This chapter explains how Shane and Niall ended up in the afterlife, and the beginnings of a new life.

The twins are targeted by the brothers when Shane discovers them at the portal station of Sector IR-294. I wanted the villains to have good reason for chasing the twins. There’s money to be earned for capturing Rose and Lily, but when the Govern, a soul devouring creature is involved, the brothers’ lives are in danger if the twins are not handed in.

Excerpt from Chapter:

“Grovel . . . grovel for your brother!” declared the most despised man in the lives of Shane and Niall Brady. The man who claimed to be their father. At least for Niall, Frank Brady was his biological father. For ten-year-old Shane, however, he was step-father.

* * *

“Shane!” shouted his mother. “Come down please.”

Shane turned his head towards the bedroom door. “Coming!” He placed his racing cars in a toy box and headed downstairs. The smell of freshly baked bread engulfed him. Quite rare during the war, thought Shane; Mother must have saved the rations for something extra special.

In the kitchen, his mother stood by the bread as it cooled on a tray. His father sat at the kitchen table, hands clenched, with a newspaper laid out in front. A large suitcase stood in the corner of the kitchen; a suitcase only ever used for holidays.

His father smiled affectionately at Shane and his mother came towards him, placing a hand around his shoulder, ushering him to the table. He sat uneasy, looking at his parents in turn while his mother knelt by his side.

“Sweetie, you know about the war, and how soldiers are going away, fighting for our country, freedom and our lives.”

Shane lost eye contact with his mother as his face sank with worry. He began to nod and looked towards his father.

“Son . . .” His dad leaned forward on the table with his lofty eyebrows causing deep creases in his forehead. “I’m going away for a while. Now, in the meantime, you and your mother will live in Ireland, with your grandpa and grandma.”

Shane looked puzzled, glancing at his mother and back to his father with anxious eyes. “When will I see you?”

His father sighed, looked to the newspaper with an uncertain head shake. “I can’t answer that, son. Not that I can promise you. But as soon as I can, that’s for sure. I’ll write to you and your mother, whenever I can.”

Shane’s expression didn’t change. He fiddled with his pockets and looked at the red and white chequered tablecloth.

“You’ll be fine, tough guy like you, huh? You’ll be going on an adventure. You like exploring, don’t you?”

Shane shrugged his shoulders, avoiding his father’s eyes of authority. “Yeah . . .” he muttered.

“That’s my boy.” His father stood and walked round the table. He wrapped his arms around his only child, kissing his forehead. “I love you, son, you and your ma, very much,” he said, while covering Shane’s head with one hand, brushing back his hair.

Shane watched his role model, his best friend, his daddy, take the suitcase and leave, knowing his father would enter a battle called World War Two.

Stanley Hopkins is largely the influence of Doc Brown, the wild-haired inventor from the movie Back to the Future. Like Doc, Stanley is an eccentric, workaholic, but ultimately brilliantly minded individual. I had a lot of fun writing about Stanley, and I think the tone of the chapter shows this.

In this image, Stanley is in the attic, which is also his workshop, and it’s where he dreams of piloting his own bi-plane someday.

Excerpt from Chapter:

She had seen the house before: a large Victorian one lit with the brightest Christmas lights on the street. She held a basket on her arm as she glimpsed at the wonder of an inventor’s workshop; a home for a boy.

Over the frost-covered drive of fifty-one Crescent Avenue, the woman heard a man sing. She peeked through the crack of a door. The man sat in a workshop with his back to her; he was measuring a clock. She placed her special delivery at the front door on a bitterly cold Christmas Eve in England, nineteen nineteen.

* * *

Day and night, Henry Hopkins crafted his magical machines. He had spent the past three decades with his hands on them. At the age of forty, he had worked alongside many greats that helped turn the tide of World War One, co-developing a new military contraption: the tank. A heavily armoured vehicle on caterpillar tracks, it provided protection from enemy fire and also carried much needed water, concealed within water tanks.

Surrounded by the history of his marvels, Henry didn’t finish the cuckoo clock on the eve of Christmas, as predicted. Instead, his attention was diverted outside, where a sound of need beckoned. Upon investigation, Henry discovered a basket in which lay a baby wrapped in a blue blanket; a colour the baby’s skin would have turned had Henry not heard his cry.

“Catherine! Catherine! Could you spare a moment?”

“Yes, Henry, what is the matt– oh my . . .”

“He was outside. Look, there’s a note.”

Catherine moved closer to the boy’s basket. She took hold of the note. It read:

Please give me a life; my mother cannot.

I will be forever grateful.

PS My name is Stanley. I’m one month old today.

Aged six, Stanley watched his father tweak and maintain his beloved automobiles and gadgets, accompanied by the ticking of cuckoo clocks and their hourly chime, always on time. Henry christened them his Hopkins Hollers.

The blueprints for mankind’s creations surrounded Stanley. And he was regularly informed of his father’s wartime feats.

“Atttteeention!” Henry ordered, and Stanley saluted. He then recited speeches of past glories, along with his passion for his country and freedom.

An eccentric child, Stanley detested boundaries. He dreamt, and sometimes created those dreams. It began as a part-time hobby, gathering all he could in his father’s workshop. He eventually gained his very own sector: a whole six-foot radius of the shop floor he called Stanley Corp, a place where he would make things. It didn’t matter whether his invention worked or not. The learning process made up for his mishaps. So what if he blew up the toaster? “It burnt the bread anyway,” he said to his father. And shaving the cat with his Automatic Duel-motor Shaver. “Only removed her fleas anyway,” he told Catherine, the housekeeper. Stanley did, however, feel sorry about that, as he watched poor Penny potter about in the snow without her fur coat. He made sure she had the tastiest treats whenever he could steal them; he always cared for the vulnerable.

In this chapter we discover the journey of Anthony and Charles Orwell, and how gold shaped their lives. But for Anthony, the gold means more to him than just the wealth it derived. The Judge made sure of that.

Excerpt from Chapter:

Anthony would never forget the first time he encountered yellow metal, on 8 June 1917.

On a semi-deserted ranch, Anthony, aged eleven, was feeding the cattle their daily grub when his father – and sole guardian – Charles Orwell, strolled up from the deep valley; a distant figure shimmering in the blazing midday heat. During the last few strides, his expression hinted at the extraordinary.

“Son, stop feeding and follow me,” he said, and headed towards a barn.

Anthony placed down the bucket of feed and stepped into the shade of the building with curious thoughts.

His father knelt down to his son’s level. He placed his dirty hand into his pocket, then brought out a clenched fist. “Son, I want you to know,” he said, placing his other hand over Anthony’s shoulder, “that what I hold here will change our lives forever, and for the better.”

Anthony’s curiosity gave way to a rush of excitement. What could possibly be grasped within one man’s hand that could change lives?

“Hold out your hand, son.”

Anthony did as he was told. His father slowly unclenched his fist over his son’s palm. Surrounded by the dirt it came from, Anthony observed a yellow stone.

“Gold, son. Pure gold. Our gold,” he said, rolling another nugget in his own palm. “This is for your eyes only. With more of these, we can live like Tudor kings. Say nothing of this to anyone, you hear?”

Dazzled by the glistening nugget, Anthony almost forgot to reply. He finally nodded, and was rocked by his father’s loving hand ruffling his sun-bleached hair.

“As you were. I’ll be a while longer. Gonna dig me up some more of these yellow stones.”

Anthony watched his father leave in search of their fortune, laid deep within the rock veins of California, United States of America.

* * *

The gold came out slowly, one hundred ounces per week. A year later, the mine gave more than two thousand ounces per month. One mine to begin with, then five, stretching from the foot of Battle Mountain to the peak of Devil’s Gate. All became the land of Orwell, renamed Orwell Valley.

* * *

After the discovery of gold, Anthony led a sheltered childhood. He knew much about the world and why he was privileged, whereas others weren’t. Educated at home by his ever-present father, Anthony experienced far more than his peers.

Many would say Anthony grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth. This was true, although Anthony’s spoon was gold. He became known as the rich kid, the boy with yellow blood, the golden boy. He always thought his upbringing shouldn’t be the cause for name-calling. After all, the young Mr Orwell hadn’t asked for gold; he was given it, in abundance.

Motherless due to disease, Anthony witnessed women come and go from the mansion. It appeared no woman was good enough for Anthony’s father. He spoke of living like a king, and said that some day he would find his queen.

Amid the Great Depression of the 1920s, where money circulated like water in a frozen pipe, people desperately drifted in search of work, whereas the Orwells lived a comfortable life. Drinks were provided by the finest vineyards. A banquet of food graced their dining table, surrounded by obedient servants waiting on their masters. Anthony’s father loved the power. So much so, he reminded his son at every opportunity. “Too little gravy, you say? Then click your fingers and they will obey.”

Barely in his teens, Anthony wrapped gold in paper: gifts for those he felt drawn to. Upon discovering what lay within, his father asked, “Why gold, son?”

“Isn’t that what girls like?” said Anthony.

“Son, at your age, girls don’t care for gold. That’s for our living, not for giving. How about flowers, or candy – all girls like candy, son.”

This chapter reveals how Violet and George (the twins parents) got together. I wanted to feature the issues of World War Two such as the blitz, but also the joyous times of VE Day.

 Excerpt from Chapter:

Violet lay cosy in bed while her mother, seated by her side, read softy. “‘Little Red Riding Hood, hearing the big voice of the Wolf, was at first afraid; but –’”

“Bed, Ivy. Big day tomorrow,” said Violet’s father, passing her bedroom door.

“Coming!”

“Does Dad have his interview tomorrow?” asked Violet.

“Yes, an important interview.”

“Will we be moving?”

“If he’s offered the job, yes. We’ll live in a bigger house. And your bedroom will be big enough for ballet.”

Violet imagined a bedroom where she could perform a pirouette without a care of crashing into anything. She glanced at the book resting on her mother’s lap. “Can you finish the story?”

“Of course.” She coughed to clear her throat and continued to read. “‘And, saying these words, the wicked Wolf fell upon Little Red Riding Hood, and ate her all up.’”

“Ah!” gasped Violet. “That’s not a happy ending.”

“No, sweetheart. Not all stories have a happy ending. I’ll read a happier one next time. Now, c’mon, time to sleep.”

“Night, Mummy,” said Violet. She was kissed by her mother, then she turned on her side, hoping for a night without wicked wolves.

* * *

Violet rejoiced at being outdoors and amongst the greenery of the Yorkshire Dales. The idea of moving away didn’t sit well with her; not that it mattered, as they had to move for her father’s work at Fairfields Primary School. They arrived at a new house in Hampshire; much bigger. Violet could perform more than a pirouette.

* * *

Thirteen years later: 18 June 1940.

“What General Weygand has called the Battle of France is over: the Battle of Britain is about to begin,” stated the prime minister of England, Winston Churchill.

Aged seventeen, Violet lay on her bed, hands clenched together, and listened intently to the radio, hearing every word of Churchill’s speech:

“Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duty and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say: ‘This was their finest hour.’”

Violet heard a voice through her opened bedroom window. She turned off the radio and looked out into the early evening. A young man stood casually by the front garden fence. He wore a dark brown jacket along with scruffy looking navy jeans. His name was George; a charming eighteen-year-old carpenter she’d met a few weeks before the war was announced.

“You ready?” he asked.

“Just a minute.” Violet closed the window, smiling, then made her way downstairs; but not before a final glance in the mirror, adjusting her flowery dress and brushing her blonde tresses.

Outside, George had disappeared, until a bicycle wheel rolled from behind a rose bush. Not just any old bicycle: it featured two handlebars, two seats, and two pairs of peddles. George patted the rear seat.

“We’re going on that?” she said in excitement.

“Hold on tight, sweet cheeks. We’re going for a ride you’ll never forget.”