Homepage of Lawrence Clarke
Author and Musician
Welcome...
The novels I write are categorised under Murder/Mystery, Thriller and Romance. The stories occur in Britain, Spain, Canada, America and so on.
The Wire Child's central figure is a young police sergeant, given her first case; a series of grisley murders of paedophiles. What seems to be revenge turns out to be something more sinister and over the period of a month Sergeant Bullin's life change until finally it will hang in the balance.
Madness is set in the Lake District of North Western England and tells the tale of a man's search for his missing wife when the law fails him. His wife is alive and being held far below ground in a rocky mausoleum under the decrepid mansion of a schitzophrenic and his psychologist brother.
Requital is the sequal to The Wire Child and completes the story that had haunted Jennifer Bullin and her lover Allen Foggo since they discovered the truth about the paedophile killings. Bullin becomes an outcast and turns to the other side of the law to settle the case once and for all.
The Soldier and the Doctor. Rose is from a wealthy Northern Pennsylvanian background, David is from the Projects. Their lives will converge as the years pass and dangers present themselves. Once they meet both know where destiny will finally take them. Rose works as a volunteer for Medecins sans Frontiere and David has left the Marines and volunteered to be part of what starts out as a rescue group for people such as Rose working in highly volatile situations. This is the story of their journeys.
Generally
You can order any of these books by contacting my email lawrence.clarke@bigpond.com or opening the Ocean Publishing web site.
Free postage for more than one book. A minimum charge of $5.00 postage for single orders.
About Lawrence Clarke
I was born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Went to grammar school and from there joined the Merchant Marine as a Deck Apprentice Officer. I spent three years sailing the oceans carrying Molasses, Grain and Oil to such places as Cuba, Libya, Egypt, USA, Venezuela, West Indies, South Africa, and many more countries.
When I fell in love and left the Navy, I joined the Belfast Fire service as, you guessed it, a fireman. A few years passed and the riots, bombing and shooting began. Not looking to win a Victoria Cross, I emigrated to Australia.
I went back to school and studied Architecture and draftsmanship, and still do that as a contractor.
During this time in Australia I became a part-time professional musician playing solo and in bands. Over the years I've backed a lot of overseas artists who came to Perth. I've all but retired from music, and concentrate more on writing these days.
I've taken three wives, had one son whose wife gave me two healthy grandchildren.
HE SMILED
When the child was three years of age, he almost suffocated.
It was the custom in those days to leave the big pram outside, hood towards the prevailing wind, at the rear of the house, in all weather, even snow. Indeed, there were times when the mother went to check on the infant only to find an inch or two of white powder on the button down cover. Underneath, deep in the coffin body of the big English pram, dry, wrapped in swaddling, the baby would still lie content, and as warm as toast. The near-tragedy actually happened in summer when no heavy cover was used. His mother, fastidious but forever busy raising five young children, omitted to remove the boy-child's bib after his time at her breast. A gust of balmy summer wind lifted the cloth from his chest and spread it flat as a pancake over his face. At six months of age, he had neither the co-ordination nor the intelligence to reach up and pull the bib free; consequently, he almost suffocated. It was a stroke of good fortune that the woman came out of the rear door to hang washing and discovered her near fatal error. The child's face was blue. When he reached the age of seven going on eight, he realized himself how morbidly claustrophobic he was, although, at that age, the descriptive word for his ailment meant nothing to him. He could not bear to have his arms restrained, bed covers pulled over his head by his older siblings or enter any type of tight space. He hid his phobia courageously by engaging in the games that always carried a high risk of being trapped or crushed. When he went to grammar school he played rugger, where as often as not, he found himself at the base of a collapsed scrum. His mind screamed in panic, but his courage kept him silent. It was another trial he purposely put himself through in the hope that he would improve as he aged. He never did and his feeling of inadequacy drove his forming character on to greater and more dangerous challenges.
He joined the army and became an integral member of a special forces battalion. By the time war was declared, he was a captain who was held in such high esteem by his men that the powers that be assigned only the most secret and dangerous missions to his squad. They fought in the tightest of spaces; in jungles, on hillsides, house to house and under the earth in tunnels. Tunnels that were barely the width of a man's shoulders, tunnels that made other men scream in panic while he did his utmost to calm them. He never screamed aloud but he could smell the stench of fear emanating from his body as his mind fought valiantly for control of his emotions. He ended the war as a multi-decorated hero. At the age of 38, he felt he had fooled the world for long enough and cheated his own psyche into never displaying the closet coward that he felt he was. He de-mobbed and with his payout and a little financial help from his father he set up a small import - export business. The business expanded rapidly and, year by year, more outlets were opened worldwide. 15 years later, he was Chairman of the Board of a stock market listed company whose shares never faltered, even in times of recession. It was at this point in his life that he was asked to attend the grand opening of another warehouse and office in a South American country. A day after his arrival, he was kidnapped from his hotel room and moved into the jungle covered mountains. To move him past the army patrols without trouble, his kidnappers used an old Lebanese guerilla tactic; he was taped from head to foot and stored in the secret compartment of a lorry. His courage failed him and he screamed when he realized what the kidnappers were about to do. He struggled, using his almost forgotten combat skills to fight like a devil, but he was 53 years old and outnumbered 10 to 1. Once taped, his mind shut down and his body followed. For all intents and purposes, he was dead when they finally unwound the tape. He was tossed of a high ledge into one of the falling tributaries that fed the head waters of the Amazon River. They collected the ransom and broke the hearts of his wife and children. His body was washed onto a tiny, flat island composed of erosion grit and it was discovered a day later by a tribe of small statured Indians. Miraculously, he was alive. Panic had caused his sensory system to shut off completely and in so doing his heartbeat became faint and undetectable. The Indians nursed him back to a semblance of a human being before taking him on a long journey down the Amazon to what he laughingly referred to as civilization. For himself, he found the small, kind people of the forest to be far ahead of anything his fellow men referred to as civilized, with the exception of course, of his loving wife and children.
He retired to his farm and family and lived quietly for five more years. During the celebration of his birthday, while giving a short speech, he collapsed and died. His funeral was attended by many, many people, including old army friends. Copious tears were shed and gentle tales were told of his courage. No one who passed through his life would ever have guessed the 58 year long and violent inner struggle a wind blown bib had caused.
He was buried with full military honours and as the coffin was lowered, a lone piper played over the grave.
That night he awoke, and knew immediately where he was. He found he could move his arms easily, he could bend his legs and he could breathe. As the oxygen ran low in his small tomb and he became sleepier by the minute, he viewed his life with retrospection. It hit him that, inwardly and outwardly, he was now calm and relaxed. He fell into a deep sleep after picturing lastly the lovely serene and smiling face of his wife. He dreamed he was snuggly and safely swaddled in a warm dry pram while the wind howled around about and the odd small flake of snow reached his face. Not once in his life did he ever consider that the single act of carrying his secret burden for so long was, in itself, not cowardice, but a slow dance of extreme courage.
For him, the dance had ended at last. He passed away peacefully, wearing a serene smile.
FLOWERS FOR TILLY
By
LAWRENCE CLARKE As a young woman, back when the World was rushing headlong towards the end of the last century, I looked at older people closely, acknowledging and respecting their age, but never, never believing I was going to reach that stage of decrepitating. We, my youthful friends and I, felt we were immortal. Well, as in all of existence from the beginning, time is a cruel joker, and no matter how hard and long anyone laughs life in its face, the joker always has the last guffaw. I am sitting on the front bomillo (a word dreamed up in the 30's by some young interior decorator) of my son's air home, drifting lazily above Lake Superior. It is mid-August in the year 2051, and I am here at last, in old age, the world I was never going to inhabit, but do so happily. In my fifties, I could have taken the treatment, the gene metamorphosis, but in truth, I think 80 years is long enough in this place. I am ready to go elsewhere, to the gentle places that occupy my dreams and napping thoughts. I do not want to be that decrepit old woman. I am still vibrant, wrinkled, but vibrant, and my grandchildren continue to talk to me as an equal, asking advice and inviting me to visit here and there. Someone, I think it was a nephew, brought me a gift today, fresh roses. I have not seen a fresh rose in twenty years, and he will not say where he procured them. They are in an atmospheric jar beside my seat, and in there the petals will stay on the stem for three months. I hope to be well on my journey by then, perhaps a billion light years beyond Sirius. And that brings me slowly to my point. These beautiful semi-natural creations are some of the remains of Mother Nature, and have taken my withering mind on a journey, all the way back to 1996, when I was just a fawn of 28. I had taken over my father's souvenir shop on the waterfront in Brighton, and was planning to expand. The beautiful memory is so clear, and I do believe it gets clearer with each passing day, or perhaps I just add to it to maintain the dreamlike quality of a real story that encompasses all the truly great, and forgotten qualities, such as sacrifice, love, respect and honour. My humble opinion is this, all these things have died a slow, agonizing death in the last forty years, and the rot started with the oil blight of 2015; from that came the fuel wars. Then in 2021 the Great Antarctic Split and the drowning of so many Pacific atolls, 2025, the Siberian Flu, 2032, the nuclear explosions on mainland United States, 2034, the four year war between China and the Indian / Pakistan Alliance, and on and on until today. The first fifty years of this century have cost the human race three times as many casualties through war, flood and pestilence as died during the whole twentieth century, and that was touted as a bloody one. But my story never changes. In 1996 we looked back on simpler times as those where the human spirit still rose above tyranny and treachery. Now, I look back on that year in the same fashion. That is how we progress, or as I feel, regress. My memory begins on a sunny July morning. It was a Monday, a slow day for tourists even in Summer. My shop was in a national trust row of Victorian buildings, which lay in the shadow of an ultra modern three-storey mall. I was reading a real estate brochure on the available rental space in the mall, and doing my sums to discover for the tenth time that I could not afford to move. I retired to the small office at the rear of the shop to put the kettle on, I think, when the doorbell tinkled.
When I entered the retail room again a woman was browsing my wares, as was her companion. She straightened slowly when I cleared my throat. The woman appeared to be late seventies, perhaps early eighties, and her husband, or partner, was around those advanced years also. She looked into my eyes and smiled warmly, familiarly; that was my impression, anyway. On closer inspection, she also appeared vaguely familiar to me, but I did not make my impression known. She limped to the counter. "Good morning, Madam, may I be of help." She turned to her male friend, smiled knowingly, then addressed me in a soft yet strong and clear voice, "What is your name, my child?" "Matilda. Am I supposed to know you? Sorry, that sounded rude, have we met somewhere?" "No, we have never met. Would you like to know my name?" I did not really care, since I needed some Monday sales, but, if nothing else, I was polite to all who passed across my threshold. I shrugged and signaled with a half nod. "My name is Matilda, also. Now, look at my eyes closely, you see the flecks of gold and green in the brown." "So, we have similar colored eyes, what is it you are saying." "We have the same, not similar, eyes, we have the same christian name, I have come into your shop this morning. Do you suppose this is all by coincidence?" "Are you telling me in a roundabout way, we're related?" She did not answer me. "Is William still alive, the owner of this shop?" Her information was dated. "Two Williams have owned this shop, but it belongs to me now. Which William were you referring to?" "I take it they are father and son?" Again I gave her a half nod. Another group of customers entered the shop and the two oldsters stood to one side as I set about trying to make a tidy profit. When they were gone, I went behind the counter again and said, "Yes, they are. Look, what is it you want? I'll pass a message on, but I won't be giving out phone numbers or addresses." The old woman turned to the old man, "Gunther, give me the parcel, please." Silently, he opened a small carry case and handed her a thick envelope. "I want you to give this to your grandfather, Bill. Tell him Tilly sends her deepest love and apologies." "You know, if you come back at five, I'll take you out to his cottage. He lives alone, and likes occassional company, and you seem to be a good friend from his past." "No, my darling, I can't do that." I was shocked when a tear appeared at the corner of one of her eyes. "Just give him the package, and my love. When I go over, I'll send him a sign that I'm waiting for him." I was not sure if it was my place to say anything but I did anyway. "You know, my pop never married. He lost his wife during the war, and although there were women here and there, he remained true to her memory. I really don't know why I'm telling you that, but there it is." She surprised me again by limping around the counter and embracing me. While in her embrace, she whispered into my ear, "You tell English Oak that Summer Rose always remained true, and never stopped loving him." When she broke away I felt the wetness on my cheek from her tears. "Gunther, your arm, please." "Matilda, you can't just come here with this information and disappear," I said in a sort of mild panic. She smiled serenely, "Tilly, my time is very short, and it would be wrong to hurt him again. You give him the package, that will be enough. Come, Gunther, take me home." No one, not even my father, mother or siblings called me Tilly, just pops. I had a reasonable Monday, businesswise, but the package sitting in the back room occupied my thoughts all day, and when five o'clock crawled around, it was not soon enough. I closed up, phoned my fiancee, told him I'd be late for dinner, and sat down at my small desk. I rose once to open a half bottle of white, but apart from that I was rivetted to my seat. When I had finished noseying through all the contents of the envelope, I sat back and shed a symphathetic tear. Perhaps three glasses of wine helped my mood. My memory is still sharp on long ago happenings, and that day, especially, is etched in my mind. THE CONTENTS OF THE PACKAGE. The first object I removed from the a4 envelope was a thin photograph album, followed by an ageing official looking letter, a fresh and new unsealed envelope containing a letter written on expensive cartridge paper which had printed on the flap 'READ THIS LAST, and finally, a velvet box. I removed each of the old photos in turn and read the backs. The first one was a young man galavanting in the small tide on the Brighton seashore. The pier was in the far background. He was pulling some sort of clown face as he kicked up spray around his turned up pants. It was plain to see the boy my pop had been, because I had seen other pictures where he was only a decade older. The back read: "I took this snap of a fella we met on the shore. He was acting the galoot, but he was nice, and bought us a fish supper each. His name is Billy and I like him. Dora was egging me on, but I kept a distance and reserve. I hope we see him around tomorrow. Matilda, July 16th, 1936." The second photograph was taken outside this very shop when the street was wet, windswept, and cold looking. A lot of the buildings appeared new, and the adjoining ones, in the photo, on either side of mine were long gone by the nineties. Pop is again making funny faces in front of the shop window. The back read: "Billy's borrowed some money from his family, and is going to buy this little shop. We're having our engagement party here in Brighton where we met first. I can't wait for tonight. Margaret Flannery has already got my wedding planned. Matilda, January 7th, 1937. Photograph number three was a wedding group, taken on the steps of a large church entry portico. My pop in a morning suit and Matilda in a flowing white gown and tiara were obviously husband and wife The back was blank except for a date. July 11th, 1938 Snap four depicted husband and wife in uniform, standing beside an army transporter. "Here we are, both of us in the army. Mr Hitler didn't give us much time as man and wife. Billy's off to training in Stockport and I'm to be shown the ropes in Chester. It'll be hard, cause I really love the blighter." The fifth photograph was taken in Paris with the familiar sweeping curves of the Tower in the distance. Both of them, Pop and Matilda were in peasant type clothes. In the background flowed the river Siene, but more surprising were the passing group, caught candidly behind the couple. They were fully armed and equipped german soldiers. The back read: "By the grace of God, we were able to connect in Paris. Billy's group came in from Poland last night on the way through to London and he radioed me. My gang are passing through here on the way to Bavaria and Munich. We have two precious days together, and we found a bullet riddled, but clean Bed and Breakfast. A German officer took this photo of us, using our camera. Luckily we have 'authentic French papers.' November, 1942. The next snap was candid, taken beside one of the great lions guarding Nelson's Column. Matilda was alone and forlorn looking. She looked nine months pregnant. The atmosphere appeared grey and cold and warlike. The back read: "The bairn is due any day, and still no word from Bill. I know the section have tried to contact him, but he's somewhere in the hills above Split, training the locals, and contact is limited. They want a female volunteer, who can speak German fluently, to go into Berlin on a longer than normal mission. They have a contact who can get a female on Hitler's staff, and possibly send out information. I'm the only completely fluent speaker in my group, so they're prayin' the baby will come yesterday. A weeks rest and then away, if I say yes. I will, of course, for England, and the baby's future." April, 1943.
The final photo was a group shot somewhere in the mountains of Bavaria. Matilda's hair is blonde, dyed obviously, and she is stern faced. Hitler looks lean and drawn in the face. There are dark shadows under his eyes and he has the appearance of a defeated man. The others are obviously personal staff members, secretaries and the like. It reads, Our contact got me on the staff. The end is near for this little dark demon. I have been able to send out a few snippets. His officers are doubting his invincibility, and his boy army are fighting with rusted guns and unreliable ammunition. His backers have pulled a plug somewhere and the money train has left the station. Someone, somewhere, has made a tidy profit from the misery of millions. I think it wont be too long before I see the two loves of my life, Big William and tiny Billy. October, 1944. I replaced the pictures carefully back in their folders and put the small album aside. I opened the old, official looking letter. It read: The Office of the Prime Minister and First Lord of the Admiralty, Lord Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill 10 Downing Street London This letter of recommendation was dictated on May 29th , 1945. To whom it may concern. Matilda Bracken, code name 'Summer Rose', has shown in her fearless approach to her soldiering, an attitude far beyond the call of duty and country. Her infiltration into the most dangerous of situations, has, along with others of her ilk, helped to save thousands of lives and shorten the term of this unspeakable atrocity called war. When she returns to civilian life, wherever she goes in the British Empire of Nations, and displays this letter, she is to be shown all courtesy, and given any assistance she requires at that time, including employment, transport, accommodation and food, in the name of the ruling King and his Government. Thank you, young woman, on behalf of all the peoples of the free world. W. Churchill. I replaced the letter carefully in its envelope and opened the velvet box. It contained the George Cross. The dull, maroon cover on the underside of the lid was brightened by the addition of a miniature gold plaque which was inscribed, Matilda Bracken, for extreme courage in the face of the enemy. I looked at it for a long time before reverently closing the lid. Finally, I came to the new envelope. I removed the letter inside and opened it. A pink rose petal flittered to the floor. I picked it up gently and set it on my desk. I took a sip of wine, tilted my chair and began to read. The letter said: Darling Billy, Now has come the time to tell you all. First, let me say, not for one minute have I ever, ever stopped loving you. When I sleep, I am never alone. You tread softly through my dreams. When I am awake, you are at my side wherever I go. When we parted in Paris 56 years ago, I judged it best not to tell you I was four months gone with our child. You would have forced me to return to London with you, and I was the fluent German speaker. Neither of us would have abandoned our comrades in arms, nor our missions. So, I held my tongue, and enjoyed your strong arms instead. Little William came into the world while you were in Northern France. Your mother, as you know, took the lad in, and I went off to Berlin. My original contact was discovered and under torture gave up the names of my group. The Gestapo swooped on us at night and after interrogation, we were sentenced to death by firing squad. Before that happened, we were used, and I'm sure you can guess what I mean by that. The torture we underwent left us as less than women, and barely able to walk, so we were dragged into the execution yard and lined against a bullet-pocked wall. We said a prayer together as the soldiers readied to fire. So well on in the war, the Allies were conducting daylight bombing raids on Germany's major cities, and on that day a raid commenced as bolts were being drawn. I closed my eyes to say goodbye to you and our son, when one, perhaps two bombs hit the Gestapo building and yard. That was the last I knew for three months. Gunther, my companion, rescued me. The others perished. I awoke to find myself secreted in his house. In the blasts, I lost my right foot, my left leg at the knee, and one hand. Various internal injuries, and the wounds from torture, added to the whole. Luckily, Gunther had many friends, sympathetic to our side, who had medical skills, or knew of doctors who would help. Hospitals were out of the question, and I took a long time to become half a human again, literally. The war was long over by the time I was ready to travel. Gunther and his friends smuggled us out of East Berlin to freedom. Over a period of years, I learned to walk on special limbs with the aid of crutches. Gunther became a wealthy man in business, and we lived as partners, even though I told him I would never love anyone else but you. He understood that, and I have a special affection, and much respect, for him and his courage. I reported in to HQ in late 1946, told them of the extent of my injuries. I requested that I remain M.I.A. and they respected that. I was sent the PM's letter, and my medal, but I rarely looked at them. The tears, you see, blinded me. I hear you raised a fine child, Billy; I had my watchers. I know you will understand that I could never come back, limbless, wombless and terribly emotionally scarred. I would have been a tremendous burden, and made your life a living hell. I wanted you to remember the whole woman, the one you loved and married, not this hardly human shell. Now, the final cross to bear, I am not long for this world, my English Oak, weeks or months. If this curse had not visited me in my late years, I would have let sleeping dogs lie, but something inside has forced me to let you know all. You deserve to. I will go back to Brighton now, to your shop, knowing you will have retired. But I feel the place will still be a part of you, as I hope I am. Put fresh pink roses on my grave, my darling, I will wait for you in heaven as a whole woman. I love you, Billy Bracken. I will send a sign when you come to my tomb. Matilda Bracken (Summer Rose). xxxxxxxxxxoooooooooo I pulled a few tissues, blew my nose, dried my eyes, and telephoned my fiancée to cancel our dinner date. I drove for ninety minutes on dark country roads, to my pop's cottage where, as always, I was welcomed with warmth and affection. He had been a handsome blighter, Mr. Bracken had. His eyes still held the fire of youth. I could imagine him training the underground forces, and fighting with them. He had been a good dad, and granddad, but had always lived alone. On his sideboard sat a 12 x 12 of Matilda, smiling in her virgin white wedding gown. I sat him down, and went into his spotless kitchen. Two mugs of tea later, and I looked into his eyes. He said, "Some’at's wrong, Tilly, what's happened. Yer not knocked up." I gave him a humorous, disgusted look. "Pop, prepare your self for a shock. Today, in the shop, someone came back from the grave." He stared at me for a long time, and in a hoarse whisper he said, "Summer Rose. Matilda." I nodded, and tears brightened his eyes. I opened my bag and handed him the package. "Pop, I'm going to leave, and let you go through that." He struggled to his 80 year old feet, and I hugged him tightly. I could feel the involuntary movement of his body as he quietly cried. "I'm sorry, Pop. I love you, you know that, don't you?" "Girl, you are what kept me going these last years. Look at the photo, look closely. Shorten the hair, darken it, and that's you, Tilly. She was just like you too, high spirited and proud. Anyway, run on. I want to read the answers to my misery." I left him there at his front door, smiling through the tears. The time was late November. It was a windswept, rainy day and the exposed graveyard above Truro was bitterly cold. We had parked in the empty area reserved for mourners and funeral cars. I spotted four or five grave diggers sheltering on the lee side of a big garden shed behind the church. With Pop and I, were my brother, father and mother. We trooped up the hill in the rain. Gunther had given me the directions, and in truth, the grave would have been easy to find. It was on a hill, beneath a beautiful English Oak, and was arrayed in all manner and colour of flowers, fresh from someone's greenhouse. My father, William, knelt down and laid a wreath of pink roses at her feet. When he got up and turned, he embraced my father. "What a waste," I heard him whisper through tears. Pop said a prayer, I cried, my brother was quiet for one of the few times in his life. My mother as usual was the stoic one. "Would ye all mind troopin' back to the motor, I'd like a time fer 'er an' me together." He sat on her head stone, beneath the oak. I could see his lips moving now and again. He must have talked for an hour, and the rain pelted down. We were dry in the car, and he was dry, under the Oak. As he began his slow descent, a strange thing happened. The wind blew up stronger and the scudding clouds disappeared to reveal a pale blue sky. When the sky was almost completely free of clouds, the wind died. All of us alighted from the car, in awe. The gravediggers came walking over, smiling, and I asked the one who seemed to be foreman, "Does this kind of weather phenomenon happen on the south coast much, then?" "Been bad wear fur a month, me love. We figure, the lass up on yonder knoll bin waiting fur the old man 'ere. When someone's happy up ‘ere," he pointed to the sky, "we gets a break fur a whoil. Come back soon, she be happy t'at." In the car, pop put his arm around me, "She was always one to keep her word. She said a sign and she delivered." He turned to the window and as he nodded off, I clearly heard him whisper, "Meeting you soon, Tilly." A week later, I lost my Pop. We sought, and received from Gunther, permission to lay him in that same grave. Ah, those days of wonder. I have paid handsomely for a resting place near my pop. I want to meet her again as well.