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Austin Macauley Publishers LLC - Tom Toomey

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106 pages

English

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In a story packed with adventure and suspense, Alban Christopher III bravely faces and overcomes every situation thrown at him. When his father commits him to a mental institution, he finds a way to escape - and in the process, he discovers a dark secret. The men of London's high society are capturing and killing poor boys, then discarding the bodies. A cat and mouse game begins - their wealth and power against Alban's instinct and intelligence.In this deeply felt and vividly written narrative, the reader feels what Alban feels. The world becomes as it is through his eyes. That world is often filled with bad men committing crimes against innocent people but, even in the darkest times, Alban sees hope.

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Thriller

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Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
Date de parution	31 janvier 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781645367932
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

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Dark Secret in London
Tom Toomey
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-01-31
Dark Secret in London About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgment Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight
About the Author
Tom Toomey was born with severe cerebral palsy, making him non-verbal and prone to uncontrolled body movements.
Despite his disabilities, he is very intelligent and has a charming personality. He is very proud of his many accomplishments, including attending the University of California at Berkley and obtaining a degree in World History, as well as realizing his dream of becoming a published author. After seven years of hard work writing it, Dark Secret in London is his first novel.
Dedication
I would like to dedicate this book to my mom because she encouraged me to write. I miss her and love her very much. To my dad because he encouraged me to write as well. I also dedicate this book to my teacher, Mrs. Bowman, because she found a way for me to be able to write.
Copyright Information ©
Tom Toomey (2020)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Ordering Information:
Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Toomey, Tom
Dark Secret in London
ISBN 9781643784878 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781643784885 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781645367932 (ePub e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019910944
www.austinmacauley.com/us
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
40 Wall Street, 28th Floor
New York, NY 10005
USA
mail-usa@austinmacauley.com
+1 (646) 5125767
Acknowledgment
I would like to thank my caregivers, Leslie Ochoa and Autumn Pollard, for helping me write this book. I also thank God for my intelligence.
Chapter One
When I was thirteen, my nanny helped me dress in my tuxedo and my father told me to be on my best behavior because I would be meeting important people that evening. When I looked in the mirror at myself, I thought, Flawless . But looking back now, on the inside I was anything but perfect.
I walked downstairs and opened the door to our ballroom, where the fingers of a pleasingly small orchestra were dancing on their instruments, playing Chopin Berceuse in D-Flat. As I ventured in, I noticed the fragrance of a bouquet of flowers floating on the air as white clouds float on a summer’s breeze. It was a smell I recalled from the first time I attended this ball at five years old. I saw many people there conversing with one another; the men wore tuxedos like mine. I saw my best friend’s grandfather, Mr. Jesting Heddwyn, wearing a tailored tuxedo. The wives were all wearing very elegant dresses. I could tell they were prestigious people, and I couldn’t help but look all around at the refinement. It was 1973. My attention snapped back to my immediate surroundings when a man took my hand to shake it. “Hello, my name is Fitzgerald,” he said. “Your father and I work in the British Parliament.”
I greeted him politely, but I left to look for my name card on the dinner tables, where I sat down in my assigned seat to watch this scene. I anxiously recalled my manners and looked down at the table settings: four forks, a napkin, a bread plate on the left, two knives, one spoon, and my glass to the right. Slowly, people began to wander, looking for their own name cards, and sat down at their assigned places in anticipation. The maître d’ and his assistants came out to serve us; they came with appetizers and served us from the right. I looked at my mother to see if she had plucked her napkin and unfurled it…she had. I reached for the fork with two prongs to begin eating, but suddenly, I felt strange. My body was shaking—uncontrollably and violently shaking. I felt as if I were in a bubble, knowing everything and everyone that was around me, but being unable to reach them. I fell unconscious for the first time.
When I came to senses, I heard the beeps of the machine that was monitoring my heart. I heard my mother say, “How are you feeling?” and felt her check my forehead. After scanning my father’s face, I felt he might be either concerned or furious—or both.
“I feel like I ran a few thousand miles…my body is weak,” I said. “I’m sorry, Dad, I ruined your social.”
Before he could respond, the doctor walked in. “How are you, Alban?”
Mother said, “My son is exhausted.”
“I want to run couple of tests in the morning. Alban has to stay until tomorrow.” The doctor was calm and wrote something in the file resting in his hand.
“I was reading about seizures in a medical journal,” I said. “There are different kinds. Some people shake violently like I did. An electric current naturally runs in people’s bodies that controls their heart beat, breathing, and movements, but if the electric current short-circuits, it floods the cells and the brain unloads the electric current. The result can cause seizures, just as the drain in a shower would overflow if it could not handle all the water. The type of seizure depends on how severe that short-circuit is, and some can be long and ferocious. Are the tests you will do in the morning the EEG and blood tests?”
The doctor clicked his pen and said, “Yes, your test is the EEG. You are an intelligent young boy. Why are you reading medical journals?”
“I like reading medical periodicals and all the books of the intelligentsia to increase my analytical thought.”
The doctor cracked a smile. “I need to see other patients now.”
My father said, “I’ll join you in the hallway,” and both parents followed the doctor out.
My mother is the emotional, caring, tender one in my family, but she is a rag doll compared to my dad. All my father sees is black and white, morally correct or morally wrong, and he’s always demanded that his family perform with precision. He has always expected the house to be managed perfectly. He can be severe, but his high standards were put to good use in writing British law in the House of Parliament. My parents devoted themselves to education: I had learned three languages before I was five years old, and I had an exceptional home instructor. Due to my parents’ dedication, I was set to graduate from high school in just a few months.
Through the open door, I could hear them talking in the hallway. My mother asked the doctor, “How come my son is having a seizure? Will his life ever be normal?”
“Your son will never be a normal boy—whether or not he has seizures—due to his intelligence,” the doctor said. “In case studies done on boys and girls in early puberty, the type of seizure that occurs from overloading the brain with electrical current and hormones will be a non-recurring type. However, a few do keep on having seizures, and if their medicine and diet are well managed, they can have a normal life. I have to go. See you sometime tomorrow afternoon.”
Chapter Two
Within three days of being discharged from the hospital, I’d had two more seizures.
On one of the occasions, I was having lunch with my father. We went to lunch every single Saturday with others who worked in parliament. As they didn’t have quality time with their kids on weekdays, the luncheon was created for the parents to spend time with their children. At my first luncheon after I’d left the hospital, I was talking to my friends when I felt a strange sensation. Suddenly, my body was shaking uncontrollably. My friends were laughing at me. Their parents came over to see what was happening and tried to help me. When my body had stopped convulsing, Robert handed me a glass of water. I looked at my father, who was looking at me and everything around me, and I interpreted his expression as exasperation. It hurt to know how much our relationship had deteriorated, as my father had to take control of everything; nevertheless, he couldn’t control the problems that were looming in my body.
A requirement of home-schooled British children are the graduation exams. My teacher handed me the final, and I was working on it when I overheard my parents arguing about me. My father said, “The seizures our boy has—this family isn’t able to do enough for him. I do not have time for my son’s problem and you don’t have time either. Look at our house! It’s in shambles! My boy falls and shakes and threatens our old vases and the character of our house. Our maids thought there was an evil spirit inside his body the time they saw him shaking! I know that it’s not true, but they’re going out and discussing his problem with maids who work for people we know. People are talking about us.”
My mother said, “I realize that, but you talk about our flesh and blood as if he was the seizures. He cannot control them. You make it a command, as if stopping them should be as easy as tossing out an old newspaper. This is a control issue with you.”
If I could have seen my father at that moment, his eyes would have been rolling up to the sky as he paced backward a few steps, then stopped. He said, “I