I’m working towards a publication date of the last week in February for my next book ‘Night Vision’; i included the first chapter at the end of my previous book ‘The Stalking of Rosa Czekov’ and I had some wonderful responses to doing so. I have decided then to include the beginning of my summer publication, which at the moment I think will be ‘Flipside’.

Here is a little taster… I would really appreciate comments or criticism from you! I won’t be hurt, offended, upset or annoyed at whatever you say, I welcome honest thoughts on this chapter!


“Kill the lights! Kill the lights!” he hissed and jumping across me he grabbed the neck of the lamp, yanked it from its socket and hurled it across the room so it smashed against the  wall.

He bounded from the bed and went to the window, standing back against the wall beside it, peeping out. He was holding a gun in his dream – and I was suddenly very afraid.  I leapt out of bed and went to him, tried to embrace him but his body was rigid. His skin was icy and yet pouring with sweat; the room wasn’t cold but he was shuddering and shaking as if he was freezing.

He was terrified; he was saying something but I couldn’t understand a word because he was stuttering with fear.

“David! Wake up! It’s a dream, you’re dreaming.”

He looked down at me but it wasn’t me he was seeing. He jumped, as if at a tremendous noise, and crouched down, his arms wrapped protectively over his head.

“Down! Down! Get down!” and his body shook as if at repeated blasts or explosions.

It was like watching a movie without sound and it was utterly terrifying. I crouched before him, and he stared through me as if at something on the floor behind me and there was a look of utter horror on his face. He was gulping and swallowing as if he was going to be physically sick and I didn’t know what to do, how to help him. My heart was beating wildly and I was shaking .

His gaze moved and he focused on me, although it wasn’t me he was seeing. He tried to say something but his lips moved silently. He looked into my face, into someone’s face, and then he said my name. He stood up against the wall, arms spread.

“No!  Don’t take her! Don’t hurt her! No! !”  he yelled, forcing out the words, a jumble of names, muddled denials. “Jaz! Jaz! No!”

“Wake up, David, wake up! It’s a dream, wake up!”

He groaned as if in agony, his teeth chattering, sweat and tears sheeting his face. He was panting and gasping for air and then his arms came down and his head bowed and I was able to hug him to my warm body. He was sobbing, stumbling over words so what he said was meaningless. He held me so tightly I could hardly breathe.

“They’ve got her, they’ve got Jaz!” then his speech degenerated into incomprehensibility.

“I’m here, its me, its Jaz, I’m here,”  I said as if to a distressed child, but he couldn’t understand and I led him back to  bed. He didn’t speak, just wept. It was the most scary thing I had ever experienced.

He pulled off his t-shirt. “Doesn’t it disgust you? Doesn’t it make you sick?” he whispered.

He slid down and I pulled the duvet across him, and half-sitting, half-lying, I held him.. He was cold, bone-deep cold. I stoked his neck then slid my hand down to his shoulders and back. I guessed he might have some other scar there, I had seen the ones on his arm and leg, but what my fingers found filled me with sadness. It was too dark to see but I could feel the lines and bumps, the scars shiny and deep where something dreadful had happened to him.

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