SAMPLE CHAPTERS OF MARTIN PENALVER'S BOOKS
Please feel free to enjoy the preface and first two chapters of the books 'In search of an Angel' and the second book 'Ticking Of The Clock' at your leisure by clicking on either of the book menus below. 'In search of an Angel' is the first in the trilogy 'Laws of the Angel' and 'Ticking of the clock' is the second, with the final book 'River of Dreams currently in progress.
'IN SEARCH OF AN ANGEL' 'TICKING OF THE CLOCK'
I wasn’t sure if she had heard me. She looked at me, wax like, her lips portraying a wizened smile.
‘See you later then Roz,’ I bellowed on account of her more than poor hearing. She smiled, but didn’t answer. Our conversation was over for today.
I leant away from the crooked wooden fence that divided us as she gave that familiar little wave and turned away. I noticed she was not hunched in the way many eighty three year olds can be, especially considering the amount of gardening she had done over the years.
Roz had now wandered around the side of her small white bungalow and I stood alone. The sun felt lovely on my face as the delicate sea breeze flowed around me. I walked back towards my own front door. I did not know how, but I knew I was close to knowing, to finding, at last…
My name is Steve Bidante. Not Steven but Steve and don’t ask me why. You get given names and when you have children then you do the giving. Right? This is my story. My quest if you like. I am not a religious man but I have spent the last few years of my life searching for something we all look for in some way or another. Call it a guiding light, call it a god, call it a faith. Call it anything that fits your conviction. All I know is I wanted to find it this side of life’s curtain.
CHAPTER ONE
The town of Clacton-on-Sea has been my home for the last thirty odd years. The other three years of it were spent gaining an education in life in the big city of London. From the age of eleven through to fourteen I lived there - through chance not choice.
As a child you have little choice in the things you do. Your parents tell you what is right and what is wrong, what to say and what not to say. On reflection it’s a tough call to be a parent. I mean if they get it wrong then they can mould you into a shape that gets disfigured. To be fair, neither of my parents got it wrong. In fact, they were as good as it got in my eyes. I comfort myself with that thought often.
I live in a quaint two bedroom bungalow on Gorse Hill in a suburb of Clacton-On-Sea known as Great Clacton. My home is in a lovely location perched on the top of the hill and so gazes upon the green countryside that surrounds the area. History states that it was the beginning of the Clacton story back in the days when it was pretty much all farming land.
The second house belongs to my neighbour Roz and has done for God knows how long. She’s a lovely old lady who has a major hearing problem, especially when it suits her.
The hill is at the top of an old valley that stretches down below. The road leading down splits grassy fields which in turn cover the entrances to two cemeteries. It is a wide valley that slopes for a quarter of a mile taking you to the very outskirts of Clacton town itself.
You may think living so near to two cemeteries is strange, but it’s not like that at all. The cemetery on the left houses a sweet little chapel. Behind the chapel or church as you might call it - (I told you, I am not a religious man but to me, chapel suits this building better) - lies the older of the two gardens where there are many old headstones. It’s a peaceful place and very pretty.
Across the road lies the newer cemetery. Again it’s nothing you would associate with a horror movie. Simply picturesque and tranquil. To the left of this cemetery there’s a children’s play area while twenty metres away a small brook sends gurgles of water along as it passes this little spot in the universe.
The area is complemented by four ancient willow trees spread across the front of the landscape almost as if they have been painted onto the scene. I never tire of this quiet, almost holy part of my world.
Not many people live in Great Clacton. On the whole it is populated by elderly and middle aged people, mainly due, I think to the bungalows which suit them. I got some strange looks when I first moved in, as if I didn’t belong. Maybe they thought that I had some secret of a youth cream that they had missed out on. After a while, when they realised I was no trouble - simply younger than they were - the street became even nicer to live in. I suppose you could say we all look out for each other.
To sum up Clacton-On-Sea itself. Think of London, the big city of England. Think of escaping the smog and grime for a day out on the beach. Over the years you will find or know of someone who has been to Clacton. In its heyday in the early 1920’s, people flocked to the place. They went to visit the pier with its fun and rides and to wander about the beach in their full length bathing costumes. To sit on the deck chairs and perhaps dream of one day living here. I think a place with a beach is always going to have that special feeling for some people. A beach is a wonderful asset and for many years Clacton did enjoy the fruits of its own tree, so to speak. But gradually all that has changed.
Many older people in the town say it was when Butlin’s shut down that things began to go downhill. Butlin’s for those who don’t know was - and still is in other seaside towns such as Skegness - a holiday camp in the best British tradition. A place to take the whole family for a break in the days before cheap flights and internet deals. A place where the kids were just British kids being entertained by the famous Red Coats while their parents relaxed in the evenings and enjoyed some kind of cabaret act. Even though we lived in Clacton it was always our holiday destination too.
I remember those days well when I was a young child until eventually the owners decided to close the place down. It needed major renovation and the first real foreign trips, to places such as Spain, were beginning to win hearts. It was maybe the death knell of this seaside town The holidaymakers left, the jobs went and the council sold the land to another investor named, as I recall, Atlas Park. It was supposed to take entertainment onto the next level but about six months later, the only level was ground level, as it was razed after going bust.
So we were left with a cocktail of people. The slow paced easy going pensioners and the fast moving and fast talking London folk. Not always the best combination.
Add to that the crime that has drifted into the town like an unwanted cancer with many elderly being mugged by the young. Add the drug culture that is beginning to enslave many towns across the country and you can see that I probably think Clacton-On-Sea has seen better days. It has, but I am not complaining, not at all because I love it here. I have friends, I have work, and I have a holiday to take tomorrow.
See that’s another great thing about living here by the sea. I have fresh air and long beaches to empty the mind of dust and set the cobwebs free, whilst just an hour away lies Stanstead airport, a launch pad to the world. Tomorrow I’ll be at that launch pad getting ready to fly to Spain to spend a week with my pal Ray Skee.
Ray, for the record, is one of my best friends. Everyone has friends in different kinds of categories. For men, there are those who you may have an odd drink with. There are friends who you may have a meal with as a couple, if you have a girlfriend (which I don’t right now). Then there are real good friends like Ray Skee. Someone who you can talk to about anything. Who never judges and always supports, and best of all a mate who, if you don’t see him from one day to the next, is exactly the same as the last time you saw him.
Ray and I haven’t seen each other for about nine months so when he called me about three weeks ago to invite me out to his place in Los Alcazares, Spain, I jumped at the chance.
‘Just grab a flight, mate,’ he said. So I did and got a nice deal too.
So now you know a bit about Clacton and my mate Ray.
The strange thing about all of this is that I live here in this town again. You see, I’d been a part of it from the age of zero until I was eleven. Then, after a three year absence, destiny brought me back here.
Here I am then, living in my nice bungalow at the top of the hill by the cemetery. I have a nice job and I have some nice friends. So what is so strange about that, I hear you say?
I haven’t mentioned my family have I? Well they aren’t far away. My dear family. With the exception of my granny they are all inside that cemetery on the right.
I’ve suffered with dreams and nightmares from an early age. One in particular.
I open my eyes. The clock on my left automatically flicks three black pieces of plastic over to show the white numbers: 8.00. Simultaneously sound emits from the built in radio.
‘It’s eight o’clock. John Lennon shot dead in Manhattan.’
December the 8th 1980. Yesterday John Lennon was alive. Yesterday so were my parents.
A shadow appears at the door. It’s Granny. As the radio announcer describes the scene she walks slowly in with a cup of tea, which she puts down on the side next to the alarm clock.
‘Former Beatle John Lennon was shot dead by an unknown gunman who opened fire outside the musician's New York apartment last night. The forty year old was shot several times as he entered the Dakota, his luxury apartment building opposite Central Park, on Manhattan's Upper West Side, at eleven o’clock local time.’
My grandmother strokes my forehead. ‘Steve. Morning,’ she whispers gently.
I don’t answer. ‘Good morning, Steve,’ she says again. I try to smile but nothing happens. My lips curl the wrong way. I try again but this time they curl even more the wrong way and my eyes start to water. I sit up and grab her in one movement. She hugs me and I feel tears rain down from my eyes. Confused – hopeless - real tears- shedding pain and loneliness and so much more. I don’t even know the names of how to describe them.
Granny holds me tighter as she whispers in my ear ‘It’s alright, it’s alright.’
But it’s not alright. I shake inside as the tears take a hold on me. I can’t stop them and I can’t stop shaking. I only know I need to hold my granny longer. She’s all I have left and I don’t want to let her go. I can’t let go - even if I want to - and I don’t. The moments go by. Maybe one. Maybe ten.
Her shoulder is wet now and I am shivering a little. She senses the tears are subsiding and sits down gently next to me, easing me back. My body goes limp. She eases me back onto the mattress and tucks a pillow behind me and I slump onto it. Her eyes are glazed and she looks very sad. I don’t want her to be sad.
‘Sorry, Granny, sorry. Don’t be sad.’ The words quiver from my mouth as my lips just won’t do what they are supposed to do. Soft wet tears run down my face and I wipe them away with my pyjama sleeve.
‘You silly boy,’ she says as a small smile appears. Not a real smile but a sad smile as if she has no control either.
‘Don’t be sorry, Boy,’ she says. Her name for me when she is being kind is “Boy”.
‘Why Granny? Why?’ The words tumble desperately from my mouth. My voice sounds small and quiet.
It was late when the policeman came last night. I know it was late because I was in bed and I didn’t go to bed till it was just past ten. I loved staying with her. When Mummy and Daddy and I arrived in East Ham yesterday, we had a yummy lunch. Granny and Mummy cooked it while Daddy and I played in the garden. Granny has a long garden and her house is lovely. I like it because it’s near a park and it’s off Lonsdale Avenue where there’s a nice sweet shop. If I’m good when I come here I’m allowed to go to the shop and buy sweets.
I must have been good because normally I leave when Mummy and Daddy do, but yesterday Granny asked if I could stay. I jumped about while Mummy and Daddy discussed arrangements. Granny smiled at me when they said I could stay, and I smiled back. I was very happy especially when they said I could stay until Wednesday. It’s the eleventh and Daddy said he would pick me up when he delivered his blinds in London. I could help him and then go home.
I love helping my dad. He makes blinds and they call him Bob. His van has Bob the Blind Man written on it and he goes around delivering his blinds to all the big warehouses in London.
When they left, Mummy kissed me and we waved “goodbye” from the door, watching them as they got into the car and waving more as they drove off. After they’d gone Granny made some sandwiches for tea. I had three types yesterday. She knows I like different kinds of sandwiches so she made me peanut butter, Marmite and strawberry jam ones, all cut into triangles like only Granny can do.
She bustled around doing Granny things and then we sat in the front room and she got out the chess set and we played three games. I won two and she won one. When it got late she told me to get ready for bed so I went upstairs and brushed my teeth and put on my pyjamas that she keeps safe for when I stay. They are light blue with claret stripes, like West Ham, the local team. I’m going to see them one day soon. Daddy told me he would take me, just like my granddad took him before granddad went to heaven.
Granny tucked me in and wished me sweet dreams. I told her the same and then I went to sleep. Sometime later I was woken up by a knocking sound. I heard Granny at the door and some voices. I got up quickly to see what was happening and went to the top of the stairs. The light was on and it was so bright that it hurt my eyes so that I had to rub them.
I saw a policeman and a police lady at the bottom of the stairs. They were talking to Granny but then they stopped and looked at me. I looked back at them because I hadn’t done anything wrong.
Everything changed then. Everything was in slow motion like the football replays on the telly. My granny was crying and the policeman and the police lady looked very sad.
There were lots of words… but I only heard the important ones.
My mummy and daddy are dead. They died in our car on the way home.
‘But why, Granny? Why?’ I say again
‘They are safe in heaven now, Boy,’ she replies.
I don’t like that answer. ‘But I don’t understand, Granny. I need them. Why have they left me?’
She thinks and then looks at me sadly and says, ‘Steve, sometimes sad things happen and we don’t understand them but we have to try to understand them.’
I look at her because I still don’t understand.
She hesitates. ‘They’re safe now. They’re in heaven but you’re here and you’re safe too.’
I want to be in heaven now as well if that’s where Mummy and Daddy are. ‘Why didn’t I die?’ I ask Granny, ‘Why didn’t I go with them and then I’d be dead too? Wouldn’t I Granny? wouldn’t I?’ The tears start to stream down my face again.
Granny’s getting upset now too. She wipes her eyes and says, ‘Steve, do you know what an angel is?’
I nod. I do know because I’ve seen one on our Christmas tree but I don’t know if they’re real because Daddy never told me. I know Father Christmas isn’t real because he did tell me that last Christmas when I was ten.
‘Well angels….’ she said and then stopped for a moment. ‘Angels, they protect us and they look after us and things like that.’
I sniffle a bit while I think. ‘So Granny, where are these angels? Why didn’t they look after Mummy and Daddy?’
Now I watch as she sniffles too while she thinks. ‘Steve…,’ she says really slowly. ‘Your mummy and daddy are in heaven and it’s in heaven that there are angels, okay?’
I nod a little, trying to understand.
‘And you,’ she says. ‘You are my little angel and you and I will look after each other now, okay?’ Granny looks very sad now. She’s shaking a bit, holding my hand and I feel that trembling too. I don’t like seeing her upset.
‘Okay, Granny,’ I say. ‘I’ll look after you.’
‘Good boy,’ she says doing that smile thing which is not really a real smile.
We look at each other for a moment.
‘Granny?’ I say, questioningly.
‘Yes, Steve,’ she answers patiently.
'The angels live in heaven, don’t they? But do they ever come down to earth?’
She stops the way she does when she is really thinking.
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure they do. I’m certain, Boy, because we all have a guardian angel somewhere you see,’ she replies, and then she smiles the lovely smile that means she likes what she just said… I think.
‘Well, Granny,’ I say with a deep breath. ‘Then I am going to try and find an angel, and one day when I do I am going to ask them why my mummy and daddy went to heaven.’
‘I want to find an Angel.’
On the morning of December 8th 1980, the child Steve Bidante uttered these words through a sea of tears. The boy became a man, and through fate, followed his destiny as he went – in search of an Angel.
* * *
‘As an Angel it is forbidden to directly interfere in the worlds we oversee. Our influence can only be through guidance, together with a gentle touch of fate and destiny. We have the gift to offer choices to the ones we wish to help and guide.
‘Many, with eyes unfocused, will not see these things and that is the way of it.
‘We can only represent what we are as sentient beings. We are, after all, fundamentally made of the spirit of you. Emotions are what we hold and cherish. Many good and many bad make up the composition of Angels. We are, in essence, a reflection of dark and light with the balance of emotions in our being.
‘I represent the emotions you would call Love, Harmony, Serenity, Power, Will and Authority and I am spoken of as an Archangel. My gifts have been woven over eons to the point of divinity, yet I have not walked on Earth for three hundred years.
‘There was a time when the influence of your clock had no effect on our being. Now that has changed and the Laws of the Angel must be obeyed.
‘It is nearly time for me to walk once more on the beautiful planet you call Earth. It may be for the last time. Even I cannot know.
‘I can tell you this. The journey of Steve Bidante was so much more than he could have known or imagined. His actions and belief and that of Andréa Sekhova created a miracle: the child born out of pure love. The infant that all white Angels had wished for was found, and our last hope was born.
‘There is much to know of the Laws of the Angel and much to explain. The events within these pages will do much to tell of this, but first we must go back in time and let the story unfold. It will be the decisions and actions of others that will determine our and your destiny. Now is the time to open your mind and soul and to believe.
‘The clock is ticking.’
As Steve Bidante made his journey to the forest of Boubin the two Angels paused to speak with each other.
‘Do you think he will complete his task?’ Helena Sekhova asked.
Rose Gardener smiled as she replied, ‘Of that, there is no doubt. He knows now and understands. Now love will do the rest but I must ask you something, Helena. Tell me, did Andrea know that she should not have been able to bear a child?’
Helena’s lips formed an ironic smile as she pondered the question. ‘No, I think not, although…I cannot say that she did not doubt it sometimes, when her soul spoke to her. But the Angel coin guided her well and ultimately did all we asked of it.’
‘So,’ Rose nodded slowly, ‘if all comes true as it is said, then they will raise the girl to become who she is destined to be.’
‘Yes,’ Helena replied in a soft tone as she touched Rose’s arm affectionately, ‘that is all of our hopes but now…now we must seek the Angelis Mortis and ask for what was taken from you so long ago. Now we must redeem your soul.’
* * *
Steve Bidante saw that there were about ten big log houses separated from each other by small wooden fences. Within he saw soft lights and open fires that sent plumes of smoke upwards into the night air. His eyes scanned for number four and, when he reached it, he hesitated before edging closer to the window. Peering through a small crack in the curtain he saw the silhouette of Andréa. Momentarily paralysed by her beauty he froze, watching until she had moved away from the light and into a room behind.
Taking a deep breath Steve walked to the door and, grasping the small brass knocker in his hand, paused one last time to utter the words ‘Here we go’ into the night.
The knocker dropped onto the door, its dull thud vibrating within him as the noise carried into the forest. The sound of her footsteps approached before Andréa pulled the door open until the chain behind reached its length.
Steve looked into her eyes for the first time in what seemed like forever; the blueness of them shone out like two moons as he spoke her name.
‘Andréa.’
Initially she seemed to react like a rabbit caught in headlights but after a few seconds she relaxed and, without a word, undid the latch and opened the door. As the light glowed from behind her, he stared his destiny in the face. She held out her hand and guided him silently inside.
The two of them stood in the centre of the warm room where a blazing fire flickered in the corner and lit up her face. It was Andréa who broke the long silence.
‘I was told you would come.’
‘I was told you are the answer; that you have the answers.’ Steve looked at her longingly.
‘Maybe; maybe you do too,’ she smiled. ‘Now, come and sit by the fire.’ She took his hand and guided him to a chair where he watched the flames dancing while she went into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two mugs of hot coffee.
‘I saw you, Andréa.’ Steve’s voice cracked with emotion. ‘I saw your image at my grandmother’s funeral and soon after I found another coin, the same as the one you gave me. It was then that I knew for sure.’
Andréa looked down at the floor as she replied. ‘I knew a long time ago, I think. When I met you, I knew. When we shared our time together, I knew.’ She looked straight at him. ‘I always knew.’
As he watched her beautiful lips speak those words, Steve Bidante knew that everything he had seen had been true.
He reached out and took her hand. ‘It seems you are my destiny, Andréa.’
She squeezed his hand as a tear fell down her face. ‘And you. You are my miracle.’ She stood up motioning for him to follow.
‘Come.’
Andréa guided him through the kitchen and into a long, narrow hallway. A sensation of familiarity enveloped Steve. He knew this place. He knew the shape and the smooth walls. Opening the door to a room at the back, he saw a large bedroom with a double bed set against the far wall. The room was dimly lit and he strained his eyes as Andréa pointed to the left where there was a child’s wooden cot.
‘There, go see,’ she whispered.
Steve walked over to the cot and peered inside and there he saw a baby with blonde, almost white, hair and blue eyes that gazed up at him as she lay gurgling in the cot.
‘Come, pick her up,’ Andréa said softly.
He stood, unable to move. He knew this little girl. Of course he knew her. He’d seen her in his dream but not like she was now, but as she would become. Steve picked her up gently and held her, feeling her soft marshmallow skin and her warmth against his face.
‘But…’ he mumbled, overcome with emotion, ‘I thought I could not have a child.’
Andréa moved in front of him and Steve saw the tears running down her face, not sad ones, but ones filled with joy.
‘I could not have children, Steve. That is what they told me. But you…you were my miracle; she is our miracle, born out of love.’
He thought back to those last weeks when he and Andréa were together. She had put on weight yet he hadn’t even thought about why. Everything unfolded in front of him as he held the gift of life in his arms, tears of joy and happiness streaming down his face, the creation by two souls whose destiny was decided by events in time.
* * *
The two Angels climbed the many steps towards Prague Castle with an ease belying their appearances. Upon reaching the top they paused momentarily to gaze across the panoramic landscape of Prague before passing the blank-faced guards at the gates of the castle unnoticed.
Walking through into the main courtyard they sat and waited as the sound of the last tourists’ feet rattled the cobblestones around them, clouds of misty air from their mouths floating transiently under the soft glow of the gas lamps. The two women gave off no such vapour or sound. To the passers-by, they were invisible.
When all was quiet, they rose and glided silently across to the vast archway leading to the doors of St Vitus Cathedral. With a touch of Helena’s hand the great door clicked open and the two slipped inside sealing the door behind them silently.
The cathedral was now empty, magnifying its vastness. The silence was interrupted only by the gentle movement of flames, flickering from the many candles which guided the two women to the chancel of the cathedral where, in front of the high altar, they stared fleetingly at the royal mausoleum knowing that below, in the crypt, the royal tombs of Czech kings and queens and patron saints were interred. Now was the time.
Rose closed her eyes and held out her arms as Helena whispered a prayer to the Angelis Mortis. After a period of gentle chanting Helena’s call was answered by the taker of life and souls. Rose fell into a trance-like state as the words of ancient Latin were spoken, a dim glow emanating around her statuesque figure. When Helena fell silent Rose slowly dropped, rag doll like, to the floor where she lay for several moments whilst the ghostlike aura faded from around her. Upon opening her eyes Rose whispered the words with emotion.
‘My soul is redeemed.’
‘Did you hear the words?’ Helena said softly as she helped her up to the nearby pew.
Rose looked at her vaguely. ‘I heard much, but the sensation diluted all but a little. Two sons survived the crash,’ she added in a weary tone, ‘I do not understand.’
Helena had heard all. ‘Then you will know that there were two sons. Rose, our task is not complete. We have to find the other.’
‘Yes…’ Rose replied in a puzzled tone, ‘but if two sons survived the crash and Steve was one, how are we to find the other? And why would the Angel of Death tell us such things?’
‘The Angelis Mortis is neither dark nor light for death comes to both,’ Helena whispered thoughtfully as she recollected the words. ‘She did not tell. She simply said as she would to those with black hearts in the same situation. We must hope that the coin of Angels will guide us. We must go back in time to find the future. There is much to learn.’
Rose was silent, looking ahead to the mausoleum as her soul gained a new found energy. With the return of a glint in her eye she looked quizzically at Helena.
‘Then it seems my work, our work, is not yet done. We have still one more part to play.’
They stood, as Helena took Rose’s hands in hers. ‘We must find the other son and his child, for I learnt that he has followed the path already unknowingly. His daughter is to bear a son. If all is true, that son is the second half angel and, with the child of Steve and Andréa, perhaps saviours of all that is good on this Earth. We cannot interfere, only guide as it is written in the laws.’
‘Then we must hope that this son and his child will be of purity,’ Rose answered with apprehension, ‘and we must pray that we find her first, that she will not be corrupted, and that the child too will be born out of divine love.’ As Rose spoke, her returning soul filled her with emotions hidden for over half a century. Her face strained with the new found sense of concern. ‘We have so much to learn of this yet we cannot fail. We must not fail, so much depends on us.’
‘We will not fail and neither will she,’ replied Helena, confidence resounding from her voice. ‘Even now she is surrounded by love which will protect her, and her gifts will guide her on. When the boy is born they will find their way to each other and they will save us all. It is foretold.’
‘Of that,’ answered Rose with a wise look, ‘we must hope with all we are.’
With that the two Angels slipped away on their final journey.