The Greyminster Chronicles
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This is Greyminster, a smoky, post-industrial milltown tucked away in the north west corner of England. A pleasant enough place except for one fact. Greyminster is the Spaghetti Junction of the Fortean World. Time travel, ravenous space beasts, manic old biddies and robots with a penchant for Hob Nobs. This volume contains all four Greyminster novels, five short stories, characters by the barrow load and enough good humour to blow your socks off!
took a bite from a mackerel sandwich, grimaced and quickly unscrewed his flask. His mother obviously hadn’t emptied the fridge recently. “Apparently Fatty’s been having a purge on illegal street traders.” Nesbit’s attitude towards his superior was declining as the years crawled by. “But Constable Robins forgot to put the film in the camera, so ’ee ’asn’t ’ad much luck.” “There’s bin a lot of stuff about illegal trading on the news.” Clewes took a ginger bite from a slice of walnut cake, then
considerate as to supply their readers with sound effects now, would they? Along the pastel colonnades of High Street we ramble. Past the impressive Victory Hotel with its ‘Smoking Room’ and ‘Public Bar’ as announced across its windows in the same fashion as Stoughton’s Tailors. On past the Bank of Scotland with its difficult to reach hole-in-the-wall due to the thicket of variegated ivy, until at last we reach an insignificant building sandwiched between the ‘Home Made Butty Emporium’ and
more!” She turned to the gravestone and kicked it violently. “Oy! ’Obson, y’ wrinkled old stiff I wants a word with y’!” An owl hooted stupidly in the nearby copse. Mrs Prune patiently waited. “I know you’re there! Watchin’ what was goin’ on! Or comin’ off! Y’ sick Tom Jones.” “The expression, you turgid walnut, is ‘John Doe.’ And every corpse has a right to guard his own property.” Thomas Hobson appeared, leaning over the gravestone, his eyes smouldering dimly. “Not with ’is flies undone!”
confusion I kinda lost count of the number of bullets I fired.” Sixteen thought Jess, not that he’d been counting. “Do you feel lucky Punk?” A carving knife was brought to the bridge of Jess’ nose. “Do you know what sound an eyeball makes when it’s punctured?” “A poppin’ noise?” Jess shrugged, staring into Donald’s dark, emotionless eyes. “’Oo are you?” “You’re a smart kid...figure it out for yourself.” He released his grip. Seconds later Donald squeezed two old fashioned pennies against
about the proceeding events. However, he thought he’d noticed the cat-flap move at the base of the Doyle’s front door. His hand fumbled awkwardly for the telephone receiver, an automatic reaction to trouble. The receiver managed to cover about half the distance between the trestle and his head before it stopped. Confusion screwed itself up into a boxing glove of doubt across Jack’s features. “No!” He shook his head. “No…it couldn’t have been...” And the receiver rattled back onto the phone.