A big thank you to Crymsyn for hosting me
today – it's great to be here.
I've always been interested in a man in
black. Whether it's a billowing cloak or evening dress, there's something about
the man who dresses like a sober shadow, especially if that man is a
buttoned-up preacher man.
The male protagonist of my Xcite paranormal
novel, Saxonhurst Secrets, is just
such a fellow. As well as wearing a lot of black, in the form of his clerical
garb, Adam Flint is as repressed and uptight as they come. Saxonhurst, with its
flagrant sensual atmosphere, is destined to kill or cure him. Which shall it
be?
Here's a little bit more about our Adam:
What
exactly it was that drew him out of the vicarage study and into the unseasonably
warm April air was never clear to Adam Flint. One minute he was unpacking a
crate of theological texts, lining them up in neat subsections along the dark
wood shelving. The next, he was sweating and giddy, inhabited by the most
powerful urge to get outside and be part of the village springtime.
"What's
this? Some kind of spring fever?" He spoke to himself, a habit he had got
into over the years of rehearsing rhetorical questions for his sermons. Nobody
else ever gave him properly satisfactory answers besides. "Well, a bit of
fresh air, what's the harm?"
But
if somebody had been there to answer that question, before he grabbed the
old-fashioned hat and walking cane he liked to affect, despite his being only
thirty one, perhaps he would have stayed indoors. What was the harm? He would
know soon enough.
Saxonhurst
certainly didn't look like the outpost of godlessness he'd been led to expect.
The circle of honey coloured cottages nestled around the church had all the
correct bucolic fixtures and fittings – flowery trellises up the walls,
diamond-paned windows, thatched roofs. He breathed in the aroma of hyacinths,
the sweetness steadying him somewhat, bringing him back to his senses. There
was nothing odd or sinister about this place. It was simply a village that had
fallen prey to the common twenty-first century syndrome of entitled materialism
and the consequent atrophy of faith. They were good people who looked after
their homes. They were capable of redemption.
From
the corner of his eye, he caught the twitch of a lace curtain. A black cat ran
across his path by the National Trust pub. The strong feeling that he should be
walking out towards the arable farms on the northern outskirts of the village
overwhelmed him, turning his footsteps away from the recreation ground and the
infants' school, along a narrower lane.
The
cottages soon gave way to acres of polytunnels housing tomato plants and
courgettes. On his left loomed the ruins of Palmer's Barn, where local legend
had it that a man had killed a girl then hanged himself. He almost fell over
the wishing well, hidden by weeds, as his curious eye outlined instead the
brutal skeleton of the mythic building. It looked evil and brooding. Perhaps he
should perform a consecration there, bring the grace of the redeemer to that
burnt out wreck. Or perhaps he should just write to the council and suggest its
demolition. What was the good of keeping it there, a reminder of wickedness
past? It couldn't be good for village spirits.
Here's the blurb:
On the surface, Saxonhurst is like every other sleepy English
village in the Vale of Parham.
But what explanations are there for its unfailingly bountiful
harvests, its amazingly successful cricket team, its bizarre and bacchanalian
May Day rituals?
New vicar Adam Flint is bent on finding out why Saxonhurst has
the nickname ‘most godless village in England’. With the help and
hindrance of village siren Evie and the strange and remote Lady of the Manor,
Julia, he uncovers closets full of skeletons. And not just skeletons – flesh
and blood bodies rich in temptations as well…
Will the secrets of Saxonhurst be Adam’s ruin?
It's
available now from Xcite Books: http://www.xcitebooks.co.uk/Book/6920/Saxonhurst-Secrets.html
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