SHOULD I DITCH MY "FINGER-ON-TRIGGER" BOOK COVER?

I like thrillers; I've written a few. But book covers with guns, finger-on-trigger, really turn me off. Enough.

This was the comment from a fellow author as a reply to a promotional tweet for my novel THE HIT-AND-RUN MAN, which featured an image of the e-book’s front cover.

    As this was the first reaction to my book covers – the current one is its second, both along a similar theme – I was somewhat disappointed that it was a negative one.  So, should I be looking to a further change?

    It’s impossible to underestimate the importance of a book cover in attracting a potential reader’s interest, but I believe it should have more of a function than that.  For me, it should also give that potential reader an indication of the book’s content.  The cover and the book’s blurb, I believe, should leave no doubt as to the general theme of the book.  An Amazon UK reviewer labelled THE HIT-AND-RUN MAN as a “tough, all-action thriller,” so anyone looking for a cosy romantic read (though there is some romance in it) with a cheerful, happy ending or a generous helping of chick-lit is in for considerable disappointment, but should be well aware of that before parting with their hard-earned pennies.

    To see if there was a general agreement with my cover critic among other authors, I paid a visit to the “Paperback Best-Sellers” section of the books shelving at my local Asda store.  First to jump out was James Patterson’s Bullseye, which not only featured the figure of a man with a gun, but two pieces of text – “Target in Sight” and “Finger on the Trigger” – both of which could just as easily fitted  on the cover of THE HIT-AND-RUN MAN.  A little further down the display the front cover of James Patterson’s Hope to Die more prominently featured a man with a gun.  Also, a number of Scott Mariani novels boasted front covers showing similar images.  In number one position was American Sniper showing an American soldier brandishing a fairly formidable-looking piece of hardware.

    Should I be thinking of a change of front cover on the back of a single negative comment?  It’s difficult to think where else I could go to give potential readers a flavour of what’s between the covers.  There is a sexual element to the novel, but the story revolves more around the consequences of surrendering to sexual temptation, rather than the sex itself. I know they say sex sells, but though there is an explicit passage, I would not be comfortable projecting a sexual theme as the main content.  

    My feeling is that, for the moment, the cover stays.  If it’s an image that is good enough for some of our best-selling authors and their publishers, I have to feel I am in good company. Obviously, if I receive more negative feedback or sense the cover is hindering rather than helping sales, I would have to reconsider.  THE HIT-AND-RUN MAN and the “finger-on-trigger” cover will continue as a team.

WHEN THE ORDINARY BECOMES EXTRAORDINARY

Meet Howard Greenfield, sales executive for a London-based advertising agency.  Happily married, with a daughter he dotes on, focused on his work, ever ambitious to move onwards and upwards. An ordinary guy, living an ordinary life. This is the main character of my eBook novel THE HIT-AND-RUN MAN. And his life is about to change in dramatic and deadly fashion.

My aim was to put an ordinary person into an extraordinary situation and explore how such person would react. I have always been fascinated by this theme. Yes, heroes like James Bond, Jason Bourne and Jack Ryan make for great reads and films, but these are trained operatives used to dealing with unexpected and dangerous situations. The way they escape situations that no mere mortal could reasonably expect to has elevated them to a position not far short of Marvel superheroes.

No such luxuries for Howard Greenfield. On a routine business trip to Barcelona, he is easily flattered and overwhelmed by the attentions of the stunningly beautiful Julie. Always uncomfortable around the female of the species, he had spent his younger days immersed in his work. While other men his age were busy chatting up and dating girls, he had eyes only for busily climbing the career ladder. It took him months to build up the courage to blushingly ask out Pauline, who became his wife. She was the only woman he had ever dated.

Julie’s seductive charms transform him.  The nervousness and awkwardness are swept away by a boldness he has never known before, as his inhibitions crumble in the sultry heat of a Spanish summer night. Perhaps Bond or Bourne would have sensed the danger. Soon he is to find his whole way of life and his future under the greatest threat. He will have to make a choice that would have devastating and deadly results. An ordinary guy in an extraordinary situation. Only you can decide what your choice would be.

THE HIT-AND-RUN MAN, described by a five-star reviewer as a “tough, all-action thriller,” is published in Kindle, KindleUnlimited, Paperback and Audiobook plus other formats. 

A LITERARY CLASSIC - BUT ABOUT THAT TITLE

In line with a promise I made to myself some time ago to read or re-read some of our great literary classics, I have just finished Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe.  Whatever the literary merits of this much-acclaimed novel, something about it strikes me as distinctly odd – the title!

    Ivanhoe is a Saxon knight, probably an unusual combination at that time as, even a century after the Conquest, the Normans were still regarded by the local population very much as an occupying force. Thus, when Ivanhoe joins King Richard’s knights in a Crusade to the Holy Land, he is disinherited by his father, Cedric, a local warlord. The story opens as Ivanhoe returns from Palestine hoping to win back his father’s favour.

    Not a shrinking violet, Ivanhoe begins his campaign by entering a large-scale tournament at Ashby-de-la-Zouch castle, attended by his father as a guest of Prince John. Not surprisingly he wins, but in the process is severely wounded. This confines him to a sick bed for most of the rest of the novel, until, in the concluding chapters, he rouses himself enough, as any self-respecting knight would, to ride to the aid of a damsel in distress.

                            Ashby-de-la-Zouch Castle

    There is no shortage of action throughout the book, but this is led mainly by the mysterious Black Knight (not really that mysterious if you have the slightest inkling of twelfth century English history) together later with Robin Hood and his famous band of Sherwood Forest outlaws.  I would have thought The Black Knight a more likely title, but, called that, would it have endured for nearly two hundred years, being much read and in more modern times much dramatised? The importance of the title to a book can never be underestimated and Ivanhoe does have a ring to it, but is that simply down to familiarity?

    Still, if you can cope with Scott’s perception of twelfth century dialogue and his sometimes wordy, sometimes over-descriptive, sometimes pretentious prose (try to get a copy with notes), there is a stirring historical romance to be found.  Castles are stormed, battles rage, hand to hand combat, unrequited lust (a pretty risky theme for the early nineteenth century) and love are thrown into the mix. Just don’t expect Ivanhoe to be much involved in a great deal of this. Until his final moment of glory, the closest he gets is a running commentary from his carer on a battle raging below the window of the building in which he lies recovering from his wound. This is not a book about Ivanhoe; more a book with Ivanhoe in it.

    Not to be put off I have downloaded Scott’s take on Tudor history, Kenilworth (all right, it was free). Part of the attraction is that here in Birmingham I live not too far away from the splendid ruins of the once-magnificent Kenilworth Castle.

                            Kenilworth Castle  

 What I don’t know at the moment is whether it will be that much about Kenilworth……..

Derrick R. Bickley
Author of crime thriller THE HIT-AND-RUN MAN, a dark tale of seduction, murder and life among London's criminal underworld, available as an ebook at Amazon Kindle http://goo.gl/7XbzZ UK http://goo.gl/GiHBk  US
       
   

THE HIT-AND-RUN MAN - CHAPTER SEVEN

Tommy Morgan hated his one-room bedsit. Undoubtedly, it had been a fine, large bedroom for someone many years before, when the house would have almost certainly have been occupied by a family of fairly substantial means, but as a living room, bedroom and kitchen rolled into one, it served poorly.

Rented as “furnished” accommodation, the furniture consisted of an old two-seater settee and armchair, which Morgan presumed to be a match, though the pattern was so faded and grimy it had passed beyond recognition, a rickety tubular-legged coffee table with grubby, Formica top and a small wardrobe set against the wall. The threadbare carpet covered only half the floor, surrendering the rest to bare floorboards. A single bed was tucked against the wall, adjacent to the wardrobe. A tatty, plywood partition cut off the kitchen, which really was nothing more than an electric cooker, old enough surely to be approaching heirloom status, and a small sink.

Morgan shuddered despite wearing a thick, woollen pullover. The early November chill easily overcame the meagre warmth thrown out by the upright paraffin heater, his only source of heating. He lived for the day he would get out of this place and that surely couldn’t be much longer. There had to be contact soon.

Morgan’s apartment was one of two in the upstairs of the house, the other occupied by George, a young man of questionable mental capacity, who had a regular Friday night ritual, whereby he indulged himself throughout the evening in the local pub to such a degree it became a race against time, on his return, to reach the communal lavatory at the far end of the landing before bringing most of it back again, an awful waste of good beer, Morgan always thought. To his credit, George usually made it in time, but the accompanying sound effects that echoed in the old house were something Morgan could have happily lived without.

Life in this hovel did, however, have its lighter moments, provided mainly by George’s inclination to sleepwalk around the house naked. There was one memorable night when, wakened by the screams of the elderly spinsters who occupied the only ground floor apartment, Morgan had flown down the stairs expecting to find murder, rape or robbery in progress. Instead he found George, as naked as the day he was born, standing at the open door, while the two women, screaming heartily, cowered within. Morgan had carefully guided him back to his room, but was never sure whether he really was sleepwalking or not. After all, it had been a Friday night!

The electric kettle clicked off. Dropping a tea bag in a mug, Morgan poured in the hot water. As he fetched the milk bottle from the kitchen, there was a knock on the door.

“Who is it?”

“Electricity Board, sir. There seems to be a fault on your meter.”

“It’s downstairs, by the front door.”

“We know where the meter is, sir.” There was no attempt to hide the note of impatience in the voice. “We need to check some of the wiring in the flat.”

Morgan cursed as he put the milk bottle down on the coffee table and crossed to the door. Why did interruptions always come just when a cup of tea or a meal had been put on the table? He had opened the door barely an inch before it was shoved open with great force, sending him reeling backwards, tipping over the coffee table to crash to the floor amid a scattering of hot tea and splashing milk.

The room was spinning. He knew he had to stabilise, clear away the fog from his eyes. There was a vague image of two men as he was hauled to his feet. The breath was knocked out of him as a fist hammered into his stomach. Another fist followed up, smashing into his face. Blood flowing freely from his nose, his legs buckled and he once more crashed to the floor. As the figure loomed over him again, he lashed out with his feet, just about making contact. His attackers stepped back, but the respite lasted only a moment. They came again, skirting his lashing feet, to haul him up with a heavy thud against the wall. Bleeding, hardly able to see and gasping for breath, he was powerless to resist the fists pounding his body and face.

As if by instinct his mind continued to work while his body succumbed to the onslaught, searching for a way out. He needed a weapon of some sort if he was to have any hope of fighting back. The milk bottle; where was the milk bottle? The succession of blows taking their toll, he slid down the wall, clattering again to the floor. Through the mist clouding his eyes, he could just make out the blurred outline of the bottle lying beside the overturned coffee table, about four feet away. It was his only chance. A desperate lunge through the feet of his assailants and it was in his hand. Summoning all his remaining strength, he brought the bottle down on the edge of the coffee table, smashing the bottle in half. Sitting on the floor, he turned, clutching the milk bottle neck as he pushed the jagged, broken edge towards his attackers. The two men held back, giving Morgan the vital seconds he needed to clear his head.

Everything drifted back into focus as he managed to lift himself shakily to his feet. The blows he had taken to his stomach made him feel sick. Blood pouring from his mouth and nose dripped off the end of his chin. He could actually feel his left eye swelling. But he was ready for them now. The element of surprise was gone and his makeshift weapon levelled the odds somewhat. Brandishing the broken bottle in his right hand, he beckoned the two men forward with his left.

“Come on, then,” he challenged. “Let’s see how brave you are now.”

“I think we’ve had enough for now, Mr. Morgan.”

Another man had entered the room, older than the other two, with hardly a hair on his head, but a thick, bushy beard, as though all his hair was growing in the wrong place.

“Who the hell are you?” demanded Morgan. “Who the hell are any of you?”

“Most people call me ‘the Beard’ for rather obvious reasons,” said the new arrival. “Now do put down the bottle, please.”

“Only if you call off Pinky and Perky here.”

The two men reacted to the taunt, but as they moved forward Morgan lashed out with the broken bottle, drawing the jagged edge across the wrist of the one nearest to him. There was a startled cry as blood oozed from the severed skin.

“I said that’s enough,” shouted the Beard.

Morgan was unsure whether it was he who was being admonished or the two muscle men. To the latter the Beard added, in calmer tone, “Leave us. Get that wrist fixed. You’re bleeding all over the man’s floorboards.”

The two men hesitated.

“Go on,” insisted the Beard. “I’ll be all right.”

Seemingly satisfied, they departed through the open door, leaving a trail of blood spots across the floor. Shutting the door behind them, the Beard made a quick survey of the cheerless room that passed for an apartment.

“God, do you really live in this dump?”

“It’s all I can afford.”

“Or the Social Security can afford.”

“That’s none of your bloody business.”

“Put down the bottle, Mr. Morgan.” When he made no move to do so, the Beard added, “You’re being very foolish. I am armed.”

He opened his unbuttoned overcoat and jacket to reveal the butt of a pistol poking out from under his armpit, secured in a holster clipped to a strap tightened around his shoulder.

Righting the coffee table, Morgan dropped the broken bottle on to the patterned top, awash with a gooey mixture of tea, milk and blood. His nose was still bleeding, though now reduced to a trickle.

“I need a towel or something for my face.”

“Okay, but don’t do anything silly,” agreed the Beard, wondering about the slight, yet unmistakeable, hint of an Irish accent in Tommy Morgan’s speech.

In the kitchen Morgan soaked a towel in cold water. Returning to sit on the edge of the bed, resting his painful, battered face in the wet towel, he asked, “Now what’s this all about?”

“You’ve been asking questions, my friend. Too many questions in the wrong places.”

“I don’t consider us to be friends and it would seem I’ve been asking them in the right places.”

“Don’t try to be too smart, Mr. Morgan.” The Beard dropped into the well-worn armchair. “Your position is not a very healthy one. The people I represent don’t much care for someone poking around asking questions. It draws attention to them and they get a little edgy.”

“I had to find a firm big enough to handle the deal we’re offering.” The towel was now stained red, but the cold water had stemmed the bleeding completely. The eye felt as though it was still swelling.

“Who are we?”

Morgan hesitated. Spotting the electric kettle, dented and upside-down on the floor, he found himself wondering if it would still work. Why couldn’t they have waited until he had drunk his cup of tea?

“We are an army at war. We fight to remove the shackles of British oppression that has blighted our country for centuries.”

“The I.R.A.?” The Beard raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“I’ll say no more. Draw your own conclusions.”

“Well, well, well.” The Beard stood up to examine the curtains, once a bright yellow, but dulled by years of accumulated dirt. “Christ, don’t you ever wash these?”

“I didn’t come all the way from Ireland to wash curtains.”

“Suppose you tell me what you did come for.”

“To make a deal. We need money urgently for weapons and ammunition.”

“Yes, you’ve had a bad time lately, haven’t you?” The Beard detached himself from the grimy curtains with a gesture of disgust. “Quite a few of your men killed or caught, your secret weapon hideaways uncovered. Lost a few rifles too many, eh?”

“We’re talking much more than a few rifles. We have spectacular plans to intensify the fight against oppression. We can win this war, but it costs a lot of money. I put myself at considerable risk coming over here. I am not exactly unknown to the police and security forces. I am not taking that chance for a few rifles.”

“All right, Mr Morgan, just what is it that you are offering for sale?”

“Heroin.” Morgan looked for a reaction from the Beard, but there was none. “Top grade stuff, you’ll never be offered better.”

“Street value?”

“Around four million.”

This time there was a reaction in the form of an audible gasp. For a few seconds there was silence as the Beard stared hard at Morgan. Then he said, “Are you telling me you have four million pounds’ worth of heroin tucked away?”

“Yes and it’s here in the country. Within an hour of agreeing a price it could be in your hands. Cash on delivery, of course.”

“How the hell did you get your hands on that?”

“That’s my business.”

“If you want to deal, mister, you had better make it my business.” A note of menace had crept into the Beard’s voice that made Morgan feel a little uneasy. “Now where does a bunch of toy soldiers like you lay its dirty, little hands on four million pounds’ worth of heroin?”

Now it was Morgan’s turn to react. Standing up angrily, he stabbed a threatening finger in the direction of the Beard and cried, “That’s enough of the insults. I’ll not stand by and let you belittle the brave men who fight for the freedom of my country.”

“Oh, and what are you going to do about it then?”  taunted the Beard, moving a couple of paces closer to the Irishman. “Do you need to look in a mirror to see what a mess your face is? Believe me, it wouldn’t take much arranging for it to be made more of a mess. One of the reasons for this little demonstration here today was to show you the sort of forces you are dealing with, but I have to wonder if the message has got home. If you don’t want a repeat performance, I suggest you tell me where this heroin has come from.”

Morgan had little choice. The deal had to be made.

“Libya.”

The Beard grunted in disbelief. “Gift-wrapped by Colonel Gaddafi, you’re going to tell me next.”

The Irishman was becoming frustrated. “What the hell’s the matter with you? We have a lot of friends out there. Our men train there for active duty. It’s Pakistan heroin obtained for us by our friends in Libya. I’m offering your organisation a five-star deal and you treat me like shit.”

“You are shit, Mr Morgan,” snapped the Beard, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean we won’t deal with you. What sort of price are you looking for?”

“Three million.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“And a lot of profit.”

“There are certain overheads to be met.”

“Bullshit!” Morgan was adamant. “The price is not for haggling. Three million, not a penny less.”

After brief consideration, the Beard replied, “It’s too big for me to make a decision on, I’ll have to report back. This one will have to be decided at the highest level.”

“Then that’s who I’ll deal with,” said Morgan. “I want to see your top man.”

“Impossible. You’ll deal through me.”

“Then it’s no deal. I want to deal with the man who can make the decision. I should wait and see how impossible he thinks it is after he has heard what’s on offer.”

“We shall need a few days to consider what you say, Mr Morgan. Do you know the Mole with Two Heads not far from here?” The Irishman nodded. “Be there a week today about eight. We will, of course, require sample of the goods.”

“You shall have it,” agreed Morgan. “A week today.”

The Beard paused at the door. With one last sweeping look at the apartment, he said, “You live in a pigsty, Mr. Morgan. It’s disgusting.”

Ten minutes later Morgan also left the building and made a short walk to the nearest phone box. When the number he dialled was answered, he said simply, “It looks as though we’re on.”

It hurt too much to smile.

WHY BARCELONA? ALL DOWN TO FOOTBALL AND ASTON VILLA

When I sat down to write The Hit-and-Run Man I needed a foreign city for seduction and a reckless night of passion. Some of the preparatory action would take place during the flight, but I didn’t want that to be over-long from London, so I had to look to Europe. For detail I could always have gone to the library for a tour guide, but I wanted somewhere I had visited, so had a feel for. Unfortunately, at that time, my foreign travel experience was very limited, being down mainly to football (soccer to my U.S. friends) and the club I have supported since childhood, Aston Villa.

   Winning the pre-Premiership First Division in season 1980-81, saw Villa the following season in the European Cup, where, against all predictions outside of Birmingham (and some from certain areas inside too!), Villa battled to a Final against Bayern Munich. As a long-standing season ticket holder and home and away supporter, getting a ticket was no problem, but the club insisted, with crowd behaviour still blighting the game at that time, that everyone receiving a ticket had to join the Travellers Club.

However, there was no insistence on using the official travel services, so two friends and I made our own way via train and cross-channel hydrofoil. From this wild adventure (not really, I know) and a subsequent related trip, I had my only three options for my story.

   The Final was in Rotterdam, in the Netherlands, but we decided to travel the day before, with an overnight stop in Belgium en route. So to my first option, Antwerp.

   The second most populous city in the country, after Brussels, and one of the largest sea ports in Europe, it certainly had something going for it. A splendid 14^th century cathedral overlooked a city with an interesting mix of history and modern-day life. No lack of culture either, as artist Rubens had lived there and was buried there. A centre of the diamond trade, if my main character had been a diamond merchant, it might have stood a chance, but for an advertising executive falling prey to the charms of a beautiful, sexy lady, it didn’t really do it for me.

   So, next day it was on to my second option, Rotterdam. To be fair, I didn’t see that much of Rotterdam, as focus was on the big night. The second largest city in the Netherlands, it boasts one of the largest and busiest sea ports on the world. It sees itself as cultural competition for Amsterdam. If my main character had been a boat or ship spotter (just when does a boat become a ship?), it may have stood a chance, but I couldn’t somehow see it as a backdrop for seduction and a reckless night of passion.

   We did stop overnight in Rotterdam, but started our long, return journey home fairly early the next morning. Interestingly, our railways in the U.K., even more so than now, were compared unfavourably with those in the continent efficiency-wise, but our train back to Ostend ran so late, we missed our hydrofoil connection.  

   So, how did Barcelona get in on the act? It had been a great night in Rotterdam as Aston Villa won the European Cup with a 1-0 victory over Germany’s Bayern Munich, a Peter Withe goal scored agonisingly via the post right in front of where my friends and I were sitting. That win put the club into the following season’s European Super Cup, a one-off tie over two legs against that season’s winners of the now defunct European Cup Winners Cup (I hope non-football people are following this. Do keep up!). Yes, you will have already guessed that was Barcelona.

   Despite its grand title, my friends and I rated that match as little more than a glorified friendly, so made no plans to go to Barcelona, but for me fate took a hand.  

   At that time the company I worked for ran a sales incentive scheme with rewards of expenses paid trips to major sporting events home and abroad. The Union representing administration workers took issue with management over the exclusion of its members, despite their contribution to the success of the company. Whether it was a genuinely-felt gesture or management didn’t think it was an issue worth fighting the Union over, they made a few places available on the next trip, which just happened to be Aston Villa’s Super Cup away leg in Barcelona. A draw was made and my name was one that came out of the hat.

   This was my first time flying, so it is not difficult to imagine my thoughts on a cold January night as an hour before departure time a raging snow blizzard swept across Birmingham airport. However, take off was on time, the pilot informed us it was 15 degrees C in Barcelona, so the snow was soon forgotten.

   For the book it was really a no contest. With its wide avenues, a splendid Gothic Cathedral, a skyline of grandiose buildings overlooked by the fairy-tale spires of the unfinished Sagrada Familia Basilica, plus the sultry summer Mediterranean heat, Barcelona lent itself perfectly to seduction by a beautiful woman.

   The Husa Presidente, where the main character stays, is the hotel I stayed in and the Pable Espanyol de Montjuic – The Spanish Village – scene of the first encounter with the bad guys was on the sight-seeing tour. I have taken some liberties in the book with its immediate environment for dramatic effect, but I’m a long way from being the first author to indulge in that particular ploy. In fact, I was reminded just how good a company I was in on a recent visit to the ruins of the twelfth century Ashby-de-la-Zouch Castle, the scene of Sir Walter Scott’s famous jousting tournament in Ivanhoe.

Ashby-de-la-Zouch Castle

It seems the castle could not possibly have hosted such an event as described by Scott at the time the novel is set. That didn’t stop Ashby becoming a major tourist spot in Victorian times. It seems the blurring of fact and fiction is far from a recent phenomenon.

   For the record Aston Villa unluckily lost the first leg in Barcelona 0-1, but won the second leg 3-0, so adding the European Super Cup to its honours list. Champions of England, Champions of Europe, the European Super Cup - I have to wonder when Villa supporters will see such glory days again.       

The Hit-and Run Man is published as an e-book by Amazon for download to a Kindle or other devices using Amazon’s free reading app.   

DID THE HIT-AND-RUN MAN STOP U.K. CINEMA RELEASE OF A JOHNNY DEPP MOVIE?

In the words of a fellow writer, who managed to get a piece or two published, “that is the question.” Not “to be, or not to be,” but did they or didn’t they?

   The Hit-and-Run Man was published originally in 1991. The e-book edition, now available on Amazon Kindle, is a revised version; the running order of a couple of chapters has been changed, which I felt enhanced dramatic effect, plus some characters and incidents have been fleshed out.

   Hollywood movie, Nick of Time, starring Johnny Depp, Christopher Walken and Courtney Chase, came to these shores in 1996. The movie first came to my attention through a brief preview in my local freesheet newspaper. The similarity between the described plot of the movie and the main plotline of The Hit-and-Run Man was staggering. Unfortunately, to go into detail would create spoilers for the book, and I like to think there are one or two things the reader does not see coming.

     So, can a connection between the book and the movie be established? Well, sometime after the book was published a business man friend of my brother, with literary connections both here and the States, took the book to America and made some presentations, though admittedly it was never published there.

   Around the same time I picked up on a U.S. agency, claiming to have Hollywood connections, asking for books to put forward for movie ideas. I made an initial enquiry, resulting in being asked to submit a detailed synopsis. Following this, I received a reply requesting a fee to progress. As it had always been drummed in to me that if agencies ask a fee to represent your work it is probably a scam, I continued no further.

   Possible legal action against a major Hollywood studio was never really a consideration due to the cost, but I thought there might be some publicity to be had, so issued some press releases. This was successful up to a point. It certainly hit the headlines locally, including Birmingham’s two well-circulated daily newspapers, but did not get picked up by the nationals. 

    Strangely, my publisher showed no enthusiasm to get involved, which didn’t help. I was interviewed on a local cable television station, but this was the early days of cable TV and I think this one was watched by one man and his dog – and that was in the evening. I went out live at around 11 o’clock in the morning! Still, I can claim to have been interviewed on television. Not every writer can claim that!

   Then events took an interesting turn. Feeling some responsibility as he had introduced the book stateside, the business man acquaintance asked me to put together a dossier of evidence with a promise he would take it to his lawyers over there. He told me if they thought it was a winnable case, he would tell them to proceed at no cost to me. The dossier I put together was impressive enough for the lawyers to feel I had a good case. Unfortunately, bearing in mind it would mean taking on in court the resources of a major Hollywood studio, the lawyers were unable to give my benefactor a strong enough guarantee of winning for him to justify the expense.

   Really good reviews from film critics who had seen previews meant no distribution problems in this country, yet the studio withdrew Nick of Time from a cinema release in this country, sending it straight to video. I remember Barry Norman on his weekly BBC film programme being at a loss as to why this had happened. Perhaps here I missed a trick. Sending him copies of the press stories might have got a mention for the book on national television. 

 The studio would have been aware of the publicity, as Birmingham’s two daily papers had approached them for comment. Not surprisingly, they had denied all knowledge of the book. In fairness, if the idea had been presented to them, they would not have been aware of any hidden sources.

   So, did The Hit-and-Run Man stop the U.K cinema release of a Johnny Depp movie? Admittedly the evidence is circumstantial, but none the less interesting for that. The truth, of course, will never be known. Nick of Time turns up on television occasionally, so there remains an opportunity to compare. Just remember, the book came first.

The Hit-and Run Man is published world-wide as an e-book by Amazon for download to a Kindle or other devices using Amazon’s free reading app.