Fear of the Fathers: The Reiki Man Trilogy

by Dominic C. James

  Praise for Dominic C. James:

  “I don’t normally recommend novels on my website, but I’m making an exception for The Reiki Man by Dominic C. James. It’s an action packed thriller with lots of spiritual information woven through it, and as the title suggests, lots of Reiki too – I couldn’t put it down!”

  Penelope Quest

  Best-selling Reiki author

  “The Reiki Man combines the spiritual world with the physical and tests both to the limit. James creates a believable narrative and I felt totally drawn into the mystery of Reiki. However, what is clever about this story is that it is a murder mystery with more to it than the usual ‘whodunnit’. The ending made me desperate to read the second part of the trilogy! Fans of Dan Brown will love this book.”

  Victoria Watson

  Young Reviewer of the Year

  “All in all a good fun read – and first in a trilogy. With its surprise ending, The Reiki Man will leave you ready for more.”

  Beth Lowell

  Reiki Digest

  “I really enjoyed it. And perhaps enjoyed it all the more as it is not normally the genre of book that I would read. So, it started out as a duty and definitely ended up a pleasure. I enjoyed learning about Reiki and fell totally in love with Titan. It’s a fascinating book, and holds the attention throughout, which is no mean feat. An unusual subject that’s written about in a fascinating way...well done!”

  Laura Lockington

  Author Cupboard Love and Stargazy Pie

  “It’s about time there was a novel about Reiki. And as an added bonus it is a suspense/mystery story. This is a great read and I recommend the book to all.”

  Steve Murray

  Best-selling author of Reiki: The Ultimate Guide

  “The book is fantastic and a service to mankind I think as it’s so accessible for ‘non-spiritual’ folk.”

  Heather Mackenzie

  UK Reiki Federation

  Fear of the

  Fathers

  The Reiki Man Trilogy

  Fear of the

  Fathers

  The Reiki Man Trilogy

  Dominic C. James

  Winchester, UK

  Washington, USA

  First published by Roundfire Books, 2012

  Roundfire Books is an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd., Laurel House, Station Approach,

  Alresford, Hants, SO24 9JH, UK

  office1@o-books.net

  www.o-books.com

  For distributor details and how to order please visit the ‘Ordering’ section on our website.

  Text copyright: Dominic C. James 2011

  ISBN: 978 1 78099 135 1

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publishers.

  The rights of Dominic C. James as author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Design: Stuart Davies

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Printed in the USA by Offset Paperback Mfrs, Inc

  We operate a distinctive and ethical publishing philosophy in all areas of our business, from our global network of authors to production and worldwide distribution.

  For Nana

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to all my friends and family for helping to get the first book off the ground, particularly Rob for his tireless unpaid construction of my website; everyone at John Hunt Publishing, especially John and Trevor for the fantastic opportunities I’ve been given; everyone who contacted me through the first book; and of course all at JT’s.

  Prologue

  From his chambers high up in the Vatican Cardinal Desayer looked out on St Peter’s square. As usual it was brimming with bodies; even the inclement weather hadn’t stopped the onslaught of tourists and pilgrims. Come hell or high water they would arrive in their droves, either seeking answers or solace, or perhaps just to marvel at the divine beauty of the city and its works of art. The majority though, were here because they believed; because the knowledge of God’s existence was deep in their hearts. He smiled to himself at the unshakable faith of the masses.

  A knock on the door turned his attention. “Come,” he said with authority.

  A priest entered the room. He was tall with wavy blond hair and spectacles. The cardinal eyed him gravely. “What is it Father Cronin?”

  The priest bowed his head. “I have news, Your Eminence; news from abroad. It may be nothing, but you did say to keep you informed of any strange occurrences.”

  “Yes, indeed I did. What has occurred?”

  Father Cronin produced a newspaper clipping. “Shall I read it out?”

  The cardinal nodded.

  “The headline reads ‘Vicar feels thunder of God’, it’s from a regional newspaper in England: When Reverend Robin Garrett sat down to say grace on Christmas day, little did he know that he was about to get something for which he wasn’t truly thankful. As the unfortunate vicar, 30, started his prayer, the ground began to shake violently, throwing him and his family from their chairs. ‘It was pandemonium,’ said Robin. ‘We all fell to the floor closely followed by the turkey.’ When the hapless —”

  Desayer held up his palm. “Father,” he interrupted. “Perhaps just the salient points.”

  “Of course, Your Eminence,” Cronin apologized. “It’s basically a localized earth tremor with its epicentre at the church. When the vicar went to investigate, he saw five men hurrying from the building. The altar was cracked down the middle.”

  Desayer stiffened. “Why haven’t you told me this before?!” he snapped. “Christmas was almost three months ago.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Eminence, but all this research takes time. There’s only me and my assistant, and we have a whole world of articles to get through.”

  Desayer calmed himself and said, “I’m sorry Father, you do an excellent job. Where exactly did this happen? Have you checked the location against our map?”

  “Yes I have. The church in question is on a power point. And there’s something else.”

  “And what is that?”

  “A report in a different paper mentioned the stealing of a corpse from a mortuary on Christmas Eve. The incidents might not be related but—”

  “They are related,” Desayer enforced. “I’m certain of it. I can feel it. Someone has acquired the sacred knowledge.” He paced behind his desk, a thoughtful finger to his lips. Then he approached the young priest and rested a hand on his shoulder. “You must go to England to investigate. It is time for you to fulfil your purpose. You know what to do.”

  Cronin nodded solemnly. “Yes, Your Eminence,” he said, and took his leave.

  Cardinal Desayer turned back to the window and looked up to the blackened sky. A storm was coming.

  Chapter 1

  The Grand National maybe the most famous race in the world, but to the aficionado the Cheltenham Gold Cup is the ultimate prize for the steeplechaser. Three and a quarter miles of undulating turf and bone-crunching fences are followed by a stiff uphill climb to the finish that can break the heart and will of the most talented animal. It is a test of skill, speed, and stamina unlike any other; a gauntlet of grit, guts, gumption and galvanism. Only the bravest need apply.

  Thomas Jennings had no particular interest in horseracing, but at the bidding of the First Lord of the Treasury, he found himself in a luxury box overlooking Prestbury Park anticipating the start of the big race. The Prime Minist
er, Jonathan Ayres, was the owner of the favourite, a horse named Jumping Jon who was unbeaten in eight starts. Jennings was on duty as personal protection.

  It was not the first time that Ayres had specifically requested Jennings’ services. Over the past couple of months, since the Mulholland incident, Jennings had found himself increasingly in demand by the premier. It was a huge compliment but he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it all.

  Ayres put down his binoculars and turned to address Jennings. “Exciting isn’t it?” he said.

  “Yes sir,” Jennings replied. “It was good of you to think of me.”

  Ayres smiled. “Not at all. A hero like yourself has to have some perks to the job.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say sir, but I’m not really a hero.”

  “Nonsense, don’t be so modest,” said Ayres. “You risked your life to find a killer – the killer of my best friend.”

  “I suppose so. But there were other people involved.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. But you’re part of our team.”

  Ayres returned to his binoculars and watched the horses circle at the start. Jennings got to his feet and viewed the action on the giant screen. He shuffled nervously. It was his first time at a race meeting and he’d been instantly smitten by the buzz of the crowd. The atmosphere at the course had been electric all day. Whether you were into horseracing or not, there was no denying the infectious energy permeating the air. Even the incessant rain hadn’t dampened the spirits of the happy-go-lucky enthusiasts. They were expecting something special; and now, by suggestion, so was Jennings.

  The horses got into line behind the starting tape. The flag went up. The flag came down. The tape lifted. The race began. A crazed clamour came from the crowd.

  The horses approached the first fence at speed. Jennings’ heart filled his mouth. As Jumping Jon touched down safely there was audible relief in the Prime Minister’s box. One down, twenty-one to go.

  After the second obstacle the field came past the stands for the first time, and the crowd let out another mighty roar. Jumping Jon lobbed along in the middle of the fourteen runners, his jockey content and still, saving energy for the two circuits ahead.

  As the horses headed away from the stands Jonathan Ayres took a sip of water and steadied himself. Jennings stayed glued to the action, unable to take his eyes away. He’d broken the habit of a lifetime and placed a bet. He’d put fifty pounds on the Prime Minister’s horse at 3/1. He stood to make a £150 profit if it won; which the PM had assured him it would.

  The horses passed the stands once more and headed out onto their final circuit. Jumping Jon was in third place, a couple of lengths off the leader, still cruising and his jockey yet to move a muscle. Jennings tightened up and whispered “come on boy” under his breath.

  The tempo of the race wound up, and one by one the lesser lights tailed out of contention. As the leaders flew downhill towards the tricky third-last there were only four horses left in it; Jumping Jon was in second, still tanking along. He negotiated the fence with ease and continued to breathe down the neck of the leader. The other two contenders began to flounder in the rain-softened ground.

  At the second-last it was still neck and neck, but then Jumping Jon’s rider let out some rein and he started to shoot clear. He arrived at the last fence with an ever-increasing lead of four lengths. Jennings held his breath, willing the horse over the final flight. Jumping Jon rose majestically, flying through the air with the grace of a gymnast. But then, on landing, he lost his footing and stumbled almost to a halt. The jockey shot halfway up his neck and held on grimly. The crowd let out a great gasp. The horse in second, Barney’s Bluff, jumped the fence and drew level.

  With all his strength, Jumping Jon’s jockey righted himself and pulled hard at the reins, virtually picking his mount off the floor. Barney’s Bluff drew away. Back on an even keel, but with three lengths to make up, Jumping Jon started to rally, slowly whittling away his opponent’s lead. The crowd regained their voice and cheered violently. Jennings, forgetting the company he was in, rode out the finish with flailing arms and falsetto voice.

  A hundred yards from the line Jumping Jon was still a length down and seemingly destined for the runner-up spot. The Cheltenham hill, however, is most unforgiving, and Barney’s Bluff began to tire. Jumping Jon was wearing him down with every stride: three quarters of a length; half a length; a quarter of a length; a neck. The crowd screamed like never before. And then there was hush. The horses had crossed the line together, nobody could tell who had won.

  “Photograph!” called the announcer. “Photograph for first place!”

  A breathless Jonathan Ayres turned to Jennings. “What do you think?” he asked.

  Jennings shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know sir. I couldn’t really tell. It looked like a dead-heat to me.”

  “I couldn’t tell either,” said Ayres. “Let’s just keep our fingers crossed.”

  “If it helps sir, I think there’s another 30,000 people here who are hoping for the same thing.”

  “I suppose I’d better go down to the winner’s circle, just in case.”

  Jennings led Ayres and his wife down the stairs towards the enclosure. Two other Special Branch operatives, Stone and Davis, cleared a way through the crowd.

  The horses and jockeys returned to the unsaddling enclosure. The hanging silence spoke volumes. Jennings was as tense as everybody else. Even with his limited knowledge of horseracing he sensed that he was part of a unique moment. The wait was interminable, the air growing thicker with every agonizing second. Then, just as patience reached the end of its elasticity, the loud speaker crackled to life.

  “Here is the result for first place,” said the announcer. There was a Mexican murmur and the crowd rocked nervously. Please be number eight, thought Jennings.

  “First…number eight!”

  The whole place exploded with cheers of joy and relief. Hats dotted the sky. Carried away in the wave of euphoria Jennings punched the air with delight. But his fist froze at its apex. His eyes fell upon a bearded Indian man standing behind a rail twenty yards away. He wore a dark grey suit and trench coat, and matching trilby hat. Unlike the rest of the crowd he was neither vociferous nor animated. His right arm was in a shooting posture, his hand hidden under the sleeve of the coat and pointing towards Jonathan Ayres. All Jennings could see was a dark tunnel, but he was almost certain that the man had a gun.

  Instinctively Jennings jumped in front of the Prime Minister. He felt a thud in his chest and he hit the ground. The man disappeared into the crowd.

  Chapter 2

  It had been three months since Stratton had died. Stella Jones was still coming to terms with her loss. Even now his death seemed dreamily unreal. As she paced up and down the supermarket aisles, she wondered what she could do to lay his ghost to rest. There had been no funeral – the body snatching incident had seen to that – and so no chance to say a proper goodbye. The stagnant cloud of her soul was hovering in the past. She needed the storm to break and wash her clean. The world was moving on apace without her. She needed closure.

  A suspicious-looking figure in a white hoodie broke her thoughts. He was hanging around the spirit section with light-fingered intent. She casually wandered over to the beers to get a closer look, just in time to catch the youth secreting a bottle of Blue Label into the pouch of his top. He turned to leave, only to find the way barred.

  “I think you ought to put that back,” said Stella, standing firm, arms folded.

  The gawky thief looked at her incredulously. “Put what back?” he said.

  “The vodka. And don’t pretend you haven’t got it.”

  The thief grunted. “Who the fuck are you anyway?”

  “I’m the store detective.”

  Realizing the futility of playing dumb, the thief grunted again, removed the bottle, and put it back on the shelf. Then, with gazelle-like speed, he made a break for it. Stella didn’t move. It was enough for her that the
goods had been returned. Chasing after him would involve a lot of effort for a minimal result. Apart from the physical side there would be the police and a stream of paperwork to deal with. And all for what? The kid would get a slap on the wrist and carry on as he had been. There would be no repercussions, arrest was just an occupational hazard.

  Stella chided herself for being so cynical. She was slowly losing her moral grip. She could hear Stratton’s voice in her head, telling her not to stop caring. But how could she care? She felt like she was up against insurmountable odds. The world was a desolate place these days; if it wasn’t war and starvation abroad, it was knifings and shootings at home. The streets of Britain were fast becoming a savage dystopia, as a disaffected and forgotten generation waged their anger at a society in which poverty itself had become a crime. In the face of this, was it possible to stand firm and true? Where could you find the strength to hold your head up high and continue doing the right thing?

  Stella carried on dutifully pacing the aisles with her mock trolley of goods. It occurred to her that by letting the shoplifter go, she had missed out on the only excitement she was likely to have that day. A good chase might have stemmed her malaise. She had only taken the job to stop herself moping around the flat, but instead of lifting her spirits it had chiselled away at her even more.

  The store manager Barry Bathwick approached Stella in the frozen food section. “Hi Stella,” he said. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s ok,” she said. “Very quiet.”