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PAPERBACK BOOKS

THE KIWI CONNECTION


the kiwi connection

The Kiwi Connection is a thrilling read from start to finish and follows William Stewart from Australia to New Zealand with his parents when he was 10 years old.

 He excelled in school, as well as at boxing but, due to a lack of parental guidance, became involved with some hoodlums in Melbourne. 

This life of crime eventually found him in jail with a Chinese Cambodian drug dealer for a cellmate, where he learned everything he needed to know about drug trafficking.

This story of murder, mystery and betrayal is a good read that is hard to put down.

In Store Price: $25.95 
Online Price:   $24.95

 

AMAZON

EBOOKS
Ebook version - $AUD9.00 upload.

ISBN: 978-1-922229-21-2      Format: Paperback
Number of pages: 216
Genre:
Fiction

Cover: Clive Dalkins
 

Books by the same author


UFO’s Food for Thought

Murder without Reason

Neurotic Predator Unmasked

Gross, Unethical Conduct

The Dragon’s Breath

Calypso Queen

Northern Assignment

 


Author
-
John Meskell
Publisher: Zeus Publications
Date Published:  2016
Language: English


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-CHAPTER ONE - PART SAMPLE 

 

THE JAGUAR CONVERTIBLE SNAKED its way through the dimly lit streets before slowing down and then stopping and reversing into a dark laneway. The driver dressed in dark clothing, slid out from behind the wheel and walking to the entrance of the alleyway glanced furtively up the street to the right and left, it was eight pm with most of the houses in darkness. The only sign of life was the characteristic blue glow emanating from television receivers, easily distinguishable through the curtains of suburban homes.

To the West, twenty kilometres away a storm was brewing as forked lightning licked through low clouds, accompanied by a low rumbling of thunder. Wind gusts came in spasmodic bursts, hurtling old newspapers and dust ahead of its fierce onslaught. With a sudden drop in temperature an eerie atmosphere suddenly enveloped the area as whole and the wind suddenly, with no apparent reason dropped off. The surrounding area suddenly became quite still with lightning becoming more prominent and distinct, which gave the driver of the vehicle an added incentive to hurry.  

A street sign was fixed to a telegraph pole indicating the location of Prescott Street in the southern suburb of Woodbridge which loomed out of the darkness. Parking the vehicle beneath a tree situated a short distance away and stealthy with extreme caution, the driver walked in from the intersection. It was only a matter of a minute before number sixteen appeared attached to a post box next to a front gate, which swung half opened. Pushing the gate open, it swung noiselessly as the intruder crept through the gardens up to the front window.

Peering through laced curtains a woman could clearly be seen lying on a lounge in front of the television screen, awake and watching a current movie. The intruder looked around cautiously once more but could see nothing untoward and felt safe. Distant flashes of lightning caused the only illumination on the front porch.

Surprisingly, the front door was not locked and it slowly edged open, allowing the intruder to silently creep into the foyer of a hallway. A furtive peek around the lounge room door showed the woman languishing in apparent comfort, still blissfully unaware she had unwelcome company with her within the house. The intruder could easily distinguish that the television receiver was turned down low and the woman watching it was eating chocolates.

 The glow of the television receiver revealed the woman in semi-darkness sending a blaze of rage and hate surging through the body of the intruder. A disused fireplace held an ornamental receptacle containing a number of brass pokers. The intruder slipped into the lounge room on hands and knees towards the receptacle with eyes darting furtively around here and there but still the woman on the lounge had not detected the intruder’s presence.

It was the noise the intruder suddenly made while rushing to the poker stand and withdrawing one of the pokers that enabled her to realise that she was not alone. With an alarmed look her eyes opened wide and she saw the poker sweeping downwards at her head. She tried to call out with her heart racing heavily and instinctively, she threw up one of her arms in self-defence to ward off the blow. The poker struck heavily, breaking her arm and completely nullified any further feeble attempts of defence. Desperately, she clutched at the intruder with her good arm and while struggling; the woman dragged a bracelet from the wrist of her attacker. It fell to the floor and rolled beneath the lounge.

The woman was no match for her assailant, who easily pulled her arm away and brought the poker down on her head, again and again. The ferocity and force of the attack knocked the woman unconscious and with a sigh, she slid to the floor, but still the intruder did not stop. Stirred by a frenzy of uncontrollable bitterness and hate, the poker struck the inert head of the woman time and time again. Blood splattered up the walls with the force of the ferocious onslaught and finally the assailant stopped, breathing heavily from exhaustion.

Recovering, the attacker quickly began to search the house, pulling open drawers and tipping their contents onto the floor. Finding nothing in the bedrooms, the intruder recommenced the routine in the kitchen, toppling the contents of condiment tins out onto the kitchen bench. One of the containers yielded a bundle of money held together with a rubber band. Quickly thrusting the money into a pocket, the intruder wiped the containers over with a tea towel before fleeing into the night.  

Outside, heavy spots of rain were beginning to fall and sharp whip-like cracks of thunder heralded the oncoming gale about to descend. There was no traffic on the roads as the driver pushed at a button raising the hood of the convertible. The oncoming fusillade of rain began to fall and the windscreen wipers clacked back and forth as the car glided ghost-like though the deluge.

Although, the driver was beginning to feel a little easier, the horror of what had transpired back at the house had not yet began to register. Heroin, used to foster courage prior to the invasion of the house was beginning to lose its effect and the only thought in mind was to get as far away as possible without being seen in the area.

It was thirty kilometres to the other side of the city where a party was in progress with the car being loaned to the driver for the purpose of obtaining drugs. Now there would be no problem on that score and not only did the money mean that the driver could now return with the drugs as promised, but that rotten bitch back in the house had now met her demise.

Meanwhile, Basil Netrose was taking his time while driving to his home in Prescott Street because of heavy rain falling in torrents and as he crawled along the rain seemed to intensify which caused him a few problems with his demister in the car being faulty and not operating, as he would have desired. It had been faulty for some weeks and despite his intention to get it repaired he had not got around to it and now he was paying the supreme price for his neglect, with the windscreen continually fogging.

It was a fierce storm with rain pelting into his car’s windscreen in spasms of ferocious onslaughts causing him to drive at a slow speed while continually wiping at the condensation on his windscreen with a rag. Fortunately there were no large hailstones prominent within the onslaught of the heavy rain. Flashes of lightning briefly illuminated the road and surrounding area. But for the storm, Basil would have been home at least an hour earlier but he had been held up at his office by a number of piddling matters requiring urgent attention and finally he came to the street and his home.

He drove slowly into number sixteen and pulled into the driveway running alongside his house. The garage was open and after parking his car he took his brief case from the front seat and prepared for his run up the side of the house to the front door. He did not have an umbrella with him and hated getting wet at anytime.

Running up the front steps onto the patio, he noticed that the front door was ajar. ‘That’s unusual,’ he surmised. ‘Whatever could Margaret have been thinking to leave the front door unlocked? Margaret,’ he called out, ‘I’m home.’

He could see the glow of the television from the lounge room but there was no answer. Suspecting nothing, he went into the lounge room and almost fainted at the horrific sight that greeted him. The sweet repugnant smell of blood nauseated him and he could feel bile surging up into his throat when he saw the smashed and battered head of his wife. He could not stop the vomit hurtling from his mouth and perspiring furiously, his heart raced and pain wrenched at his stomach.


 

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