, you know why I’m here. You know what you must do.’
‘I’ve told you already,’ Tom stammered, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You lie,’ said the hideous man, his gingerness seeming to ooze from his pores like stuff oozed from teenagers’ faces. ‘You and your brethren know of me. You know what I signify. And now you know that I am not a fabled monster. I am real.’
Tom felt a surge of adrenalin rush through him. Well, he hoped it was adrenalin.
‘I will give you a final chance,’ the towering figure said coldly. ‘Do as I ask, or I shall kill you.’
‘Never,’ said Tom. ‘What you ask is too despicable for any person to agree to. I have spent my life working in this business – apart from that time when I lived in London and I had to do things to get by, but that’s not important right now – and I will not see it destroyed by the likes of you.’
‘Very well. I had hoped you would see sense. What is to come is inevitable. Your pathetic stand against it will make no difference whatsoever. The wheels are in motion. This Rolling Stone is gathering no moss. Que sera, sera, and such. Your death will serve as a warning to the others. They won’t be so foolish.’
In an instant, Tom knew what he had to do. ‘If I die,’ he thought, ‘then it’s all over. There’s no chance for anyone.’
Instinctively, he tried to get up and run for the door. The gun thundered, and he felt a burning heat as the bullet penetrated his stomach. He fell again … battling against the searing pain. He turned onto his back again and faced his attacker, who had the pistol pointed directly between his eyes. The ginger albino pulled the trigger, but there was only the click so reminiscent of the Russian roulette scene in The Deer Hunter.
‘MAO!’ said the man, laughing. He reached for more bullets but then saw the blood spreading across the floor from Tom’s stomach. He pocketed the bullets and holstered his gun. ‘My work here is done.’
Tom looked down and saw the hole in his Che Guevara T-shirt. As a veteran of the turf wars between the punks, the mods and the Val Doonican fans during his time in London, he’d seen people gut shot before. It was a slow and painful way to die. Worse than being starved to death in a room filled with Phil Collins music while being rimmed by a cat.
His hateful assassin regarded him for a moment. ‘Your pain is as nothing compared to what the rest of humanity will suffer. Be thankful and die well.’
The ginger albino walked calmly over to one of the racks behind the counter, searched for a couple of moments, then took something. The next moment, he was gone, locking the back door behind him.
Alone and dying, Tom O’Farrell knew he had to act fast. Within minutes, the poison from his stomach would enter his chest cavity and render him immobile for the final, excruciating moments.
‘I must warn them. I must find some way.’
Staggering to his feet, he tried to move, but he was too weak. His legs were like jelly beneath him. Close to tears and knowing time was short, he lay down on the floor. An idea came to him. He pulled his T-shirt over his head, wincing in pain, and summoned the last of his strength to do what he had to do.
When he was finished, he grimaced as he found his mobile phone in his pocket and flicked through the address book until he came to the name of the person he wanted. Too weak to make the call, he left the screen displaying this entry as the blackness enveloped him … and Tom O’Farrell died, hoping against hope that he’d done enough.
——–
