by Zach Abrams
Available at Amazon
Released by Zach Abrams together with Elly Grant
Twists and Turns
With fear, horror, death and despair, these stories will surprise you, scare you and occasionally make you smile. Twists and Turns offer the reader thought-provoking tales. Whether you have a minute to spare or an hour or more, open Twists and Turns for a world full of mystery, murder, revenge and intrigue. A unique collaboration from the authors Elly Grant and Zach Abrams
Here's the index of Twists and Turns -
Table of Contents
A selection of stories by Elly Grant and Zach Abrams ranging in length across flash fiction (under 250 words), short (under 1000 words) medium (under 5000 words) and long (approx. 16,000 words)
Trials and Tribulations (medium) by Elly Grant
Runswick Bay (medium) by Elly Grant
Alice (short) by Elly Grant
Hide and Seek (flash) by Zach Abrams
Snip, Snip (medium) by Zach Abrams
Come See what I Dug Up in the Sand, Daddy (short) by Elly Grant
Room Mate (flash) by Zach Abrams
Courting Disaster (medium) by Zach Abrams
Crash (flash) by Zach Abrams
Submarine (medium) by Elly Grant
Dilemma (flash) by Zach Abrams
Grass is Greener (medium) by Zach Abrams
Missing (flash) by Elly Grant
Time to Kill (medium) by Elly Grant
Fight (flash) by Zach Abrams
Just Desserts (medium) by Elly Grant
Interruption (flash) by Zach Abrams
I've Got Your Number (medium) by Elly Grant
Rhetoric (flash) by Zach Abrams
Keep It to Yourself (medium) by Zach Abrams
Lost, Never to be Found] (medium) by Zach Abrams
Man of Principal] (flash) by Zach Abrams
Witness After the Fact] (medium) by Zach Abrams
Overheated] (flash) by Zach Abrams
Wedded Blitz] (medium) by Elly Grant
Taken Care] (flash) by Zach Abrams
The Others] (short) by Elly Grant
Waiting for Martha] (long) by Elly Grant
Available at http://getBook.at/awltwistsandturns
An introduction to Ring Fenced - the first few pages
Sitting in his private office, Benjamin Short finished typing the last sentence of the chapter and sighed contentedly. He was exactly on the schedule he'd created for himself. He removed his Gucci spectacles and carefully put them in their case. He signed off the computer session, reset the security and closed it down. He then removed the hard disk and locked it in his document safe, imbedded in the wall, the access being behind his framed degree certificate.
Opening the door to the adjoining bathroom, he walked into the cavernous area which housed a wet room style power shower and Jacuzzi bath. He put himself through his rigorous, daily, ten-minute stretching and exercise routine before showering. He took time to give himself a really close shave, using an open razor, given to him by his father some twenty years before, when he was aged sixteen. As he studied himself in the mirror, his clear sparkling blue eyes gazed back. Although naturally curly, his permed, blonde hair, short straight nose, powerful jaw and muscular shoulders gave him the 'Aryan' look the Third Reich aspired to. He wiped the remaining soap from his face and carefully placed the towel in the laundry basket before looking through the “Benjie” shelves of his dressing room.
It was still only 7.30am and it was Sunday morning, “Benjie” day. He selected 'Clarks' shoes, a “George at Asda” pair of chinos with matching polo shirt and then picked up a similarly labelled fleece, lifting his Accurist watch, his Blackberry, his iPod and car keys before walking quietly along the hall passing the children's bedroom doors then down the staircase beyond the kitchen and into the integral garage.
He lowered his slim, six foot two frame onto the plush leather seat and, as he turned the key, the XK8 purred to life, just as the garage's electric outer door opened noiselessly. He slowly manoeuved along the monoblock driveway, passing the flower beds, alive with colour from an assortment of carefully tended blooms, then beyond the beautifully manicured lawn, before gathering speed on the avenue as the automatically controlled security gates clunked shut behind him. Benjamin pulled the car onto a fairly empty highway and let his foot graze the pedal permitting his vehicle to accelerate forward. Not surprisingly, Benjie was carrying his two, ever present, must haves. While driving, he placed the Blackberry in his trouser pocket and selected play on the iPod. His phone had developed into his mission control panel. It was not only a verbal communication instrument. He used it to coordinate the various intricacies of his life. It held all his contacts and he was able to screen who he spoke to and when. He kept his appointment diary, he accessed the net and he handled his emails. It was all business though. He was never tempted to play games or use the camera or entertainment facilities. His iPod was quite the reverse. For so long now, music had been his greatest passion. He lived his life with it, for it and by it and it followed him, or led him, wherever he went. He was never certain how much was intuitive or how much reactive, but he was constantly amazed by how often the song titles or lyrics he was listening to coincided with what was happening in his life around that point of time. The meanings intended by the songwriters were most probably different but, nevertheless, the words themselves were a reflection of what he was then doing or encountering. As if in corroboration of his direction and anticipating his plans, the lyrics he was currently hearing claimed “I'm sittin' in the railway station … And every stop is neatly planned…” from a 1960's mix which featured Simon and Garfunkel's 'Homeward Bound'. His love of music bordered on obsession. He had a voluminous collection of CD's and vinyls and his computer held a near immeasurable number of tracks on wav, mp3 or mp4, he'd copied or downloaded. In addition to a multitude of radio stations, he used iTunes, Spotify and Jango on a regular basis to research and listen to an eclectic mixture of sounds. He had no loyalty to style or format and varied his listening to suit his mood of the moment.
As he looked towards the sky, he could see there was a moderate wind and clouds were gathering. His fleece could not be regarded as rainwear, so, when he pulled the car into the 'park and ride', he chose a disabled parking space. It was much nearer to the station entrance and there would be less opportunity for him to be soaked if it rained when he was on his return journey. It was unknown for cars to be clamped around here and, being Sunday, it was unlikely he'd even be ticketed. If he was, he could afford to pay the penalty and he considered it to be a risk worth taking. He didn't head straight for the train. As had become his ritual, he detoured to the Jewish delicatessen and purchased his regular order of six bagels, a sweet and sour loaf, a half-pound of sliced smoked salmon, quarter pound of kes, a small voorsht and a box of halva. He was pleased because the shop was quiet and he didn't get drawn into any small talk. He was served almost immediately and he handed over a twenty, pocketed the change and made straight for the station.
Alighting from the train, there was only a short distance to travel from the station and it was still only 8.30 when Benjie walked up the steps of his parent's home in Kenton, turned the key and let himself in.
He barely had time to close the door before his neck was encircled by his mother's arms, reaching up to pull his head down to her level while uttering her greeting, “Benjie darling, come give your Momma a big kiss”.
Seventy-five years old and now quite frail, Hanna Shroot had shrunk to little over five-foot-tall and weighed only eight stone. Her hearing and sight were not as keen as they once had been. She still had a full head of hair, although now pure white, mostly her own teeth but her mind was sharp as a tack. It was no easy task for her to manhandle her son, but just having him there gave her renewed strength, as she planted a big kiss on each cheek and then hugged close into his chest. Benjie, the youngest of her four children had been a change of life baby. She had always found him a bit of a
handful when he was growing up as he was strong, intelligent and wilful and, being so much younger than his siblings, he became terribly spoiled.
“Come in and sit down and let me look at you. Tell me how you've been,” she said dragging him toward the lounge.
“Momma, I'm fine, you only saw me last week,” he replied, shaking himself free. “Here, take the shopping, the salmon and kes need to go in the fridge. They're fresh, as usual, from the Yiddishi shop.”
Hanna took the bag, but made no movement to leave the room, as she looked approvingly at her son. “So, how's my boy? How's work? Have you met a nice Jewish girl yet? You're leaving it late if you're going to make me a Bobba again.”
The usual barrage of questions; much as he adored his mother, all Benjie's feelings of claustrophobia returned. Being raised like an only child, in an orthodox Jewish home, hadn't been easy for him. He'd spent the first eighteen years of his life, growing up in this house, surrounded by adults practicing their rites and rituals. He never thought about it at the time as it was just his home, but, looking back, the house was quite shabby and old fashioned even then and it seemed considerably more so now. It was a three-bedroom terrace with a through lounge–dining room and it had its own front and back gardens. Most of the furniture, although good quality, was older than Benjie and the décor too had seen better days. His parents were not mean, but they'd worked very hard to achieve everything they had and they were from a generation that avoided waste and didn't replace what wasn't broken.
“How's Papa today?” he replied, completely sidestepping his mother's inquisition.
“No better, no worse. You know how he is. He's been the same for the last year or more. Some days he's like he always was and others he doesn't know me. This morning he asked me for a plate of borsht, but he thought I was his grandmother. You should go up and see him now. See if he comes back for you. You've always been special to him.” Her head was bent and tears welled in her eyes as she said this. Benjie pulled her in close for a reassuring hug, but words were beyond him. There was nothing he could think of to say.
“Quick, go now,” she added, pulling away and wiping her eyes. “I'll put the kettle on and make you some breakfast. What will you have? How about a matzo egg or an egg and onion?”
“No thanks, Ma. Just a cup of tea and slice of sweet and sour will do.” Benjie had always been partial to the caraway flavoured rye bread. “I don't want any more just now. I'll maybe get a bagel and salmon later” he replied, turning towards the stairs. “I'll be back down soon.”
Benjie was apprehensive and paused before he opened the bedroom door and looked down on the emaciated form he had once revered as his father. Maurice Shroot was seven years older than Hanna and many of his years had not been kind. He was born in Budapest and, to start with, he had a privileged upbringing as his family had been wealthy traders. In 1940, his mother was one of the very few with the foresight to anticipate the horrors ahead and she decided to send Moshe away to Switzerland to safety. To look at, Moshe was the least obviously Jewish of her children and she thought this would give him the greatest chance of success on the journey through German controlled territories. Her plan succeeded and Moshe spent the remaining war years labouring on a farm near Zurich. He had not previously been accustomed to physical work but he was young and strong. He devoted all his spare time, and gave all the money he could afford, to help underground organisations trying to support Jewish refugees. The rest of his family had remained in Budapest. One cousin was selected to escape on 'Kastner's train' although she had not survived the journey. Despite Moshe carrying out an exhaustive search, over many years, no relatives were found who survived the holocaust. Shortly after the end of the war, Moshe travelled to London where he learned his trade as a barber and eventually opened his own salon. A strong, powerful man in his youth, Maurice, as he took to being called, to be easier accepted in London's east end, was now a shadow of his former self, both his body and mind seemed to have disintegrating over time.
Not long after his fiftieth birthday, Maurice started to suffer from chronic arthritis. Although he continued to operate the salon, his hands became too painful to work in it himself. His all time favourite joke claiming 'he couldn't cut hair any longer, because he could only cut it shorter' brought no more humour to him and he stopped using it to persecute everyone new he met. At fifty- nine, only months before Benjie's 'barmizvah', Maurice had his first serious angina attack. He recovered quickly, but not for long and repeated episodes weakened him considerably. His physical health deteriorated further, surviving three diagnosed myocardial infarctions. All of this was bearable, compared to the ravages of dementia which sapped the life and spirit from all those around him.
Benjie gently lifted his father's bony fingers, pressed the back of his hand to his face and kissed it. He was saddened but no longer surprised to see the grey and lifeless pallor of the parched sagging skin which covered the skeletal frame in front of him.
“Hello Papa. It's me, Benjie. How are you feeling? Is there anything I can get you?”
The head turned slowly and eyes opened. At first only confusion showed as Maurice looked up from the bed. Then his lips parted in a toothless smile and a spark of life shone from his eyes. Benjie waited, hopeful today would be a day his father saw him as his son and not in the form of some memory from his dim and distant past.
“Benjie, you're a sight for sore eyes. It's good to see you, boy. I was just thinking about you, remembering the day when you caught a pigeon in a cardboard box and you wanted to bring it home as a pet,” and his father started laughing until he broke into a coughing fit.
Benjie moved his father to a sitting position and poured him some water from a bottle on the bedside table, holding the glass for him to sip until his throat cleared. He fluffed up his pillows to enable him to sit up and breathe easier. Benjie struggled to retrieve his own recollection of the day his father described and was truly surprised how his father could have such vivid and accurate recollection of trivial incidents from so many years past but often couldn't remember what day it was or recognise to whom he was talking.
After only a few minutes' conversation, he could see his father was tiring and Benjie helped him adjust his position so he could comfortably sleep again. He was relieved the visit had been short and relatively painless, but at the same time felt a little bit guilty at being able to leave him so soon. Guilt was something Benjie had trained himself to discard quickly and by the time he had noiselessly closed the door and descended the stairs, he was no longer troubled.
“Come sit down. Your tea's ready and I've done you a couple of bagels for breakfast,” called his mother.
“But ma, I told you I wasn't so hungry, I didn't want all that much,” he replied.
“No, take it now. It'll do you good and I've made a cholunt which you can have for lunch. You will be staying, your brother Saul's coming over with Marcus and Stephen. Marcus is nearly finished university and he wants to go into accountancy. He'll want to talk to you for advice.” As usual the instructions came hard and fast and didn't seem to leave much room for negotiation. However, over the years, Benjie had learned to deal with this in his own way. He no longer followed the path of least resistance. He had his own life and more or less did what he wanted and when he wanted. He looked at the food Hanna had prepared thinking this would be more than half his required calorie count for the day and he couldn't help but smile as he lifted and bit into a delicious half bagel which had been spread with kes and topped with a generous slice of smoked salmon, while his mother poured tea from her large china teapot.
To read more - available at Amazon.
About the Author
Having the background of a successful career in commerce and finance, Zach Abrams has spent many years writing reports, letters and presentations and it's only fairly recently he started writing novels. “It's a more honourable type of fiction,” he declares.
His first novel Ring Fenced was published in November 2011.
This is a crime story with a difference, following one man's obsession with power and control.
After this he collaborated with Elly Grant to produce Twists and Turns a book of short stories.
Zach's next novel, Made a Killing, is the first book in the Alex Warren series. It follows the investigation after the killing of a much hated criminal where an elephant tusk was used as the murder weapon was. This has been followed by A Measure of Trouble where Alex's team are seeking the murderer of a CEO killed within the cask room of his whisky distillery. The third, Written to Death, deals with a mysterious death during a writers' group meeting. These are fast-moving, gripping novels set in the tough crime-ridden streets of Glasgow.
Zach's quirky thriller, Source; A Fast-Paced Financial Crime Thriller has three investigative journalists travelling across the UK, Spain and France as they research corruption and sabotage in the banking sector while trying to cope with their own fraught personal lives.
Alike his central character in Ring Fenced, (Bemjamin Short), Zach Abrams completed his education in Scotland and went on to a career in accountancy, business and finance. He is married with two children. He plays no instruments but has an eclectic taste in music, although not as obsessive as Benjamin. Unlike Benjamin, he does not maintain mistresses, write pornography and (sadly) he does not have ownership of such a company. He is not a sociopath (at least by his own reckoning) and all versions of his life are aware of and freely communicate with each other.
More in keeping with 'Alex Warren,' Zach was raised in Glasgow and has spent many years working in Central Scotland.
To contact the author mailto:[email protected]
Books by the Author
Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Made A Killing
A Measure of Trouble
Written To Death