The Devil To Pay

By Jules Frusher

In the midst of an anarchic breakdown of society in the UK, can one woman discover the truth about the death of her mercenary husband in Sierra Leone and find what he has left for her in a secret location in Wales?

Traveling across a country where fear and violence are now the norm, Angela must use every skill he taught her to stay alive. Even before she leaves the wreckage of the London suburbs, she finds herself trailed by a man as well armed as she is. Soon she finds herself in an uneasy alliance with him.

But who is he, and more to the point, can she really trust him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jules Frusher
• Release date: Jun 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476449173

Jules Frusher

Jules Frusher lives in Gloucestershire with family (currently a daughter, a dog and a snake) . She has loved writing stories since she could pick up a pencil but only seriously started at the age of twelve, when, after a serious bout of glandular fever, she was not allowed to do games and had to go and sit in the biology prep room and ‘do something else instead’. So, surrounded by jars of strange looking specimens in evil-smelling formaldehyde, she wrote her first novel – about ancient Crete. Her passion is still history, especially the Middle Ages, and her current work in progress is about one of the more infamous characters of the fourteenth century: Hugh Despenser. She also has a huge interest in modern warfare and special forces operations, and previous work has included several ghost-writing/research projects on SAS history/survival with an ex-SAS officer. For a female she has an (un)healthy interest in weaponry, use of explosives, surveillance and counter-terrorism tactics! In addition (from the sublime to the almost ridiculous!), she was commissioned to write a series of books of spells for modern witches under the pseudonym of Lucy Summers! She is usually to be found drinking coffee, talking to herself and squinting at digitised manuscripts or assault weapons on the screen.

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The Devil to Pay

Jules Frusher

The Devil to Pay

By Jules Frusher

Smashwords Edition/ Copyright 2012 Jules Frusher

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Published by Whitethorn Books

http://www.julesfrusher.com

http://www.deviltopay.co.uk

Chapter One

The sound of running footsteps outside made me glance out of the window. Down below in the street, a gang of young men and a couple of women ran past laughing and shouting. Some of them were carrying knives; some clutched looted hi-fis and computers to their chests. Further down the road, it sounded as if a glass window was being smashed in.

The world had gone to hell.

At the very least, it was knocking on the Devil’s door. I tried the light switch, even though I knew it was futile. A twist of the tap at the kitchen sink had the same result. Nothing. There had been no electricity in the flat for fourteen days, no water for eight. It seemed that it was the same for the rest of the city too; and maybe everywhere else. The telephone was dead and there was no signal on my cell phone either.

Two weeks ago, the TV had been full of news reports of a massive solar storm that was heading for earth with unprecedented speed and strength. We were warned that some radio and electrical equipment might be affected. Twenty four hours later, on the 8th June at 2200 hours, all the lights went out, TVs went blank and radios stopped working. No-one could get a signal. At first there was no panic, just the good old British Blitz spirit: make do and mend until the government made it alright again. Surely it wouldn't take long, we all thought. A week later, with no signs of improvement, and water supplies also drying up, people began to panic.

Earlier today I watched as a tank rolled down the road. Perched on top was a man with a loud hailer calling for people to gather at the sports stadium, a mile away. There they could find food, bottled water and safety, he said. An armoured van would be along later for any who wanted an armed escort. As promised, loud hailer man returned with the van an hour later and announced their arrival. From behind the curtains I watched as people crept from their houses: families with children and pets; singletons young and old, all carrying whatever meant the most to them. Some had suitcases, as if they were going away on holiday. Not much chance of that: no planes were flying and no trains were running. Many of those with cars had already left in hope of finding somewhere where things were better. Good luck to them.

I knew I should have gone too, but I figured that having a mass of scared people in one place might prove to be a greater problem in the long run. Besides, I didn’t like crowds.

A few miles to the north, over the river, I could see that central London was already in flames: swollen grey columns of smoke were rising, spreading out like an umbrella over the tall buildings. From the same direction I could hear the ‘ack-ack-ack’ of gunfire, some sort of assault rifle by the sound of it. Of course: this was an ideal opportunity for any gangster or criminal seeking to enrich themselves with loot, or else fight to gain control over parts of the city.

Not for the first time since the blackout, my thoughts turned to Leo. What would he do if he were here? He’d had plenty of experience in war zones, both in the military and as a private military contractor and he lived for the adrenalin of action. He certainly wouldn’t have gone to a place of safety; the local streets would have been his playground. But he was dead, his body rotting somewhere in a far off African country, leaving me to pick up the pieces back home.

I rubbed my forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache. I wished I could say I was distraught, a grieving widow whose world had fallen apart on hearing the news. But throughout the last three weeks I had remained, for the most part, dry-eyed. If I cried at all it was for the man that I first knew: funny, determined, fit. Not for the man who left for a security job in Sierra Leone last December. That man was obsessed with control, discipline, guns. He no longer wanted a wife, he wanted an underling to train, shout at; serve him. Since leaving the SAS and taking on work with Blacksands Security Solutions he had become secretive, paranoid and played mind games the whole time. The truth was, I had learned to hate him.

At the will hearing, I’d felt like a complete fake. There was just the solicitor and me. I wore black and the required sombre expression, but inside I felt free at last, and without the cost of a messy divorce. It was all straightforward: I got everything – the flat, his money, the car that needed fixing. And a notebook.

The notebook lay on the coffee table in front of me. In itself it looked harmless: a battered, brown faux-leather cover with the corners curling upwards, an elastic band holding it all together. A strange thing to have left in a will, but the solicitor insisted Leo had wanted me to have it in the event of his death. ‘Maybe it tells you where he’s hidden all the treasure,’ he had joked and then, remembering the solemnity of the occasion had given an embarrassed cough behind his hand and looked down.

Ironically, his joke was closer to the truth than he realised. At first, the notebook just seemed full of irrelevant jottings: people’s names and numbers; messages obviously taken over the phone, and doodles. I wondered why the hell Leo thought I should have it, unless it was one of his ‘jokes’ to wind me up, making me think there was something more than there was. I wouldn’t have put it past him.

The blackout and subsequent events had pushed it from my mind for a while, and it had sat on the table, untouched, while I, like everyone else, busied myself with the usual panic-buying of supplies and watching as the chaos unfolded outside my window. Today, out of boredom, I picked it up again and idly flicked through it. One page, somewhere near the end, was not like the others. Instead of writing there was a hand-drawn map and written across the top of it: ‘CACHE’. Scribbled lines seemed to indicate a path and a river; around the edges were inverted Vs for mountains and cloud shapes that I assumed were meant to be trees. At one point, off the path and in the middle of what