Friday, May 25, 2007

[obsession] flight to the north

Second of the excerpts from my first novel, Obsession, detailing my early life in Russia [the first excerpt is here].

Fleeing from London and danger, for reasons there's no point going into here, Hugh, the anti-hero and his travel partner take a train north, to draw the baddies onto his home turf.

Being fugitives doesn't stop him showing the Russian girl around the sights and here they get to the Saltersgate, high on a ridge not far from York.

He waited for the inevitable question – why legendary?

‘The legend states vaguely, because my memory’s not all that hot, that there were some smugglers hiding out here at the pub, back in the mists of time; an exciseman got too close, he was bumped off and the body was buried beneath the hearth.

They had to keep a fire eternally burning so that no one would ever look underneath. So it has been ever since and even in the middle of summer that bloody fire is still going - it'll be going today.’

‘You guys make the most of your history, don’t you?’

‘Da.’

She was delighted when the road led onto a long, high ridge between two valleys and then, there it was in front of them in the distance, commanding spectacular views across the valley.

‘This is a postcard,’ she whispered.

Hugh just smiled to himself.

The next surprise was the publican coming from around the bar, his huge hand extended. Hugh immediately ordered XB.

‘Nope,’ said the publican.

‘No?’

‘XB’s rubbish today. Try the Camerons.’

‘Camerons? Yuk!’

‘Try the Camerons today.’

A pint and a half of Camerons was brought to their table not too near the fire, together with a bowl of nuts they hadn’t even ordered. Hugh was grinning from ear to ear and she was studying him closely.

‘You ordered XB Hugh. How can he tell you no?’

‘The man’s an expert. If he says Camerons, then Camerons it is. He has the cleanest pipes in Britain.’

‘Cleanest what?’

‘Pipes, trubichki, you know - where the beer passes along.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Right - stay here and let me get the menus.’ A conversation ensued with the publican and both were grinning. Hugh came back. ‘The Yorkshire Pud’s good today, it seems. You hungry?’

She shot him a scornful look. ‘OK, here’s the programme – beer and nuts, whilst they get the food ready. May I suggest the Yorkshire Pud – ’

‘What’s that?’

‘Tyesta, batter, in the shape of a bowl and into it is poured meat and onions and other things. You like kharcho at home?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then maybe you’d like this. And one more thing – while we’re waiting for our food, the publican’s going to take us ... downstairs,’ he concluded, mysteriously, ‘and he doesn’t do it for everyone.’

‘I’m not even going to ask.’

Richard came over and asked if they were ready. What followed was a tour down to the basement, replete with wooden and metal barrels and he proceeded to explain to Ksenia the intricacies of storing, tapping, the cleaning of the pipes, the gas and so on, until he’d led them back up and behind the bar.

‘And that’s where it ends – at the tap,’ the publican concluded.

‘And notice he doesn’t use metal valves, he uses the draw pumps,’ added Hugh.

She was far more impressed with the passion these two guys were showing for their subject than with the finer details themselves but somehow she was sure she’d been privy to something pretty special or else the British always got enthused about the mundane. She’d have to stew over this one later.

For now, she was the centre of attention and two guys were falling over backwards for her - a most satisfactory arrangement all round.

The food was far from mundane and a touch of nostalgia crept in during the Yorkshire Pud; it reminded Ksenia of her grandmother’s cooking but she said nothing. They toasted the memory of that poor official who’d been the inadvertent cause of the legend then, after profuse thanks to the publican, headed out to the car park at the side.

The air was heavy with the unmistakable aroma of the countryside - pollen, grass, trees and always that breathtakingly sheer drop into the valley either side of the hotel. The Escort was a cabriolet and as they pulled onto the main road from the crisp gravel and the car picked up speed down the hill; the breeze had her hair streaming behind and she briefly felt at one with the world.

Hugh was going faster now and the bottom of the hill was coming up and there was a sharp bend and he wasn’t slowing down. She glanced across anxiously, as he suddenly dropped speed, then accelerated through the bend, the car bottoming out and then tearing up to the next crest.

...and so on. For devotees who note the inconsistencies in the ale terminology, I'd appreciate if you set me straight.

All parts of the dialogues happened but not necessarily at the same time or in the same place. Actually the place we fled to was Bergen but the pub scene over there is a bit hazy and this part of the plot demanded Britain.

8 comments:

  1. So how come we are getting these teasers? Are you going to put it up somewhere as the whole? Is it published? Are you going to self publish? You've been there (wherever there is exactly) for so many years?
    I will have to read the archives when you're on hiatus. I have to discover all.
    regards
    jmb

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  2. ..and you find time to write novels as well...

    Have you know life man?

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  3. Liam, I tried to reach your blog but it told me it wasn't accessible. Is this right?

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  4. James, Where are the space ships and the guns? You can't have a story without, at the very least, a gun for our Anti-Hero to dislike because of a history with them or something.

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  5. Or a sadistic killer our Anti-Hero is running from because he is a witness to a political assassination.

    Just trying to help.

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  6. Latter comment is close to it, as it turns out, Bag.

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  7. Cool. He must use some specially horrific method of execution and be called a cool name.

    When is the next bit coming out?

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Comments need a moniker of your choosing before or after ... no moniker, not posted, sorry.