Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

A scream split the night. I bolted upright, grabbed my revolver from the bedside table and stumbled towards the door. I fumbled with the lock till the door clattered open onto the dim hallway running the length of the upper floor. The sound had come from the front of the building, and I made my way between the flickering lamps, casting dancing shadows across the hall. A gunshot rang out, and a dark feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. Something evil was at work. I pushed on, hurrying over the ageing carpets, the once-vibrant reds now faded to brown, discoloured by all manner of spillages over the years. A few faces appeared at doorways ahead but soon retreated at the sight of some half-naked fool toting a pistol. “Get the hell back inside.” Another gunshot from the main suite at the front of The Lucky Dollar, and I was at the door. I tried the handle, but it just shook in the frame. A single well-placed kick saw to the lock mechanism, and it swung inwards with a squeal. Light stream...

A man wearing a hat is up ahead, holsters strapped to left and right thigh, each holding a six-shooter. He’s running. The first thing that strikes you is the horse. There isn’t one. Why is the man running? The second thing that strikes you is the feeling you’re in danger. You look down at dust-covered boots. They feel solid and comfortable. But they’re not your boots. The trousers are worn and frayed at the ends. They’re not yours either. But the nightshirt tucked into the trousers is yours. Your head is throbbing. Reaching up you touch a bandage. When you examine your fingers, there are smears of blood. You’ve no memory of the clothes, the head wound, or how you got here. The man is still running, getting further and further away. A sudden squall blows dust in your face, your eyes water, you spit and spit, breathing is difficult. By the time you’re finally able to open your eyes, the man has disappeared. You keep walking hoping to clear your mind, hoping for some cl...

I'd been driving all night on Highway 67. The sun was coming up and the heat haze was turning the horizon to water. Seeing a neon diner sign, I decided to stop. The parking lot was deserted save for a rusty old Buick and a green Mustang. I stepped out of the car into the searing desert heat then wiped the sweat off my neck. I entered the cool air-conditioned diner. My shirt stuck to my back and I shivered. The jukebox was blaring out the strident tones of some goddam awful doowop song. The fake cheerfulness of the song contrasted deeply with the eeriness of the deserted diner. I ignored the sign that said ‘Wait to be seated,’ at the front and sat down in a booth. I figured that it being this deserted, there would be no need for such decorum, but I was wrong. "Hey Mister," a bored bubble-gum chewing waitress came over to berate me. I looked up at her. "Can't you read?" she said, arms crossed with a severe expression on her cheerleader perfect face. Blon...

It was sundown outside The Golden Horseshoe. Everything was eerily silent. There was no sign of anyone. The town was empty, shut like a ghost town. Tumbleweed blew down Main Street. The wind rattled the shutters. I told Bonnie to stay back. I stepped into the street armed and ready. Where was everyone? There was no sign of a body, living or dead, anywhere.  “Hello?” I called, “I know you’re there.” A man stepped out from the shadows. The brim of his Stetson was pulled down low. He was covered in dust and had a thick stubbled jaw. He sneered, pulled a pistol out from his holster and aimed it at me. “James?” I asked. “Is that you? I thought you were dead. Are you James Lennox?” The man walked slowly towards me. All of my instincts told me to back away but I stayed fixed to the spot.  “James. I’m Cal Samuels, your folks hired me to find you. They’re real worried about you. I can take you back to Philly. Why don’t you put the gun down and come with me? You can trust me,...

“Wait!” Hannah shouted. “I know Billy can be a hot headed fool Aunt, but he does have good in him. Good that a wife could nurture, anyhow,” she said, pulling out a ring attached to a delicate chain around her neck.  “Hannah!” Mrs Taylor shouted “Are you married?” “No, not yet Mother, but we are engaged. Please Aunt Margaret, give him a chance? You did say you’d do anything for your family?”  Aunt Margaret paused then nodded and sat down.  “You’d best be careful girl,” she said to Hannah, “if you lie down with rattlesnakes, you’re gonna get bit.” Hannah looked annoyed but didn’t reply. It went quiet and I could hear Bonnie wailing upstairs. She called for her mother who met her on the landing then came over to me. “Bonnie wants you to read this letter, she said it would explain everything.” I looked across at Hannah and Aunt Margaret and they seemed curious but Mrs Taylor took charge. “Read it upstairs in the parlour, you’ll be able to think up there. Bonnie’s c...

We ran, bent at the waist, through the dark tunnels, with the wolf’s howls behind us. The cool dawn air had barely reached my nostrils when another sound – a hot, rushing roar   - came thundering behind us. I threw myself out of the mouth of the mine and rolled behind a rock, arms wrapped over my head, as all hell burst open around me.   Fire and dust and rock rained down. I heard yells and curses amidst the crash of rock on rock, but I daren’t lift my head to see if the others had escaped. Dust filled my eyes and ears and mouth, and I choked and retched. At last it subsided. I wiped my eyes on the filthy sleeve of my jacket and shook the dust from my hat. In the dim dawn light, I could make out the grey shapes of others, getting to their feet, looking around for their companions. “Here!” someone thrust a canteen into my hand. I looked up to see the woman standing over me still carrying her pack. A man with the same dark skin stood beside her, rubbing welts on his wr...

Prologue – Philadelphia, May 1890 - Office of C.P. Samuels – Private Investigator It was a sunny morning in mid-May when my life changed completely. Work was slow and I was getting restless. That was until ten o’clock, when Mr Lennox and his distraught wife entered my office.  “It’s my son Mr Samuels; James Lennox, a Geologist. He’s been missing for three months. Headed out West for work.” He handed me a photograph of a handsome fellow, young, aged twenty-three, so he said. I studied it carefully, though it told me nothing yet. “Sir, with all due respect, lots of young men head out West and lose contact with their folks. It’s nothing personal. The West, as we know, is a different country.” I handed the photo back. “Besides, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. I’m sorry Sir, I’m not sure I can help you.” “We’ll pay double your usual fee. Make it worth your while. It’s important, my wife is desperate and may not have long to live!” I looked across at Mrs Lennox an...