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119 pages

English

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Twelve pictures, twelve tales of crime and mystery. Written by Murder Squad and their six accomplices, these page turning stories uncover a world of intrigue, suspense and fear. With contributions from celebrated crime writers including Ann Cleeves and Martin Edwards, each tale is inspired by the atmospheric and evocative Pembrokeshire collection of photographer David Wilson.

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Publié par	Graffeg Limited
Date de parution	07 septembre 2015
Nombre de lectures	2
EAN13	9781910862360
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

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THE STARLINGS
OTHER STORIES
Editor ANN CLEEVES
12 stories inspired by David Wilson photographs A Murder Squad Accomplices Anthology
Ann Cleeves, Cath Staincliffe, Chris Simms, Christine Poulson, Helena Edwards, Jim Kelly, Kate Ellis, Margaret Murphy, Martin Edwards, Mary Sharratt, Toby Forward and Valerie Laws.
As a landscape photographer I strive to produce images that will stimulate the viewer and provoke them into interpreting what they see; investing their own narrative into the photograph. For an esteemed group of writers to choose a selection of my images as the inspiration and catalyst for their own stories is a great honour.
DAVID WILSON
The Starlings Other Stories published by Graffeg
September 2015 Copyright Graffeg 2015
ISBN 9781909823747 ISBN (eBook) 9781910862360
Images David Wilson, taken from Pembrokeshire
by David Wilson ISBN 9781905582594
Designed and produced by Graffeg www.graffeg.com
Graffeg Limited, 24 Stradey Park Business Centre,
Mwrwg Road, Llangennech, Llanelli, Carmarthenshire
SA14 8YP Wales UK Tel 01554 824000 www.graffeg.com
Graffeg are hereby identified as the authors of this work in accordance with section 77 of the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A CIP Catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers Graffeg.
CONTENTS
Foreword
Homecoming Cath Staincliffe
Sirens Mary Sharratt
The Wizard s Place Chris Simms
The Man Who Didn t Breathe Jim Kelly
The Starlings Ann Cleeves
Mountains Out of Molehills Valerie Laws
Port Lion Margaret Murphy
Sorted Toby Forward
Through the Mist Martin Edwards
House Guest Helena Edwards
Secrets Kate Ellis
Weeping Queens Christine Poulson
Author biographies
FOREWORD
MURDER SQUAD
Crime writers are obsessed by darkness and light. In our novels, the shadier side of human nature holds sway for a while: individuals do terrible things, groups surrender to base urges, communities are complicit in shocking acts. But this blackness doesn t last. The detective gets his man, the victim fights back, the downtrodden turn the tables. Justice shines through.
So when we received a proposal that involved writing short stories based on black and white photographs, we were intrigued. What sort of photographs? Were the images urban? Journalistic? Portraits? None of these things, it turned out. They were landscapes. And all from one very rural location: Pembrokeshire.
Murder Squad was formed in the year 2000. The idea of Margaret Murphy, it originally involved several crime writers who were keen to promote their work in person - be it in libraries and bookshops or at literature festivals and crime writing conferences. Since then careers have evolved. Many nominations have been received and several awards have been won - national and international. Some of them specifically for short stories. There have even been a few TV series created. Murder Squad now consists of six writers: Margaret Murphy, Ann Cleeves, Cath Staincliffe, Martin Edwards, Kate Ellis and Chris Simms.
As luck would have it, each of us is familiar with this stunning part of Wales - through leisurely childhood holidays or snatched weekends away. When we got to view David Wilson s work, the sense of excitement was instant. These weren t the cosy compositions of tourist shop tea-towels. The images were starkly arresting. By his own admission, David s photographs - beautiful as they are - often carry a sense of eerie foreboding . Brooding woods emerge from pale mist. Lonely farmsteads are threatened by stormy skies. Troubled seas lunge violently at the shore. Even when the natural elements are at peace, the photographs have dramatic power. An abandoned building leaves you wondering what happened to those who once lived there. Did that solitary boat lying out on the mudflats run aground under the cover of night? What things has that sentinel-like stone witnessed, standing as it has for countless centuries
Reactions from Murder Squad members included the words bewitching , enchanting and haunting . Each photograph seemed to whisper of stories aching to be told . To ensure there would be enough of these stories for a reader to enjoy, we all invited one other author to contribute - an associate Murder Squad member, or accomplice, if you like. The twelve of us each chose an image. Then we went away promising that, several months down the line, we d return with a short story influenced by crime. The result is this anthology, The Starlings Other Stories.
It s been fun. And we hope that what we ve written captures some of the mystery and magic that made David s photographs such an inspiration for us all.
Chris Simms
HOMECOMING
CATH STAINCLIFFE
The day was ending as he reached the house.
The roof still held but the windows had gone, the doors too. And in front where the path had once been, a cloud of gnats danced over a large puddle. A few more years and the whole lot would collapse, the stone return to the earth, the foundations become choked by rough grass and bracken and briars.
I had a little nut tree, nothing would it bear, but a silver nutmeg and a golden pear.
He hadn t thought of the song for years. Susan singing. Whirling round in the snow, her new purple herringbone coat, the colour of the heather on the moor, flecked with white and black, spinning out as she turned. Her raven hair whipping about. Always dancing, like she couldn t keep still. She would learn the latest moves in the playground and teach Hugh.
Giddy goat, their father would say, smiling.
But their mother called her wilful and impudent.
This dump, Susan used to call it, I m going to leave this dump and go to London. She would be a dancer or a singer. Hugh didn t want her to go and leave him behind but she promised to send for him.
We could share a flat.
And have parties.
And go travelling in a bus with all our friends.
And never go to chapel again.
The chapel, Mother s passion, dominated their lives. Mother had come to Wales as an evacuee from Liverpool. Her family were killed in the Blitz and so she had stayed on with the old minister and his housekeeper. He was of the fire and brimstone school and taught Mother his ways. Hugh remembered her voice, going on and on and on about the wickedness of people, how corrupt and immoral they were, perverted and shameless, degenerates living in the gutter. On and on until Father would get up and walk out. He d be gone for hours. And Hugh would have a sick ache inside of him in case Father didn t come home but he always did.
Hugh stepped inside the cottage. The place was stripped bare, he wondered who d done that, removed beds and the dresser, the table and chairs. It smelled of mice and mould. The paint on the walls was mottled and flaking, chunks of plaster littered the floor. In the back room were signs that people had sheltered here: old fires, cans and crisp packets. Tramps, perhaps, too far off the beaten track for anyone else.
Out the back, wilderness had taken over. He walked, treading down brambles thick as rope, the fruit on them glistening fat and black. Glass and guttering snapping underfoot. This was a kitchen garden once, the soil was poor but his mother had coaxed potatoes and leeks, raspberries and peas from it.
The hazel tree was still there at the end beside the hawthorn. He and Susan would pick the cobnuts, once the bright green shells turned brown, cracking them in their back teeth and fishing out the sweet nut meat.
Hugh loved Susan, she was the warmth of the house, so when she went off to Cardiff he had for a time resented her. He wondered if she would send for him once he was finished with school. But no word came and eventually he took up the apprenticeship in the Merchant Navy.
He d sent a postcard or two at first, from new continents, new countries, out of a sense of duty. He wrote, once he was settled in New Zealand, so they d have an address for him, but got no reply.
Forty-seven years since he had left. Nearly half a century.
His mother posted a note, brief and formal, in 2001, after his father s funeral. And once she d gone, the solicitor had written to say the cottage, with its two acres, was his. Nothing left to Susan, all to him.
Let it rot, he thought, but then he got the diagnosis. The only treatment palliative. He needed to put his affairs in order while they d still let him travel. Straightforward enough in Auckland: no dependents, no property to dispose of. Raymond and he had built a life together but Raymond had died far too young - before they d developed the antiretrovirals - and Hugh had never found anyone else. He would leave his savings to Susan and the same with the cottage, it wasn t worth much but it would be hers. After floundering himself, he d hired an investigator to trace her. No news as yet. According to the records she d not married but Hugh took heart from the fact that she hadn t died either.
Hugh looked across the moorland to the horizon. You could see for fifteen miles, and no other building in view. Rushes marked the paths of streams descending the hills from the limestone crags, and here and there were lone trees forced to grow sideways by the wind. Sheep dotted the landscape, and lower down the valley the slopes were divided by dry-stone walls. None of it had changed.
He was eleven when Susan fell pregnant. She was fifteen. She never went back to school after Christmas, she had to stay in: no chapel, no trips to town. Hidden if anyone called, though barely anyone ever did. Glandular fever, that s what Hugh had to say if he was asked. She had told him about Gwyn Davies, in the year above her, how he was sweet on Susan, how he wanted to go to London too. She swore Hugh to silence.
He knew i