About this title:
How cruelty, sexual abuse and greed created this monster of a former care home Matron and the haunted hotel that hid her evil secret.
What follows is a series of terrifying events including flashbacks of the main characters, the breakdown of their early family lives and how cruelty, abuse and greed, installed with a liberally wielded trouser belt, can manifest itself later like a cancer on their morals.
About this title: How cruelty, sexual abuse and greed created this monster of a former care home Matron and the haunted hotel that hid her evil secret. Just released from prison after their care home atrocities, former Matron, Elizabeth Waverly, and her accomplice, Norman Christie, team up and see an opportunity to inherit two million pounds. But first they have to kill the main beneficiary, Elizabeth Carragher, with Elizabeth Waverly taking on her identity. At the reading of the will they see their plans back fire when a second will is found and a long lost brother, Victor Carragher, turns up and claims it all. Salvaging what they can, they plan to kidnap the brother's young precocious daughter, Helen, for half the inheritance. Before the kidnap can be arranged, Victor Carragher, a hotel manager, very quickly fulfils a life long ambition and moves to Majorca with his daughter, and new found wealth, to buy his own hotel. The killing couple follow him with Elizabeth Waverly still in disguise helping Victor run the hotel. But unbeknown to them the hotel he purchases is haunted. What follows is a series of terrifying events including flashbacks of the main characters, the breakdown of their early family lives and how cruelty, abuse and greed, installed with a liberally wielded trouser belt, can manifest itself later like a cancer on their morals.
Now, with Elizabeth out of the way he saw his chance. Norman made his way to the kitchen, then tip-toed to the slightly open door. He couldn’t see inside. With his ear to the crack he listened for voices or movement. With an excuse ready, just in case, he slowly pushed it open. There was no one around. Joyce couldn’t be far; perhaps setting the table for teatime. But she could be back any minute. He had to be quick.
The large refrigerator door was unlocked, the padlock dangling with its key inside it. His luck was in. Two defrosted leg of lambs were buried at the back of the shelf underneath four chickens and various packs of sausages, bacon and burgers. They were still wrapped in their clear vacuum packing.
Norman grabbed a leg, wincing with the cold as his fingers clutched it inside his jacket. He hoisted it up further, underneath his armpit. A pack of sausages went into his large inside pocket. Might as well, he thought, while I’m here.
He moved to the door, listening for sounds. The corridor was empty. It was a toss up of getting it to his car boot or back to his accommodation. The walk to his room was less busy, not much chance of running into any of the staff or wrinklies, he decided. They kept to the main thoroughfares.
Once outside he walked briskly across the courtyard, through the rear entrance and up the stairs. It took him four minutes to reach his accommodation door. His armpit felt wet as the key twisted in the lock.
Closing the door, he screwed up his face as he removed the meat and dumped into the kitchen sink. It was then he realised the package had been leaking. Norman took off his jacket. His white shirt all around the shoulder area was covered in lamb’s blood.
‘Shit! I don’t believe it,’ he muttered. ‘That’ll never come out.’ It felt cold and sticky as he gingerly slipped off the shirt and threw it in the trashcan.
Norman switched on the shower. While waiting for it to warm up he took some clean clothes from the wardrobe. When he slid the mirrored door shut, he paused at the reflection. He’d done this many times. The severe burn scars on his upper arms, chest and shoulders stood out like a map of the London underground.
After many skin grafts, he still couldn’t strip off on a beach. On the few occasions he’d done so, people would shrink back, look away. Kids would whisper to their mums or point.
Unbeknown to her, his elderly grandmother had lost the tip of her cigarette when she had leant over his cot while babysitting for the parents. Then she’d fallen asleep downstairs. By the time the smoke and the crying had reached her, he had sixty-per cent burns.
Norman often wished he could have confronted her about it, but she died when he was six years old. The thought of being alone with her with his own cigarette, had, over the years, created scenarios in his mind.
Norman was brought up in Rainham, Essex, by his father Tom Christie. Tom had always felt guilty about the accident. He shouldn’t have let his old mother baby sit while they had gone to the cinema. This guilt was compounded when his wife left. She could never stand the sight of the burns. It was Tom who always had to bath him three times a week.
One day Tom came home from work and found the letter. She’d run off with his best friend; his best friend? So he thought.
Norman and his dad did everything together. They were keen football fans. Tom used to take Norman and his friend Rupert to all the Arsenal home games. He didn’t have to pay for Rupert; he was smuggled in under Norman’s jumper.
Tom’s sister Maureen used to help out. She lived local so Norman went there for tea after school. Tom would collect him later on his way home from the factory.
For a while things couldn’t be better for Norman; then, Tom met Doreen.
Doreen served in the shop floor canteen at Fords in Dagenham, while Tom worked the assembly line on the car upholstery. It was her discreet large portions for him at lunchtime as he queued, and her big smile, that wet his juices.
Doreen was a widow with no children; apparently she hadn’t wanted any. She was a bit over weight and wasn’t exactly a stunner. But, she was looking for security, and, secretly willing to put up with a kid in tow.
So, with Tom dead keen, they had a registry office wedding, followed by a weekend away at Canvey Island, with Norman staying a few days at Maureen’s.
Her previous husband had been in middle management. They’d lived comfortable. Always seemed to be dining out. Lived for the day really; weren’t backward in treating themselves. But, when he died things took a tumble for the worse. With no pension including a large mortgage to pay, and only a small life insurance, she had to sell up and rent a room.
Problem was, Doreen had tasted the sweets of middle management success. Even with this new found security, she wasn’t keen just accepting her current station. She wanted Tom to get on. Move up the ladder. Go for some of the white collar jobs advertised at Dagenham. Perhaps do a bit of study, one or two evenings or weekends, instead of messing around with that fucking kid.
But Tom loved his football. On the contrary, weekends would see him and Norman kicking a ball about over the park. Doreen would stay home and house work. Doreen wasn’t into football, she was into housework. Very house proud our Doreen.
On the rare occasions she did go with them, she’d sit on the uncomfortable wooden bench with a sour face, reading a Homes and Garden, her favourite magazine, or an upmarket holiday brochure, way above their income range.
With Doreen now the lady of the house, Maureen began to take a back seat. She understood of course. Tom and his sister kept in touch on the phone. He’d tell her how Norman was doing. Tell her, Norman hadn’t warmed to Doreen yet, but he’ll come round. ‘Mind you,’ he’d joke, ‘if her cooking is anything to go by, we’ll probably be eating Rupert soon?’ Tom would break off, stop himself laughing and listen out, just in case. But Doreen had heard it all, in the bedroom, on the extension; the one she’d persuaded Tom to get, that she’d promised to pay for; said it saved her coming down stairs to answer if she was house-working up stairs.
Even though she worked a canteen, Doreen was no, Fanny Cradock. She hated cooking. Her culinary expertise stretched to mostly beans on toast or tinned Macaroni cheese.
Tom started to have full blown three course meals at work to make up for it. He didn’t mind, nor did Doreen; it was subsidised. And he got to choose out of four main courses. Norman was just grateful for his school dinners.
Sometimes Doreen would see their glum faces at teatime. She’d tell them she was saving on house keeping; putting money away for new carpets and a three piece suit for the front room. Tom never argued. Everything went over his head. He just handed over his wage packet. She ran the house.
It was the summer of 1958 when Tom started getting the stomach pains. They gradually got worse. After visiting his doctor on and off for two months he was referred to a hospital consultant. After tests and treatment they eventually diagnosed large bowel cancer. It was terminal. When nothing more could be done he was sent home.
For the next four months, Norman watched his father melt away. He’d forego school dinners and come home to sit with him. See the daytime nurse with her needle. The morphine brightening his dad’s face; dulling the pain. She’d change him, mornings and lunchtimes. Near the end it was easy, like she was changing a baby. She’d roll him over, pick him up. He only weighed six stone.
But still, the National Health could only do so much. By most evenings the smell in the back bedroom was unbearable. Doreen never went in, she’d lost interest. She was just counting the days.
It was on one of these lunch times his father pointed a trembling finger to the wardrobe door. ‘Norman, in my blue suit top jacket pocket, there’s something for you.’
He went over as his dad instructed and reached for the fine linked chain. It was a beautiful engraved silver Fob watch.
‘I want you to have it, son. It was given to me by my parents on my 21st birthday.’
Norman was speechless; he looked at the watch and then his dad. ‘But…but I can’t take…’
‘It’s yours, son; something to remember me by.’
At ten years old it was the first time Norman had really accepted his father’s situation. He broke down sitting on the edge of the bed and wept. His father with great effort put a very thin arm around his shoulder.
Norman kept the watch in his school blazer top pocket. Just like his dad did. That was until Doreen clocked it, as a manner of speaking.
Norman was getting thinner, not eating properly, worried about his dad. Tom’s sister Maureen had visited. She had remarked to Doreen about Norman’s welfare. That’s when they fell out. She exploded telling Maureen basically to mind her own business.
Doreen wasn’t stupid. She’d got it all worked out. Tom had never thought of making a Will. Truth is, until he’d been terminally diagnosed, nor had she. With Tom on morphine and painkillers, she wasted no time in getting him where to sign.
At the funeral Doreen and Maureen ignored each other. They sat well apart. This also sat okay with Doreen and her plans. Norman went over to speak to Maureen. She made a fuss of him while they chatted, but when she saw Doreen looking daggers, she excused herself.
The next few months were hard. Tom’s pension on death didn’t transfer to a wife, and his small life insurance just covered the funeral costs. Doreen still worked at her canteen job and drew a small widow’s benefit. But it wasn’t near enough; there was still a mortgage to pay.
Then, one Monday morning, Norman’s world shattered. He came running in just before leaving for school. ‘Have you seen dad’s fob watch?’ He was panicking, breathing fast while searching his pockets.
Doreen looked at him a little annoyed. She said with no emotion, ‘I’m sorry, Norman, I had to pawn it. Your father was sick. He didn’t know its true value.’
‘But…but it was my dads. He gave it to me.’ Norman’s face had gone white with shock.
‘He just lent it to you, Norman. It was far too expensive for a young boy like you to have.’ She turned away and dismissed his pleading stare. ‘Those sort of things are for you when you’re grown up. Now get to school.’
‘But it was mine, you shouldn’t have…?’
‘Shouldn’t have!’ Doreen turned on him. ‘Shouldn’t have! Just remember who puts food on the table, Norman. It’s better off in hock than in your blazer pocket. At least it’s paying its way; which is a lot more than can be said for you.’
The arm of his blazer stemmed the tears.
With a pang of remorse she added, ‘Don’t worry. You’ll have it back by the end of the week. I’ve just loaned it to get some money.’
So, after the first week, then the next week, and the week after that, he did ask. But there was always an excuse. She told him to stop nagging. He never did see his dad’s watch again.
Not long after, without telling Norman, Doreen put the house in the hands of three estate agents looking for a quick sale. Trouble was, it was winter and greed had its clammy arm around Doreen’s shoulder; and she wasn’t dropping in price.
To make ends meet she took a charring job. She’d answered a card placed in a local post office window: Cleaner required for general housework. Twice a week (evenings) i.e. polishing, dusting, vacuum cleaning. It didn’t quote hours or wages. She went for the interview. For Doreen it was just a short walk through the park and then into a manicured residential area.
An elderly lady leaning on a brass handled walking stick asked her to wipe her feet, before she was let into a house that was big and old with lots of expensive knick-knacks, and smelt of polish and a hint of beef stew. With their comfortable trust funds and pensions, Doreen thought, this was the only neighbourhood around Rainham that could employ regular cleaning staff.
Mrs Crackston was roughly in her mid seventies and, apart from Winnie her yappy cocker spaniel, lived alone. Her expensive inlaid French polished sideboard was festooned with silver framed photos of a late husband and their children and grandchildren.
Doreen had checked out cleaning rates from the local labour exchange and, before Mrs Crackston could utter a word, made it clear what she wanted; sixpence an hour over the standard rate. Mrs Crackston’s lips pursed and seemed to cave in on her toothless gums. Even Winnie the dog yapped, then hid at the back of her rolled down stockings. She finally nodded in agreement, but made it clear she expected a first class job.
Walking home it occurred to her, if she had some extra help she could be done in twice the time? So, on her first evening, Doreen waited till Norman arrived home from school. Then, ignoring his protests about homework, marched him off with her.
Doreen kept him busy. He was assigned to dusting and helping with the washing up; while she covered the wiping down, polishing and vacuum cleaning.
Norman never got any pocket money for helping. Just the occasional slap if the old lady whined out a complaint. And she was pretty fond of that.
Mrs Crackston and her yappy cocker spaniel took an instant dislike to Norman. She would shuffle behind him as he dusted. Muttering, picking holes. Frequently she’d call Doreen away from her duties, wiping her finger along an edge to show where Norman had missed. Another slap by Doreen, while Winnie yapped at him then bolted behind the old ladies blue veined legs.
On one occasion without the old bag being present, he’d taken Rupert out and waved it at the mutt. Winnie bared her teeth then shot out the room in a yapping frenzy.
It was during the summer, wearing his short-sleeved school shirt, she noticed the scars. Mrs Crackston didn’t want him in her kitchen. She told Doreen. The old lady assumed he had some contagious infection. Doreen didn’t argue, she needed the money and she still hadn’t sold the house. But of course, without Norman helping with the dishes, washing up took twice as long. As usual, in a mood, she slapped the back of his head and told him to clear off and make himself busy with some other chores.
One of his jobs was dusting a beautiful highly polished yew corner table. In the middle of it sat an engraved silver trinket box. Norman did peak once and jumped as the ballet dancer sprang into action to the chimes of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Before he closed the lid, he did notice a gold fob watch; dull with age, sitting in the deep blue satin amongst some tiepins and cufflinks.
It was about a week later on their way to cleaning, they slowed at the approaching site of a police car in Mrs Crackston’s drive. Using the spare key, Doreen let herself in as usual with Norman. All of a sudden a hand came from behind the door and grabbed her wrist.
‘I’ll take that, Mrs Christie.’ The key was snatched from Doreen’s fingers and returned to Mrs Crackston; she was leaning on her stick with the arm of a sympathetic police woman supporting her.
‘Thank you, constable,’ the old lady said, smiling briefly at the uniformed young man.
Doreen looked at them mystified. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘You know what it’s about,’ Mrs Crackston hissed. ‘Your son’s a thief.’
‘What do mean he’s a thief?’ Doreen whirled on Norman, then looked at the three of them. ‘What’s he supposed to have stolen?’
The old lady, ignoring the constables, let me handle this gesture, continued. ‘He stole my husband’s fob watch.’
‘Now let’s calm down shall we.’ The constable turned to Mrs Crackston with another cast off wave to her remark, while Winnie yapped out her little protest at the policeman’s feet. ‘We can’t just start accusing people madam until we have evidence.’
The constable turned back to Doreen and Norman. He spoke to them quietly. ‘Look, just to clear this up; eliminate yourselves.’ He glanced cautiously at the old lady, then back again. ‘Could you both empty the contents of your pockets and your handbag, Mrs Christie, on the table?’
Without hesitation they did as they were told. Rupert stayed well hidden. No one noticed the bulge.
‘Just because it’s not on him, doesn’t mean he hasn’t hid it some where? I bet she’s in with him, probably sold it herself?’ She waved her stick at them, followed in succession by three yaps from Winnie.
The constable raised both hands to quieten her. ‘We can’t go accusing, Mrs Crackston, unless we have evidence, I’ve told you.’ The policewoman patted the old ladies shoulder to pacify her.
Doreen answered back in a mocking smirk, ‘She’s probably mislaid it ’erself, the old fool.’
With that, Mrs Crackston raised her stick again. ‘I want you out of my house, now. You can collect your stuff and go.’ She looked at the constable. ‘I want you to wait here till there gone.’
The constable raised his hands to quieten her again, then, offered a nervous smile to Doreen and Norman. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to do as she says.’
‘Okay, that suits me,’ Doreen said abruptly. ‘Norman, get our things from the broom cupboard and we’ll be off. I don’t like being accused a thief.’
The constable nodded, as young Norman flashed him a glance for permission to go to the broom cupboard and collect Doreen’s mop, galvanised bucket and dusters. Fortunately, no one followed him including her yappy cocker spaniel.
Norman moved swiftly up the stairs, two at a time. At the top, he pulled out Rupert from his grey school cardigan. He kissed him affectionately on the head and whispered, ‘Listen, I want you to scare the shit out the old bag. Do it for Norman, there’s a good chap. Goodbye, old friend.’ Then he threaded Rupert through the balustrades.
A minute later, with a clatter, Norman emerged with the broom, bucket and mop. Dusters stuffed in his pocket.
Mrs Crackston started up, ‘And make sure none of that’s mine? I know exactly what’s in that broom cupboard.’
Doreen matched her with, ‘I can’t say it’s been a pleasure, you old cow. But I hope you and your husband’s fob watch rot in hell.’ With that retort, Doreen slammed the door behind them.
Outside, Norman got two hard slaps on the back of his head. ‘You stole it, didn’t you?’
‘No I didn’t - honestly.’
‘Yes you did, you little brat. Just to get back at me for your dads watch?’
Norman shouted at her, ‘No I didn’t!’ He rubbed the back of his head, the tears welling up.
‘Well, whatever. All you had to do was keep yer nose clean. You know the old bag didn’t like you. Now I’m out of a job. And you…you.’ She faced him with an intense look of dislike. ‘You, can go to bed without tea tonight.’ With that, she turned and walked off in a huff.
Poor Norman, out of favour with Doreen once again, glumly followed her all the way home.
Later, Mrs Crackston watched some television. Then, with great effort got out of her chair wincing as she steadied herself leaning on her stick. She moved slowly into the kitchen to make some Horlicks. The cocker spaniel padded behind her. She poured some water for the dog. Winnie, all excited wagged her tail and slurped in her bowl while Mrs Crackston dipped her gingernuts; sucking on them with her toothless gums as a small piece dropped into her hot drink.
After they finished she switched off the kitchen light and made her way to the stair lift. She carefully manoeuvred herself into the mobile chair. Then, Mrs Crackston patted her lap for Winnie to hop on. She pushed the control for ascend and they slowly began to move up the stairs. Winnie had done this many times. She sat still licking the old ladies hand.
As they turned the right angled bend it was Winnie who became restless. A low apprehensive whine at first, then a yap!
‘What’s up, Winnie?’
Another yap!
‘Calm down. What’s the matter with you?’ She patted the dog’s head but Winnie was up on all fours standing on her lap. ‘Come on now, sit down.’
Her dog was looking up the stairs and began to growl.
‘Stop it, Winnie.’ She got a soft slap on her rear. ‘Behave yourself.’
The cocker spaniel meant business. It began to bear its teeth in a viscous growling snarl at something Mrs Crackston couldn’t see.
As the stair lift slowly climbed she stiffly turned her head upwards. Winnie had started barking aggressively; jumping in her lap with the full force of each bark. She had never seen the dog in such a state. Winnie had her lips pulled back into a nasty curdling sneer.
‘Shut up, Winnie!’ She slapped the dog hard this time. It yelped at the blow and jumped off, rolling down two stairs then steadying herself. She looked up and continued barking in a frenzied state.
‘Winnie, you naughty dog, I’m going to give you such a…’
Rupert had slid down the balustrades and was peering over the top of the Landing.
Mrs Crackston let out a scream when she saw the Black Mamba. She cowered, half out her seat. ‘Keep it away - Oh, God! Help me, Winnie - Kill it.’
The dog quickly moved up the remaining stairs snapping and barking. Mrs Crackston was standing on the moving chair leaning away from it, screaming, as the long olive grey body and the black gaping mouth came nearer.
‘Kill it, Winnie - kill it for mummy…ARGHH!’
Mrs Crackston lost her balance; she lunged at the thick newel post to save herself but missed her grip. She rolled over and over screaming down the stairs. Her face smashed into the wall at the turn, leaving a bloody smear; then she somersaulted down the remaining flight. The brittle snap of her neck as she hit the bottom echoed through the quiet hall. Her walking stick followed, clunking and bonking down the treads until it came to rest across one arm.
Winnie had grabbed Rupert. She had the snake in her mouth as she ran back down the stairs and dropped it by Mrs Crackston’s body, yapping at her face. Then, Winnie quietened. She began to whine, wagging her tale. Not understanding the staring eyes, the twisted head at right angles. She licked the blood from the ear and nose, affectionately, hoping to wake her owner.
Winnie snarled and grabbed Rupert; the rubber snake bouncing up and down in her mouth as she took it to her basket. She nuzzled the old blanket and left it under there with her favourite ball and chewed slipper.
Two months later Maureen heard a knock on her door. It was Norman with his little suitcase. Doreen had quietly sold the house and done a runner, to Canada. She had lied to Norman. Told him he was going to live for a short while with his aunt Maureen and then she would send for him; of course, she wasn’t. Told him it had all been arranged; of course, it hadn’t. Told him she was going to buy a smaller place for them both; of course, she didn’t.
Norman saw her look of astonishment as she let him in. After a brief exchange he realised, spluttered to say something, then burst into tears.
For a while life couldn’t be better with his aunt Maureen. Then, seven months later she was killed in a road accident on a pedestrian crossing. The car didn’t stop but the driver was found and prosecuted.
Maureen had never married, so her stepsister and family cleaned up; what with the sale of her flat and a nice car insurance pay out.
Norman got shoved into care. Then, came a spell with the wrong crowd and some frequent stealing. Inevitably, he found himself at a Borstal for juvenile offenders.
After that, bad luck seemed to follow Norman around; as far as he was concerned, even good luck was just bad luck with its hair combed.
Norman’s thoughts returned to his shower. He fumbled inside a drawer for a fresh towel. His fingers probed some handkerchiefs, then, they felt the cold smooth roundness. He pulled it out. Norman looked at the inscription; he’d done so many times. E. F. Cole & Sons (Accountants) Presented to George Crackston on his retirement.
He rolled the gold fob watch in his hand, then against his cheek. The touch, the sensation; it made him close his eyes in brief ecstasy.
....................................
Professional Reviews
5 out of 5 stars for Sow and You Shall Reap review by Ila Franceporcher.
Date: Thu, 27 Oct 2011 09:24:42 -0700
From: ilafranceporcher@gmail.com
To: barrysmythe@hotmail.com
Subject: finally your review is published
Dear Barry,
Thank you for sending me your book. I enjoyed reading it and have just published my review on both amazon.com and amazon.uk. I gave you five stars. This is what I wrote :
It is said that writing a successful first novel is like trying to become a rock star. Well, meet Barry P. Smythe. I think that he has accomplished this feat of genius.
"Sow and You Shall Reap" is the macabre story of an evil woman's effort to gain a fortune. Her conscience having been stifled by an abusive childhood, she will do anything to get what she wants, and she moves ahead with her inventive plans leaving a trail of blood and corpses behind her. Thus, the plot takes sudden and unexpected twists and flights as she strives, no matter what happens, to turn every development to her advantage. Starting by replacing a co-worker by murdering her and assuming her identity, this extraordinary heroine recognizes no obstacles as she advances toward her goal of wealth and pleasure.
Barry P. Smythe is a natural story teller with the ability to create a movie with the written word. His fertile imagination is matched by his powers of description as he takes his reader through one alarming situation into another. The book becomes more and more difficult to put down, and when the main characters move to a haunted hotel, a whole new dimension of fright emerges as earthly and supernatural events lead into the astonishing ending.
Enthralling drama, well developed characters, excellent narration, and fast paced, unexpected events combine to create a striking thriller. I highly recommend this book to anyone looking for a great read.
Thank you very much for sharing your book with me and I wish you every success with it and with future works.
With good wishes,
Ila
5.0 out of 5 stars A new breed of monster, 15 Sep 2011
By
David Spanswick (Brighton United Kingdom) - See all my reviews
(VINE VOICE) (TOP 1000 REVIEWER) (REAL NAME)
This review is from: Sow and You Shall Reap (Paperback)
One-eyed Liz, who takes out the glass one to apply mascara and Nasty Norman, a burns victim are two of the most unsavoury villains to appear in fiction for a very long time though the author of "Reap what you sow", Barry Smythe does beg for some understanding by painting the origins of this villainy in the upbringings of the pair skilfully grafted into flashbacks as the dreadful duo progress from one awful murder or dodgy deed to another.
Moving from cruelties perpetrated at a nursing for the elderly (Mr Smythe's original inspiration for the novel) to the haunted Hanukkah Hotel in Majorca the journey of our evil pair is so full of incident they could have filled several books.
Alluding to a couple of Stephen King's novels notably Carrie and The Shining Barry Smythe has however made this book entirely his own ~ he credits these influences in his introduction.
There are so many wonderful sections especially in the latter part of the book with a Halloween party and a sadistic illusionist will have any reader on the edge of their seat.
The message however is simple as intended in the book's title that no sin will go unpunished ~ or will it? The book will keep you guessing, literally, up to the very last sentence.
A great reading experience with more twists and turns than Hampton Court Maze, it is virtually uncategorisable as there is just so much story going on, just when you think "Oh it's that kind of novel" it leaps at you with a whole new bunch of surprises. For a first book this is an amazing achievement and it looks as if we may find out more about One-eyed Liz's early days in a follow up book..... can't wait.
-------------------------------------
Date: Thu, 27 Oct 2011 09:24:42 -0700
From: ilafranceporcher@gmail.com
To: barrysmythe@hotmail.com
Subject: finally your review is published
Dear Barry,
Thank you for sending me your book. I enjoyed reading it and have just published my review on both amazon.com and amazon.uk. I gave you five stars. This is what I wrote :
It is said that writing a successful first novel is like trying to become a rock star. Well, meet Barry P. Smythe. I think that he has accomplished this feat of genius.
"Sow and You Shall Reap" is the macabre story of an evil woman's effort to gain a fortune. Her conscience having been stifled by an abusive childhood, she will do anything to get what she wants, and she moves ahead with her inventive plans leaving a trail of blood and corpses behind her. Thus, the plot takes sudden and unexpected twists and flights as she strives, no matter what happens, to turn every development to her advantage. Starting by replacing a co-worker by murdering her and assuming her identity, this extraordinary heroine recognizes no obstacles as she advances toward her goal of wealth and pleasure.
Barry P. Smythe is a natural story teller with the ability to create a movie with the written word. His fertile imagination is matched by his powers of description as he takes his reader through one alarming situation into another. The book becomes more and more difficult to put down, and when the main characters move to a haunted hotel, a whole new dimension of fright emerges as earthly and supernatural events lead into the astonishing ending.
Enthralling drama, well developed characters, excellent narration, and fast paced, unexpected events combine to create a striking thriller. I highly recommend this book to anyone looking for a great read.
Thank you very much for sharing your book with me and I wish you every success with it and with future works.
With good wishes,
Ila
--
author of "My Sunset Rendezvous"
3.0 out of 5 stars A fun read, 12 Sep 2011
3.0 out of 5 stars A fun read, 12 Sep 2011
By
sjhigbee (Sussex, UK) - See all my reviews
This review is from: Sow and You Shall Reap (Paperback)
All is not well at Gossmoor Park Care Home. Too many residents are dying and Matron Elizabeth Waverly, along with her lover, Norman, who works as a nurse, have a brutal grip on the frail people in their care. Some of the other staff are growing increasingly concerned - but who will stand up to the menacing couple?
Smythe's evil protagonists are a product of their own miserable, abusive childhoods and he manages to make us aware of their vulnerabilities, so that although we may not like them we do understand what drives them. The uncertain start rapidly picks up pace and confidence as we learn about Norman's childhood. While this is definitely a horror tale with a steadily growing body count, there are flashes of humour that at times approach farce, particularly near the end of the book during the Halloween celebrations. Smythe is an entertaining writer with an inbuilt sense of when to pick up the pace and when he needs to slow it down. In a book where events - along with the body count - start accelerating, it would have been all too easy to lose control of the plotline and characters. But Smythe kept firm control of his wicked protagonists, which had me turning the pages wondering what could possibly happen next.
But, once a train of events is unleashed in this genre and starts gathering momentum, the biggie has to be - does the ending pack a sufficient punch to make the investment of time and effort in reading the book worth it? Apart from being rather too squeamish, this is one of the reasons why this isn't my favourite genre - too many times all the tension and fear fizzles out... Or turns into something so preposterously grotesque, there is no sense of horror left. To be genuinely chilling, there has to be a sense of everyday as the action descends into ever greater chaos - something that Smythe has understood. The ending was completely satisfying, while leaving the reader slightly off balance. This interesting debut novel definitely marks Smythe as one to watch.
7/10
By Avid Amazon reader - See all my reviews on Amamzon. This review is from: Sow and You Shall Reap (Paperback)
I was given this book as a gift from a friend who is an English Literature teacher, who has recommended many amazing reads over the years - and so I knew this would be a great book. I could barely put it down once I started. It has a very rich and powerful story line - shocking yet believable. I wont say much more as I dont want to give too much away, but if you are looking for an intriguing horror / thriller novel, you wont be dissapointed!
