The Dance of the Scorpion

By Eric Thomas

"the dance of the scorpion" is a psychotic thriller that tells of one mans struggle against fantasy and the real world. It is a tormented tale of mystery, intrigue and murder, That began in the late eighties to present day taking us through such exotic locations as england, spain and australia.

throughout most of the eighties rick clarke did not visibly exist, and all we know are the stories he tells. what close friends he had, lost contact with him shortly after his mother's funeral - when he supposedly set of trekking around the world in search of adventure.

rick's story telling has become a passion to him, a deadly passion. he tells his tales with such intensity and conviction, that someone out there actually believes him.

there are threats on his life; the family home is the target of a terrorist firebomb, and there's even a thwarted attempt to kidnap jenny his two-year-old daughter.

with his family and a handful of personal possessions rick moves to rpain, but it's not long before the devils of his past catch up with him once again. a cat and mouse high-speed chase on the mediterranean has an explosive ending, and puts rick into a psychiatric hospital.

following their return to england the chaos continues, and rick is involved in an explosion that takes the life of a young girl.

rick firmly believes that his archenemy ira terrorist sean kelly has returned from his watery grave, others believe it is some deep-rooted psychotic disorder. when his handicapped mother-in-law is horrifically murdered, rick is even more convinced and he is treated for manic depression.

rick's mood swings continue until the day his old friend and ex partner mark paul comes back into his life, and convinces the family that their future lies in far off shores.

the tranquillity of a new beginning in australia doesn't last however, and rick's penchant for story telling once again becomes part of his life. a cryptic birthday card sets off a chain of murders, which recur every year on the anniversary of rick's birth. each of these horrific crime scenes have one thing in common, and that is a set of tracks. the mysterious tyre tracks convince rick that sean kelly is now bound to a wheelchair, and once again their life becomes a horror story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Thomas
• Release date: May 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458194312

Eric Thomas

I emigrated to Sydney, Australia with my family in 1980 taking my career in Advertising to a different level, and developed the writing bug in 1996 on a return visit to the UK. I spent some time there writing a pictorial autobiography for a photographer friend, and then entered the world of fiction. I still live with my wife on the picturesque Central Coast of New South Wales, and in close proximity to our Three children and Eleven grandchildren.

Book preview

Chapter One

Somewhere in Sydney, Australia. 6pm Monday August 24th 2009

The pale Blue Commodore Station Wagon pulled into a parking bay, and a shapely pair of legs extended from the car carefully avoiding the puddle of rainwater. Alex Clarke wore a long raincoat to protect her from the lashing rain, and she pulled the collar up tight around her throat as she made a dash for the door.The building looked deserted as she swung open the main door, and stepped into the cold empty foyer. Taking the brown envelope from her bag she removed the letter and read it again. Yes it was definitely the correct address, date and time. Reassured she stepped towards the lift, but before she had chance to press the up button the lift doors opened taking Alex by surprise. Half expecting someone to step out she moved back, but the lift was empty. Stepping inside she pressed the button for the Eighth floor, and read the letter again.

‘Dear Alex,I have now received your husband’s medical records from the UK, and I have studied his medical history with great interest. As a specialist in the field of Psychological paranormal activities, I feel that I may be able to help you understand your husband’s condition more clearly. I would like to discuss his condition in greater detail, and I trust that I am not being to presumptuous by insisting that you come alone,If you could make it to my office at 6.00 pm, on Monday August 24th, if not please contact me at the number above.’The letter was signed by a Dr M. Shapiro Ph.D. M.Sc. (Clin Psyc), M.A.Ps.S.

The lift jerked to a halt, and Alex detected the strong smell of new carpet as she stepped out onto the Eighth floor. She looked along the corridor both ways, but none of the offices were numbered or named. Puzzled she made her way along the corridor to her right, and stopping at the first office she knocked gently on the door. There was no answer, and Alex hesitated before trying the door handle. Much to her surprise the door opened, and Alex stared into the empty space in amazement. The bare exposed wires told her that this room hadn’t even been connected for power yet, and a toolbox in the corner gave some indication that work was still in progress .Alex began to get worried as she discovered the same dark secret in every room she passed, until eventually she came to a room that said 810. Looking at her letter again, she confirmed the room number ‘This is it’ she thought ‘He must be the first occupant".Without even knocking she stepped inside, and was amazed to see that this room was only slightly more furnished than the others. In the corner was a desk bearing nothing more than a telephone and next to a small fig tree was a dark Green armchair. There was a door leading to another room, and as Alex stepped towards it she spotted a note lying on the desk. It was hand printed in bold capital letters, and Alex was tempted to read it.

'Sorry about the mess, but as you can see we are still moving in. I have had to pop out for a few minutes, but if you make yourself comfortable I shouldn't be too long'.And it was signed M. Shapiro.

Alex removed her coat, and shook the droplets of rain from it. It was beginning to get dark outside, and she stared at her reflection in the large window.

She was Thirty-Eight, but could so easily have passed for Twenty-Eight, and was often complimented on her youthful looks. She stood five feet five inches in her stocking feet, and had a shapely figure. Alex was impeccably dressed in a White silk shirt open at the neck, Black pencil slim skirt, smoky Grey tights and a pair of low-heeled patent leather shoes. Her long blonde hair was held back from her forehead with a bright Red silk scarf, and rolled up into a bun at the nape of the neck.

Replacing her raincoat she sat down on the Green armchair, glancing casually at her watch. The time was only 6.05, yet somehow it didn’t feel right. Alex got up and walked across to the door, and without thinking she checked the time again, still 6.05.

‘Maybe I should have discussed this with Rick first’ she thought ‘and then again why should I really care’.

She turned and stared at the phone, and walking across to the desk she picked up the receiver – the line was dead.

She glanced nervously at her watch again 6.06, then went back to the chair and sat down.

What appeared to be a very long ten minutes had passed, and the sound of the lift descending made Alex jump.

The daylight was rapidly disappearing which triggered another panic button, ‘What if there is no power at all in the building’ she thought.

Alex nervously flicked the light switch, nothing happened. Turning she walked across to the other door and opened it, and again the smell of new carpet met her. To her left was the doctors large oak desk, and next to it a large Grey filing cabinet. Then she noticed the dark shape in the corner of the room.

She approached it cautiously until within reach, and gingerly stretching out she touched the soft leather. Alex recognised the feel of Dr Shapiro’s reclining chair, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Then her hand brushed against something that wasn’t leather, she stretched the narrow fabric until her eyes made out the distinct pattern. Dr Shapiro’s Mickey Mouse braces had been stretched across the back of the chair, and as Alex gently pulled on them the chair slowly spun around.

She clasped the sides of her face with her pale hands, but no sound came out of her gaping mouth. Dr Shapiro’s hideous hairy face stared back at her, his eyes almost out of their sockets – he appeared to have been strangled by his own braces.

The lift ascended again, and she heard it come to an abrupt halt on the eighth floor. Moving rapidly across the room Alex opened the office door, and stepped out into the corridor gasping for air. She was just in time to see the door at the far end closing, as if someone had just entered that room.

Alex had feelings of both nausea and great fear, as she pulled her coat around her striding off towards the lift. The lift door was making a terrible banging noise, and it sounded as though something was preventing it from closing. Alex was closer now, and she could see the door close halfway before recoiling sharply. There was something sticking out of the lift, and in the fading light it looked a lot like a shoe or a boot. Alex boldly approached, and thrusting her arm inside forced the door open. Her scream echoed around the empty corridor, and she froze in absolute terror. In the dim light of the elevator Alex discovered that the boot was attached to the body of a security guard, and the guard was lying in a pool of blood with his throat cut from ear to ear.

An uncontrollable feeling of panic overcame her, and the sensation of nausea became a reality. There was a noise from the room where she’d seen the door close, and her automatic reaction was to scream for help. Picking up the guards torch Alex headed towards the room, and without even thinking she burst inside Help me, oh please god help me she screamed. Alex could sense something or someone there, and flicking the switch of the torch she aimed its beam around the room. This appeared to be quite a large room, and Alex thought she could see the silhouette of someone in the far corner. Moving slowly into the centre of the room she called out Hello, anyone there trying hard not to fall over the builder’s obstacles. She was only a few feet from the dark shape now, and in the light of the torch she discovered it was only a pair of ladders.

There was a noise from behind, and Alex almost jumped out of her skin as the door slammed shut. She turned and pointed the strong ray of light in the opposite direction Who’s there she called. Something moved gracefully across the bare floor, the sound turning Alex’s blood to ice.Who’s there she called again What do you want.The sound was getting closer to her now, and she knew exactly what it was. She moved around in the ever-increasing darkness, trying to manoeuvre a way to the door. Her foot hit a box causing her to fall heavily and bang her head, and she heard a faint snigger coming from somewhere in the room. Then she heard that sound coming towards her again; it was the last sound she heard before sinking into unconsciousness – it was the sound of a wheelchair.

Chapter Two

Somewhere in Lancashire, England 10.00 pm June 3rd 1997

Rick Clarke’s notorious storytelling was not exclusive to his mates, but open to anyone else that cared to listen. Tonight in the White Lion Hotel was no exception, and he hardly noticed to the two rough looking individuals drinking pints of Guinness at the end of the bar.It was September 23rd 1989 he began, and the telegram delivered by military courier was marked Private and Confidential. Even before opening it, I knew it was from Bradbury Lines Barracks. He took a generous drink from his glass before continuing I had recently finished a twelve month tour of duty in the Middle East, and was mid-way through a ten week rest and recreation period. I eagerly tore open the envelope and read the message Hope you had a nice relaxing break...stop. Join me for a beer...stop. Signed General Sir Charles H. Cole MBE I didn’t have a clue what it meant, but it had to be pretty bloody important to come from old ‘Charcole’ himself.

I didn’t hesitate in packing, and half an hour later I was sat in a taxi on my way to Penrith railway station. My five-week stay in the Lake District had been very relaxing, but far too long. The fish had stopped biting a long time ago, and I was desperate for some action.

This could be the answer to my prayers, and on the train back to Hereford I pondered all the possibilities. The Middle East – doubtful, things had quietened down quite a lot. The IRA had kicked off their bombing campaign on the mainland earlier in the year, and there were news reports coming through of an attack on an army music school in Deal killing 11 marines and injuring 22.

What ever it was I was confident of going back into the arena, I knew that by the reference to having a beer. ‘Free Beer’ was a code the SAS had adopted to call personnel back to barracks in an emergency, and sometimes the pubs around Hereford would empty, simply by someone calling out Free Beer.

I was shown into the Generals office, and old Charcole was standing at his window looking out over the parade ground. He was six feet two inches of solid muscle, and his evenly tanned skin was crowned with a full head of closely cropped Silver hair. For a man in his early sixties he was a remarkably fit looking individual.

‘Sir’, I interrupted; he turned slowly and offered his hand.

Rick, good to see you, how was the holiday, please sit down.

I sat opposite him and stared into those cold Grey eyes, but they told me nothing. We exchanged a few niceties, and then he moved across to a small bar fridge taking out a bottle of Vodka from the freezer section.

He poured two glasses of the icy cold liquid, and then sitting opposite me he offered one to me.

‘Come along Rick the first one goes straight into the nervous system, and the second one we can drink at leisure’.

He tossed the drink back, and quickly poured himself another.

‘The only way to drink Vodka Rick, it’s a little trick I picked up in Norway many years ago’.

Not knowing what to expect I lifted the glass gingerly to my lips, and tossing my head back I quickly swallowed. The sensation was like nothing I had ever experienced, and the icy cold liquid was setting my whole body on fire. It was like being hit with an electric charge, and every nerve end was tingling.

Charcole leaned back in his chair, and laughed out loud.

‘Right Rick, now I think you’re ready to hear what I have to say’.

The adrenaline was pumping through me now at a million miles an hour, he had another mission for me all right and it was a biggie.

‘Our P.M. is planning to visit Northern Ireland’ He began ‘ and we have it on very good authority from our intelligence people that a hit as been authorised. We also know that because of the high risk and tight security factor, only two people will carry out the execution’.

He paused and emptied his glass, before continuing. ‘Our intelligence people tell me that one is a female and a relative newcomer to the IRA, so I can’t give you any background details. The other is our old friend Sean Kelly, and you know just how dangerous that murdering bastard can be’.

‘We are also informed that Kelly will be totally responsible for the kill, with the girl acting as some kind of decoy. The information has been pretty bloody sketchy, so I’m afraid you won’t have an awful lot to work on. We don’t know where, and we don’t know when and how, still that’s what makes the job so bloody interesting eh Rick’.

‘I can tell you this; the PM will be making her visit Thursday and Friday of next week, and will have the usual security including members of our regiment. Now comes the tricky bit, because of the delicacy of the situation the PM’s office have rescheduled her arrangements. Her new itinerary will not be known until she has boarded the aircraft,and is on her way. This way they think in their usual bureaucratic bungling way, they can throw Kelly’s plans out and prevent a leak to the media – thus avoiding a panic’.

I don’t follow sir, if we have it covered where do I come in.

Charcole reached into his drawer and brought out a pouch of tobacco, and his favourite Briar pipe. There was a long silence while the boss filled his pipe, and then lighting it he took several puffs – completely shrouding his head in a huge cloud of Blue smoke. The smoke slowly cleared and drifted around the room, but the smell lingered which I found quite pleasant.

‘Rick we are dealing here with a cunning bastard, and in no way are we to treat him like a fool or an amateur. Kelly will be prepared for the change in the PM’s movements, and all the security in the world won’t stop the hit’.

‘Why doesn’t the PM cancel her visit, I mean does she have to go to Ireland’.

‘Rick we are talking about a dangerous breed of Prime Minister here, a very powerful lady who is desperately hanging on to her grip of power by a thread. She is determined to score points with one last ditch attempt to try and improve relations between our two countries, and insists that the meeting takes place in Belfast’.

‘I’m sorry sir but you still haven’t answered my question, where do I fit in’.

The general tapped his pipe into the heavy Black Onyx ashtray on his desk, before letting it rest. Reaching into another drawer he brought out a manila folder marked confidential, and passed it across to me. I opened the folder and found a dossier on Sean Kelly, with a photograph attached.

Looking into the Generals eyes I said, ‘You want me to find and terminate’.

‘Not quite Rick, I’m calling this one Operation Eggshell on account of its delicacy. I want you to find and mind’.

‘What’.

‘I have decided to take assertive action, and be as crafty as the fox we are dealing with. There are only three people that know of this operation, you and I, and Brigadier Richard’s of counter intelligence. The plan is to find Kelly and his associate and contain them, that way the hit won’t take place and no one will be the wiser’.

‘I’m sorry sir, but I still don’t understand why I just don’t terminate the targets’.

‘Because if you do that we will have the IRA screaming murdering English bastards, and then we will have another bloodbath on our hands’.

‘What if I fail sir’?

‘If you fail you won’t be around to worry about it, if you succeed then we make the Government boys look good for changing the PM’s arrangements. I’m afraid there won’t be any medals or pats on the back, we’re just doing what we do best, and that’s cleaning up the mess’.The two men drinking Guinness shifted edgily as Rick continued his tale to his somewhat bemused friends.

Chapter Three

Sean Kelly wiped the steam from the bathroom mirror with the back of his hand, and stared hard at his reflection. In spite of his violent lifestyle, the years had been kind to him. The full head of Raven Black hair showed no signs of premature Greyness, and the striking Green eyes with the innocent sparkle added a youthful Irish charm to his thirty years.

The man oozed charm and charisma, to his own kind he was a modern day Robin Hood, a living legend, but to his enemies he was a cold-blooded killer. Sean Kelly was a terrorist of the worst kind, a human being responsible for the loss of many, many lives.

He ran a finger over one of several scars that pitted his body, and uttered a silent obscenity to himself. The scar was about one and a half inches long running horizontally above his left pectoral, and was a souvenir from a British bullet. Just another close call in a very risky business, but for a very worthy cause he reminded himself.

He covered the two-day growth of black stubble with the icy foam, and skimmed the six inches of cold steel across the hard contours of his jaw.

Sean Kelly had been operational for the past three days, which meant he hadn’t shaved or bathed for the past two, a part of the job he hated. He was feeling much better now after eight hours sleep, followed by two hours of pure animal lust. Kelly never picked up women who were strangers, too risky in his business; he always used one of the many girls that worked exclusively for the IRA.

She stepped from the shower and ran her long slim fingers across his right shoulder, playfully digging her sharp nails into his flesh. This sudden action by the girl had surprised Kelly, causing him to nick his chin with the sharp razor. His brain flooded with thoughts of becoming vulnerable, and one day being too slow to call on his reflexes. He looked hard at the cut, as a globule of blood ran from it and dripped into the sink. It was nothing compared to some of his wounds, but it had happened, and he couldn’t do a thing about it.

Kelly had never felt so exposed, he was feeling something else as well and it worried him. His skin was cold and clammy, and his stomach churned over so badly he thought he was going to throw up.

He turned on the girl, and grabbing her around the throat he pinned her against the wall of the shower with his left hand. His right hand came up slowly yet deliberately, and then she noticed the straight razor he was still holding. He rested the back of the blade across her throat, and wiped away rivulets of water and perspiration from the girl’s neck.

‘You bitch’, He screamed ‘You stupid illiterate whore, is this how you want to die, well is it’.

Her mouth was open and the lips were moving, but no sound came out. The feelings of pleasure she had experienced with this man only a short while ago, had now been replaced with feelings of sheer panic. Kelly too was experiencing new feelings, and as the adrenaline surged something else was happening to his body. He gazed down upon his swelling pride, and dropped the menacing blade onto the tiles. The girl cowered and whimpered before him, and he grabbed her roughly by the hair with both hands. His piercing Green eyes penetrated hers ‘You make me bleed, I make you bleed’, He said softly.

Her soft Brown eyes were misty with tears, and were asking the question ‘What will you do with me’, when he spun her around, and bent her forward all in one movement. She let out a scream as she felt his anger enter her, and his loins beat a heavy tattoo against her buttocks – tearing into her flesh with his ever increasing ego and his swelling pride.

It was all over in seconds, but it felt like hours to the girl as he stepped from the cubicle. He paused at the mirror, and touched a tiny blob of blood that had congealed over the cut. He scanned the room catching the girl’s reflection in the mirror; she lay curled up in a corner of the shower sobbing quietly. His eyes strayed over her body, and stopped at her lily White thighs. A small trickle of blood was forcing its way between her legs, and gently running down the inside of her thigh.

Turning to face the girl he offered her his outstretched hand ‘C’mon darlin up you get and no more hard feeling’s eh’. He laughed aloud as she gripped his hand nervously, and he pulled her to her feet ‘There’s one thing you’ve got to learn girl, we are both in a very risky business, and we will both get hurt from time to time. The real hard part is surviving, so just put today down as your first lesson’.

He patted her bottom as she quickly moved past him, and into the bedroom, where she rapidly dressed. The girl could still hear his laughter as she leapt down the staircase, taking the step’s two at a time.

Kelly’s moment of sadistic pleasure was interrupted by the sound of the telephone, but he finished pulling his slacks on before answering.

'Is that you Kelly' the voice on the other end was rough and definitely Irish.

‘Yeah O’Malley, what’s on’.

‘We have a big one for you Sean, but it involves working with another member’.

‘What the fuck are you talking about; you know I only work alone. Sean Kelly does not look after someone else’s arse’.

‘Sean, calm down son, I wouldn’t do this to you if it wasn’t necessary’.

‘Necessary’ Kelly screamed down the phone ‘What’s so special about this fucking job that makes a second operator necessary’.

‘She has certain qualifications for this job, and plenty of experience’.

‘Jesus Christ’ Kelly cut in ‘It’s not enough you offer me your apprentice, you have to give me a fucking female’.

‘Sean we can’t talk on the phone, we will discuss the matter tonight’.

‘You’re dead right about that; I’ll see you at eight, usual place’.

Chapter Four

Jack Reagan’s butcher’s shop was unique for its modest size; it contained not one but two large cold storage rooms. The two rooms were both of similar size and structure, and the only difference between them was their contents. In one room hung the cold fresh carcasses of dead beasts, and in the other sat the cold carcasses of the living kind, plotting death and destruction.

Jack Reagan had been butchering for thirty-seven of his fifty years, starting as an errand boy in the family business. At the age of twenty-five he took over the business following his fathers sudden death, and was as dedicated to his job as he was to the cause, he even looked the part. He was a large Red-faced bull of a man, with no neck and a voice like a lion’s roar. Jack Reagan went about his business with a gentle friendly nature, and a kind word for all his customers. Yes butchering was all Jack Reagan cared