Anglo-Force: Saltwater Grudge Chapter Twelve: The Pier’s Last Stand

The wind hit them the moment they stepped off the pier's landward end and onto the planking proper, a solid wall of driven salt that made Siobhan stagger and clutch the rail. James kept his head down, the ledger jammed inside his coat and pressed against his ribs with an arm that had long since gone numb.

Anglo-Force: Saltwater Grudge Chapter Eleven: A Storm’s Fury

The pier gave no shelter from what was coming in off the North Sea.

            James reached the landward end with his coat plastered to his back and his right hand pressed flat against the railing for balance. The blow to his skull had left him with a dull, insistent throb that sharpened every time he turned his head too quickly, and the three miles from the manor had been covered in a haze of hedgerows and ditches and the occasional pair of headlights that sent him flat into the wet grass until they passed. He had no clear memory of getting out of the cellar. The chain had given at the bracket, not at his wrist, and the iron ring still hung from the raw skin like a bracelet he could not remove. The rest was fragments: a door that had not been locked, a stretch of gravel he had crossed on hands and knees, the salt marsh beyond the garden wall where he had lain for what felt like an hour while the storm gathered itself overhead.

Anglo-Force: Saltwater Grudge Chapter Ten: The Tidal Cellar’s Secret

The cold came first. Not the shallow chill of an unwarmed room, but the deep, settled cold of stone that had never known sunlight. It pressed through James's shirt and into the skin beneath, and with it came the awareness of his own body, the catalogue of damage: the ache at the back of his skull where the blow had landed, the raw burn around his wrists, the cramp locked into his shoulders from the angle of his arms.

Anglo-Force: Saltwater Grudge Chapter Nine: Captured by the Tide

The van’s headlights swept across the lighthouse compound and caught the black saloon already parked at an angle across the gravel, its doors swinging open before Leo had cut the engine.

Anglo-Force: Saltwater Grudge Chapter Eight: The Lighthouse Vault

He drove through the small hours with the window cracked an inch, the cold air keeping the exhaustion at bay. The coast road unspooled in the headlamps, empty and black, and the sea was a presence off to his left that he could not see but could feel in the pressure of the wind against the car's flank. He had not slept. He had tried, in the flat above the office, lying on the sofa with his coat still on and the microfilm cylinder on the table beside him, but every time he closed his eyes the gala reassembled itself behind the lids. Arthur Vane's voice, low and assured, naming facts about James's life that no stranger should possess. The black saloon idling at the kerb, it's engine a patient rumble. The coordinates burning in his head like a fever.

Anglo-Force: Saltwater Grudge Chapter Seven: A Gala of Shadows

The Grand Hotel stood on the cliff road like a wedding cake left out in the rain, it's white stucco façade lit by floodlamps that turned the February damp into a haze of suspended droplets. James paused at the bottom of the steps, one hand resting on the cold iron railing, and let the ache at the back of his skull settle into something he could manage. The wound beneath his hair had stopped seeping sometime that afternoon, but the skin around it felt tight and hot, and the lights from the hotel's entrance seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.

Anglo-Force: Saltwater Grudge Chapter Six: The Northern Star’s Coordinates

The morning light came through the office window at an angle that felt personal, a blade of white February glare that found the gap in the curtains James had not quite closed the night before. He sat at the desk with his back to it, the Maglite fragment still wrapped in its handkerchief beside the telephone, the folded receipt from the storage facility propped against the base of the lamp where he could see the word Pier in Leo Bernard's cramped hand. His head ached in a way that paracetamol had not touched, a deep and patient throb that seemed to keep time with his pulse, and the skin above his left ear was tender when he pressed it.

Anglo-Force: Saltwater Grudge Chapter Five: Beneath the Pavillion

The mist came in off the North Sea before dawn, thick enough to blur the streetlamps into soft coronas of orange. James walked with his collar turned up and his hands buried in his coat pockets, the folded receipt a crisp edge against his knuckles. The promenade was empty. Even the gulls had not yet begun their morning patrol.

Anglo-Force: Saltwater Grudge Chapter Four: A Whispered Name at the Shack

The Crab Shack sat at the wrong end of the promenade, where the paint on the railings had blistered down to bare metal and the amusement arcade's neon gave up halfway through the word FORTUNES. James walked with his collar up and his hands buried in the pockets of his coat, the Maglite fragment wrapped in its handkerchief pressing against his thigh, the watch a smaller, colder weight on the other side. The slashed tyres had forced the walk. He had stood in the lane behind the office for a full minute, looking at the rubber peeled back in neat flaps, before locking up and setting out on foot. The black Rolls Royce wasn't parked across the street. That did not feel like a comfort.

Anglo-Force: Saltwater Grudge Chapter Three: Initials on Silver

The bus let him off on Cadogan Road at twenty past two, and James walked the remaining half-mile to his office with the torch fragment heavy in his coat pocket and the taste of West's warning still coating his tongue. The black Rolls Royce had not followed him back from West Runton, and the absence of it unsettled him more than the surveillance itself had done.

When An Old Music Video Makes You Feel Really Sad

It was late one night a few weeks ago when I began to click through what remaining music channels we currently have. There’s only five now, and four are them are brought to us by the Now! Music people.

I stopped on the channel dedicated to the 1980s, and my attention was immediately captured by a classic song from Fleetwood Mac from their album Mirage. It wasn’t one of their best efforts, but the song Gypsy, with Stevie Nicks’ wonderful performance and a classic music video, always makes for great viewing. It really is a great example how great the music video industry was back in those days, when the industry was finally beginning to realise just what they could do.

Anglo-Force: Saltwater Grudge Chapter Two: The Cliff’s Silent Witness

James left the handkerchief where it lay and took the watch with him.

            The bus from Cromer to West Runton ran every forty minutes, and he caught the one that pulled away from the stop on Cadogan Road at ten past one. A handful of pensioners sat near the front, shopping bags wedged between their feet. A young mother with a pushchair folded into the luggage rack stared at her phone. No one looked at him. He took a seat halfway down, next to a window filmed with salt, and watched the town thin out into hedgerow and ploughed field.

Anglo-Force: Saltwater Grudge Chapter One: A Watch in the Mailbox

The wind came off the North Sea in long, querulous gusts that rattled the sash window and found every gap in the frame. James Watt sat with both hands curled around a mug that had gone tepid twenty minutes ago, watching a gull beat itself steady against the grey. The bird hung there a moment, wings working, then peeled away toward the pier.

Here's Another Way to Read My Stories

Those of you who've been playing close attention to this blog may have noticed a change around here. If you don't what I mean take a look at the image above, paying attention to the part I've highlighted for you.

You'll see this on most of the fiction pages now. If you tap, or click, or whatever, on the words "Download this story in PDF format here" it will hopefully open a new browser window where you'll be able to read the entire story in PDF format. This means that instead of visiting and reading each chapter individually you'll be able to download and keep the entire story whenever, and wherever, you want, and the best thing about is it's FREE!!!!!

I haven't uploaded all of the stories yet, so keep checking back if you want to add my fiction to your collection.

If any of this doesn't work and you can't access the PDF files leave a comment on my Facebook page. 

Social Media Discoveries 82: Matteo Mancuso, Wolfie's Just Fine, Savage Existence, Woodship and More!

We've made it to episode 82 of Social Media Discoveries. Bloody hell, how did we get this far? Answers on a postcard to the usual address, whatever that is.

Anglo-Force: Pendragon Chapter Sixteen: The Dawn of a New Age

The morning light, usually a comforting, golden wash across Arthur’s London Crown Prosecution Service office, felt oddly sterile, a harsh fluorescent glare compared to the bruised, metallic dawn that had broken over the Tower of London just hours before. The silence, too, was a stark contrast to the cacophony of sonic blasts, the whirring of drones, and the desperate shouts that had echoed through the night. Arthur sat at his desk, the events of the previous evening a heavy, visceral weight, yet strangely, it was accompanied by a newfound clarity, a steel-hard resolve he hadn’t possessed before. He reviewed the news reports scrolling across his laptop screen, each headline a carefully crafted lie: ‘Unexplained Technological Malfunction at Historic Landmark’, ‘Tower of London Incident: No Casualties Reported’, ‘Authorities Investigate Drone Anomaly’. Inspector Solo and his police force had done a commendable job of damage control, weaving a narrative designed to prevent widespread panic. They had managed to contain the truth, for now.

Anglo-Force: Pendragon Chapter Fifteen: Clash of Eras (Climax)

A metallic tang, like old blood and ozone, coated Arthur’s tongue. He swallowed hard, the taste a stark reminder of the night’s grim purpose. The wind whipped at his white kevlar body armour, a cold caress against his face as he stood on the ancient battlements of the Tower of London. Below, the Thames flowed, a dark, indifferent ribbon under the sickly glow of the city’s emergency lights. Excalibur, a beacon of ancient power, hummed faintly in his grasp, its familiar weight a comfort against the encroaching dread.

Anglo-Force: Pendragon Chapter Fourteen: The Eve of Battle

The laptop, still warm from Arthur’s hurried journey, clunked softly as he placed it on the ancient oak table in Magus’s hidden study. Dust motes danced in the single beam of moonlight slicing through a high, leaded window, illuminating the room’s chaotic charm – towering stacks of leather-bound tomes, arcane instruments glinting in the gloom, and the pervasive scent of old paper and something indefinably magical.

Anglo-Force: Pendragon Chapter Thirteen: The Pendragon’s Resolve

The persistent hum of the server racks in the building’s basement usually provided a comforting white noise, a steady pulse to the Crown Prosecution Service’s diligent work. This morning, however, it felt off, a low thrumming beneath the floorboards that vibrated with an unsettling discord, a subtle disruption to the expected rhythm of an otherwise ordinary London morning. Arthur Pendragon sat at his desk, surrounded by stacks of meticulously organised legal documents, each file a testament to his successful career. Yet, his gaze kept drifting from the intricate legal precedents and witness statements to the small, intricately carved wooden box nestled on the corner of his blotter. It was the same box Magus had given him, a twin to the one Solo now possessed.

Anglo-Force: Pendragon Chapter Twelve: Converging Paths

There was something deeply unsettling about it all, a gnawing suspicion that stretched beyond the usual grime of London’s criminal underworld.

Anglo-Force: Pendragon Chapter Eleven: Orsine’s Grand Design

“The world, Peter, is an organism,” Giacomo Orsine began, his voice a low, resonant purr that filled the opulent penthouse office. He stood before the panoramic window, the late afternoon sun casting long, dramatic shadows across the polished floor. “And like any organism, it requires… periodic realignment.” Peter Oswald, his cybernetic limbs gleaming under the artificial light, stood rigid, his gaze fixed on Orsine. Lucy Black, ever the silent observer, leaned against a minimalist sculpture, her expression unreadable, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips.

Anglo-Force: Pendragon Chapter Ten: The Shadowed Knight

Arthur Pendragon pushed open the heavy oak door of the old London bookstore, the bell above chiming a mournful note that echoed his mood. The scent of aged paper and dust, usually a comforting aroma, felt oppressive today. He navigated the labyrinthine aisles, his boots scuffing softly on the worn wooden floorboards, until he reached the familiar, unassuming entrance to Magus’s hidden study. His face was a mask of exhaustion, etched with the sleepless hours of the previous night and the chilling memory of Oswald’s bitter words. The anonymous email, with its damning evidence of Orsine’s sprawling network, still burned in his mind.

Anglo-Force: Pendragon Chapter Nine: A Glimmer of Recognition

The acrid scent of stale coffee and desperation hung heavy in Arthur’s office, clinging to the worn fabric of his chair and the stacks of legal briefs that mocked his current paralysis. Outside, London’s relentless hum had softened to a late-night thrum, but inside, the silence was punctuated only by the whirring of his laptop fan and the frantic beat of his own heart. Hours had passed since Davies’s concerned query, hours spent staring at the cold, hard data that had irrevocably shattered his world.

Anglo-Force: Pendragon Chapter Eight: The Drone’s Shadow (Midpoint Reversal)

The gentle hum of the Crown Prosecution Service building, a constant, almost soothing drone of air conditioning and distant keyboard clatter, usually provided a comforting backdrop to Arthur Pendragon’s methodical work. Today, however, it felt like a fragile barrier, barely holding back the tide of unsettling thoughts that had plagued him since his last session with Magus. He’d spent the morning wrestling with a labyrinthine corporate fraud case, a digital Gordian knot of offshore accounts and shell companies, his mind constantly snagging on anything remotely connected to advanced technology.

Anglo-Force: Pendragon Chapter Seven: Balancing the Scales

A dull ache throbbed behind Arthur’s eyes, a persistent drumbeat accompanying the residue of stale coffee and the cloying scent of cheap courtroom air. He’d spent the day dissecting a labyrinthine corporate fraud, his brain feeling like a tangled ball of yarn. Now, the weight of the ancient, leather-bound book in his hand was a physical manifestation of his fractured existence, a constant reminder that his life as a Crown Prosecutor was merely one half of an increasingly bizarre equation.

Anglo-Force: Pendragon Chapter Six: Forging a New Arm

A faint hum, almost imperceptible, emanated from the polished chrome and carbon fibre of the prosthetic arm. Peter Oswald flexed his fingers, watching the intricate mechanics respond with a fluid grace that defied their artificial nature. It was late morning, the London skyline a muted grey beyond the panoramic windows of the Orsine Foundation Headquarters, yet within this gleaming research and development lab, a different kind of dawn was breaking for him.

Anglo-Force: Pendragon Chapter Five: The Wizard’s Summons

A peculiar shimmer, like heat rising from tarmac on a summer’s day, seemed to ripple just at the edge of his vision as Arthur Pendragon hurried down a narrow London street. It was late evening, the streetlamps casting long, watery shadows, but this shimmer wasn’t from the artificial light. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet it drew his gaze to a small, unassuming shopfront he couldn’t recall ever having seen before, despite living in the area for years. The shop, nestled between a bustling kebab shop and a boarded-up dry cleaner’s, had a hand-painted sign above its door: ‘Magus Books – Rare and Esoteric Texts.’

Anglo-Force: Pendragon Chapter Four: The Serpent’s Embrace

There was no clean way out of this, not for him.

Weeks had bled into a monotonous blur since the blast, each day a fresh torment. Peter Oswald sat hunched in a wheelchair, the panoramic window of the Orsine Foundation’s consultation room offering a dizzying vista of London’s skyline. Below, the city thrummed with a vibrant, indifferent pulse, a stark contrast to the hollow ache in his bandaged stumps. Phantom pains, like cruel, invisible claws, raked at the ghost of his left leg and right hand. He was gaunt, his face a landscape of etched bitterness, every line a testament to the system that had chewed him up and spat him out.

Anglo-Force: Pendragon Chapter Three: Echoes of a Calling

“Another one for the rubbish bin, then?”

            Arthur Pendragon glanced up, a faint smile touching his lips as Eleanor, his colleague, leaned against the doorframe of his orderly London office. The late morning sun, filtered through the grime of the city, cast long shadows across his meticulously organised desk. Files, stacked in neat piles, waited for his attention, but his gaze had been fixed on the anonymous envelope he’d just opened.

Anglo-Force: Pendragon Chapter Two: The Shattered Shield

Arthur blinked, the lingering unease from the night before still a cold knot in his stomach. The desert air, sharp and frigid in the pre-dawn hours, bit at his exposed skin. He adjusted the strap of his rifle, the familiar weight a small comfort against the vast, oppressive silence that stretched out before them. Peter, ever the pragmatist, had already begun their cautious advance, his silhouette a dark smudge against the faint blush of false dawn painting the eastern horizon.

Anglo-Force: Pendragon Chapter One: Dust and Duty

The grit of fine sand, borne on a wind that had spent days scouring the desert, chafed against Arthur Pendragon’s eyelids. He blinked, the taste of dust a constant companion on his tongue, and wiped a gloved hand across his brow, already slick with sweat beneath his helmet. A familiar weariness settled deep in his bones, a dull ache that had become as much a part of him as his rifle. He felt a subtle, almost imperceptible pull, a whisper of something more, a vague sense of duty that stretched beyond the immediate horizon, but he dismissed it as the lingering exhaustion of this unforgiving landscape. He was here by choice, on the front line, having deliberately eschewed any comfortable staff position within the Adjutant General's Corps, a path his family connections could easily have paved. He wanted a 'normal' military career, to earn his stripes like any other bloke.

Anglo-Force: The Celsius Enigma Chapter Ten: A Fragile Equilibrium

Solo pushed open the door to Jeavons’s office, the faint scent of stale coffee and desperation hanging heavy in the air. His shoulders ached, a deep, bone-weary throb that had settled in after a night spent siphoning residual magical energies from the Tower of London, a task far removed from anything they taught at Hendon. Jeavons sat hunched over his desk, his spectacles perched precariously on the end of his nose, surrounded by a blizzard of paperwork. Damage reports, public statements, internal memos – the mundane aftermath of an utterly un-mundane incident.

Anglo-Force: The Celsius Enigma Chapter Nine: The Crown’s Last Stand

The air hung heavy and still, thick with the metallic tang of old stone and something else, something sharp and ozone-like that prickled the back of Solo’s throat. A faint, almost imperceptible hum vibrated beneath his feet, a low thrumming that seemed to emanate from the very bedrock of London. The Tower of London, usually a bustling hub of tourists and history, was unnervingly silent, its ancient walls standing sentinel against an invisible threat.

Anglo-Force: The Celsius Enigma Chapter Eight: London’s Shivering Heart

The sterile, fluorescent hum of Scotland Yard felt a world away from the ancient, echoing silence of the Roman vault. Here, the air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and disinfectant, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of ice and raw magical energy that had permeated their last confrontation. Outside, the early morning London bustle was already a faint, familiar thrum, yet inside, a different kind of tension hung heavy, a cold dread that no amount of central heating could dispel.

A Health Update For You: Hospital Appointments, Heart Procedures, and a Career of Ups and Downs

It occurred to me earlier today that I’ve been neglecting my duties as it were, because it’s been just over two weeks since my visit to the big hospital and I haven’t told you all what happened. If I don’t, how will the little spies who monitor my social media accounts and blogs be able to report back to their handlers to let them know what’s going on?

Social Media Discoveries 81: Inokashira Rangers, Keiichi Sokabe, Killington Pit, Velvet Insane and More!

Normal service has resumed with episode 81 of Social Media Discoveries. But can you call it normal when you've got a band from a parallel universe on the show?

Anglo-Force: The Celsius Enigma Chapter Seven: The Unveiling at the Vault

A faint, unnatural chill seeped into Solo’s bones, a pervasive cold that had nothing to do with the late evening air. It clung to the derelict bank building like a shroud, growing stronger as he and Magus descended into the forgotten Roman-era vault beneath. The air, thick with the scent of damp earth and something else, something ancient and potent, pressed in on him, making the hairs on his arms prickle.

Anglo-Force: The Celsius Enigma Chapter Six: The Puppet and the Master

The tarnished silver locket lay on a glowing magical diagram in the centre of Doctor Magus’s study, its arcane symbol pulsing faintly with an inner light. Inspector Solo stared at it, the metallic tang of ozone still lingering in his nostrils from the blast at the bank. The desperation he’d glimpsed in Celsius’s eyes, a flicker of raw fear beneath the criminal’s mask, gnawed at him. It didn’t fit the image of a ruthless, power-hungry villain.

Anglo-Force: The Celsius Enigma Chapter Five: A Scorched Earth in the Square Mile

A peculiar shimmer hung in the air, a distortion in the early morning light that painted the London financial district in an almost ethereal glow. The usual cacophony of sirens and distant traffic seemed muted, swallowed by an unnatural silence that pressed down on the Square Mile. Solo, dressed in a nondescript jacket and jeans, felt the subtle shift in temperature, a creeping chill that had no business in a bustling city at dawn. It was Magus’s prediction, made with an unnerving certainty, manifesting before his very eyes.

Anglo-Force: The Celsius Enigma Chapter Four: The First Lesson in Ley Lines

This was it, then. The deep end.

The morning chill of Bloomsbury bit at Solo’s cheeks as he navigated the quiet square. A cryptic note, penned in elegant, looping script, had directed him to an unassuming Georgian townhouse, its brick façade indistinguishable from its neighbours. No brass plaque, no indication of anything out of the ordinary, yet a prickle of anticipation, almost a hum, vibrated beneath his skin.

Anglo-Force: The Celsius Enigma Chapter Three: An Unconventional Offer

“Chief Inspector Jeavons, you simply must see this new CCTV footage!”

            Solo’s voice, a blend of several regional dialects from his years of service across the UK, cut through the oppressive silence of the corridor. He strode purposefully from the conference room, the impossible frozen rose still clutched in his hand, a quiet determination radiating from him. The weight of the inexplicable incidents, the melted vaults and the impossible ice, pressed heavily upon his mind, urging him to seek answers beyond the conventional. He knew Jeavons would resist, but the evidence was too compelling to ignore.

Anglo-Force: The Celsius Enigma Chapter Two: Whispers of the Impossible

Solo pushed through the heavy swing doors of the conference room, the scent of stale coffee and something faintly metallic hitting him immediately. The frozen rose, still an impossible image etched behind his eyes, seemed to hum with an unnatural cold even in memory. He found Chief Inspector Charles Jeavons hunched over the long, polished table, a man visibly wrestling with the ghosts of a long night and a case that defied every rule he’d ever known. The room itself felt like a holding cell for frustration, the air thick with unspoken desperation.

Anglo-Force: The Celsius Enigma Chapter One: The Frozen Vault of Threadneedle Street

The biting cold, sharper and more invasive than any natural London chill, seeped through Inspector Paul Solo’s casual jacket, pricking his skin. It wasn't the usual damp cold of a late autumn evening, but something far more profound, an unnatural refrigeration that made the very air feel brittle. Around him, the iconic architecture of Threadneedle Street, usually a warm glow of financial power, was awash in the pulsing blue and red of emergency lights, painting the rain-slicked pavement in garish, shifting colours. The cacophony of sirens, the hushed, urgent voices of his colleagues, and the distant, muffled thrum of generators blended into a disorienting hum.

Social Media Discoveries 80: The Queen Experience III

It's episode 80 of the Social Media Discoveries series. You know what that means, don't you? It means because there's a zero at the end of the episode number we're going to do things a little differently this week as we present to you our third collection of Queen cover versions, brought to you by some of the musical acts that the algorithms have thrown at us over the years.

The Wrestling Diaries Playlist

Two Seats Wide

If you follow me on social media you'll know that I've been making a few new videos lately for my concept "album" The Wrestling Diaries, an AI-generated musical piece based on my mini-series The WAW Diaries, a series of blogs written in 2001 documenting my initial encounters with the good and the great of the Norwich-based World Association of Wrestling.