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Arc Of A Shooting Star: Life Gets Complicated (The Shooting Star Series Book 1) Read online




  ARC OF A SHOOTING STAR

  Book 1 of the Shooting Star series

  SIMON NORTHOUSE

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  Copyright © 2018 by Simon Northouse

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, distributed, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the Author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non‑commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  For information about special discounts available for bulk purchases, sales promotions, fund-raising and educational needs contact [email protected] or visit the Author's website at www.snorthouse.com or Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/simonnorthouse

  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Published by Flabbergasted Publishing

  Second Edition

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-0-6482884-3-5

  Kindle e-book ISBN-13: 978-0-6482884-1-1

  Dedication

  To Mrs Fletcher

  Maybe you were right—time will tell

  CONTENTS

  1: Blowing In The Wind

  2: Start Me Up

  3: Only The Lonely

  4: Pump It Up

  5: You Can't Always Get What You Want

  6: Homeward Bound

  7: People Are Strange (When You're a Stranger)

  8: Whiskey in the Jar-O

  9: Ever Fallen In Love

  10: Road To Nowhere

  11: Didn't You Used To Be You?

  12: With A Little Help From My Friends

  13: A Changing Man

  14: Big Country

  15: On The Road Again

  16: London Calling

  17: Hotel California

  18: Melting Pot

  19: New Boots and Panties

  20: Dogs Of Straw

  21: I Hope You Had The Time Of Your Life

  22: All I Need is the Air That I Breathe

  23: The Only Way Is Up

  24: Baby You Can Drive My Car

  25: Cum On Feel The Noize

  26: Riders On the Storm

  27: Yakety Yak

  28: All Over Now Baby Blue

  29: Caravan Of Love

  30: Just Gimme Some Truth

  31: Watching The Detectives

  32: Instant Karma

  1: Blowing In The Wind

  April 2005

  I was a bloody idiot! The snowstorm that greeted us as we emerged onto the summit soon morphed into a full‑blown blizzard. I could not see more than four or five metres ahead. I glanced down at my poor old Doberman. His ears were pinned back, blobs of snow dangled from his nose and his once dark eyelashes were now a thick white. No longer the effervescent bundle of unbridled energy, he took on the persona of a ghost dog, the canine equivalent of the Flying Dutchman.

  'How did we end up here, old pal?' I gasped as I bent my body double to shield my face from the blistering cold. He looked at me and let out a low whimper, as if to say, "What's all this 'we' business … It was your stupid idea!"

  We were on top of Yorkshire's second highest peak in the middle of an unusually bitter spring. I blamed my dominatrix—Madame Nicotine. I had been off the smokes for two weeks, three days and ten hours—not that I was counting—and decided a brisk walk may alleviate my withdrawal symptoms. Damn those tobacco giants!

  The day started off pleasant enough with a weak sun occasionally peeking through icy clouds and a cool but invigorating breeze sweeping across the Dales. My intent had been simple enough—to complete a circular amble around the foothills of Inglegor Pike and then return to my warm farmhouse in time for the afternoon football game on TV. The weather forecast predicted cold and blustery conditions with a high chance of snowfall at elevated levels. I remembered looking up at the sawn off peak of Inglegor Pike and in a rash and impulsive act of stupidity decided to tackle its arduous incline. It was a walk I'd done so many times before during the last decade, I'd lost count. However, that was in summer or autumn, never in winter and rarely ever in springtime. I was ill prepared for the conditions I now faced.

  Despite the relentless attack of sleet and snow, I could just make out the grey outline of a rock formation ahead. I knew this must be the windbreak as the plateau was barren of any other structure. With great effort and much relief, we made it to the shelter. I sat down behind one of the walls and was instantly removed from the snarling teeth of the storm. Caesar shook himself violently sending a spray of wet ice and mud over me. Luckily, I had brought a backpack with a few meagre provisions. I unzipped the bag and pulled out a peanut butter sandwich, a block of chocolate and a bottle of ice-cold water. I cursed myself again and as I sat there slowly munching on my rations, I voiced out the litany of transgressions I had committed. My shivering dog listened morosely.

  'Inadequate clothing, no hat, no scarf, no waterproofs, no hot drinks, not enough food or water; no matches, no compass, no map, no torch. I have not informed anyone of my destination or my expected return time. The weather forecast told me to expect strong winds and squalls and what do I do?' Caesar cocked his head to one side listening intently. 'I decide to walk to the top of Yorkshire's second highest peak. I saw the gloomy sky and ignored it. Any normal person would have turned back when they realised it was blowing a blizzard, but did I? No, not I, Will Harding, Patron Saint of Village Idiots everywhere.' I finished three‑quarters of my sandwich and threw the remnant to an appreciative Caesar, who swallowed it greedily.

  I assessed my situation. The visibility had now dropped to less than a couple of metres and I realised I was in a spot of bother. I needed to get off this damn peak as quickly as possible. If I had packed ample provisions and some insulation, I may have been able to hunker down until the storm abated but I realised this was no longer an option. There were only three routes off the plateau, two by established paths and a third by a hundred metre vertical drop to unforgiving rocks. I unwrapped the bar of chocolate, pulled off a chunk, and popped it in my mouth.

  'Sorry Caesar old pal, but this might be my lunch and dinner.' The old dog gazed sadly at me as the chocolate disappeared into my pocket. I stuck my head above the windbreak and a sub‑zero blast of air greeted me with such ferocity it stole my breath away. It was impossible! The conditions were treacherous and I felt an unwelcome wave of fear roll over me. I dropped back down behind the wall and sucked on my chocolate. What am I to do? I was getting colder by the second even in the shelter. If I could get off the peak, I assumed the storm would blow harmlessly over the top of us and the immediate danger would pass. I decided to head back the way we had come. There was no chance of retracing my footsteps as they were now covered with snow, but I was sure I would recognise the path if and when I saw it. At least I would have my back to the storm, therefore making visibility easier. I rubbed my numb hands together, stamped my feet and hoisted on my backpack.

  'Come on Caesar, it's do or die, mate.' We set off into the milky maelstrom and I kept glancing behind every couple of steps or so, not wishing to lose sight of the windbreak. I'm not sure if I did this in a valiant attempt at keepin
g to my original bearing or just for reassurance, knowing the hexagon of rocks was the only sanctuary on top of the spiteful peak. After no more than ten or so strides, the windbreak disappeared from view and I felt the sharp claws of panic grip my stomach. This was it—there was no turning back.

  'If yesterday was tomorrow,' I began to sing, 'then today I'd be alright …' The song was from our first album and it was an unconscious choice, but I smiled upon realising the irony of the words. I stumbled on blindly, praying I was walking in the right direction. Caesar now had icicles forming on the end of his nose and hanging miraculously from his jowls. I felt sorry for him but at the same time, his pathetic figure did make me laugh a little.

  I halted abruptly. I inched forward staring hard into the whiteness and made out an edge where the ground rudely stopped. I could see no further, horizontally or vertically, and only guessed at what may have happened had I walked another metre or so. Any fall in these conditions would be fatal; a broken leg or even a sprained ankle was all it would take.

  Two choices; either set off in a clockwise direction or an anti‑clockwise direction and skirt the perimeter of the rock. At some point, I would surely stumble upon the trail which, would lead me to safety. The problem was, I didn't know the exact distances involved in such a circumnavigation. On my previous visits to the summit, I ate my lunch at the windbreak, took in the views and then set off back the way I had ascended. I had never orbited the entire plateau. I now wish I had. It wasn't a huge area, but would it take ten minutes or half an hour? I knew I wouldn't last thirty minutes in these conditions; ten minutes, fifteen at a push, was my estimated limit. For a moment, I thought about heading back towards the windbreak but quickly decided against it. What was the point? Even if I managed to find my way back, which was unlikely, all I would do was waste valuable energy. No, the only way was to navigate the boundary.

  I set off nervously. I feared the edge may crumble at any moment or a powerful gust of wind would pick me up and toss me to a terrifying death; but, if I moved in from the rim, I was unable to make out the rock's outline and so risked walking right past the path I desperately sought.

  I shuffled on and on, occasionally spotting what I thought was an exit route only to find it was a dead end, a ledge jutting out from the peak. This happened on three occasions; each time my heart began to beat faster with expectancy and excitement only to feel the crushing blow of disappointment when I realised it was merely a ruse. I struggled to keep control of my fear and began to berate myself for the life I lived.

  I had no wife, no soul-mate, no children; I had only one friend from my musical past and my only immediate family was my Mother, whom I reluctantly visited once a year. What was the point of life if there was no one to share it with? I was a recluse! It was over ten years since the Shooting Tsars disbanded. I had needed time away then as I was spent, disillusioned and worst of all, I became cynical. That's when I found the converted barn in the little Yorkshire village of Whitstone. It was a great house in the middle of nowhere—the perfect place to hide away and lick my wounds. Although the cynicism and self-pity soon faded, a new attitude was born. I became insular and selfish without even noticing it. My whole life revolved around me. I was heliocentric. There was no warmth or love in my life. How had this happened? I didn't deliberately set out to create this solitary existence, it just crept up on me like a slow debilitating cancer. I thought of a cheesy poster I had once seen, stuck on the window of a gym—"nothing changes if nothing changes". I scoffed at the time and deemed it just another example of the feel-good, positive affirmation, self-help industry that plagued the world. A meaningless slogan dreamt up by consensus around a boardroom table during a brainstorming session. But now those words resonated around my head with increasing clarity, "nothing changes if nothing changes". The more I thought about it the simpler and more obvious it became. Those five words summed up the last ten years of my life. I had meandered, drifted, bobbing about like a discarded champagne cork in the ocean. If I didn't instigate change, well, then nothing would change. Days had slipped into weeks, weeks into months and months into years—if I carried on like this, it wouldn't be long before my coffin would be slipping into the cold dead earth. I always intended to get back on the musical merry-go-round, but as the years passed, my confidence gradually waned, slowly melting away like a candle in a cold dark room. Now the thought of reforming my old band, or even going solo, seemed so outlandishly impossible I always immediately buried the idea on the rare occasions it raised its mocking head. I was plagued with self‑doubt, and anyway, life was too easy and comfortable. There was nothing, or no-one, to kick me up the arse, to shake me out of this apathy—until now. Mother‑nature wasn't just bitch-slapping me awake, she was throwing a bucket of ice-cold water over me as I emerged from a steaming hot bath. It was a bit late to be ruminating on life at the present. I felt tears begin to sting my eyes and kidded myself it was due to the biting gale. Was it too late to change? I promised myself if I ever got off this bloody mountain, I would put things right or at least die trying. I pushed my self-pity aside and became angry.

  'I will not be beaten! I will not be beaten!' I chanted as I meandered along. Caesar began to whimper. I stopped and knelt down beside him, pulling him in close to my body and giving him a big hug.

  'Easy boy, you'll soon be tucked up in front of a roaring log fire chewing on a bone,' I encouraged softly. He didn't understand the words but he knew the intent and his spirits seemed to noticeably lift, and so too, my own.

  I continued with renewed vigour. I navigated another dead end and at one point stumbled perilously close to an edge. Although I couldn't see the drop I narrowly escaped, I felt the vast emptiness that awaited me had I been a few inches further to my left.

  I'd been walking for fifteen minutes and was beginning to get tired. The freezing cold I experienced earlier had subsided and I reminded myself this may be due to the onset of hypothermia. My body was closing down its normal mechanisms to save energy. I realised lethargy and then sleep would not be far behind, and after that, death.

  I doubled back on myself as I finished exploring yet another ledge. As it rejoined the main plateau, my feet slipped on a patch of hard ice and I was sent reeling to the ground. As I landed, my head hit the surface hard and I heard a loud zinging in my ears. I rested. Caesar lay down at my side and I smelt a faint comforting aroma of damp dog. I thought about getting back to my feet but decided that maybe a five or ten-minute rest would do me good. I closed my eyes and sensed movement—Caesar had left—probably gone to chase some rabbits.

  #

  I felt something heavy yet warm on my midriff accompanied by a less than pleasant smell. I opened my eyes and stared at the snowflakes as they floated gently to the ground. They were beautiful. It brought back memories of Christmas Day when I was about ten years old. I recalled pushing my action man jeep through thick powdery snow that lay heavy on our street. I remembered Christmas dinner, Mam, Dad, and all the relatives sat around the big table. The house was bursting at the seams—paper hats, Christmas carols, the smell of cigars and stale beer, the aroma of turkey and plum pudding with a heavy rum sauce. There was a sense of magic—a magic only the very young can ever feel. My eyes became sleepy once more. The heavy weight on my stomach was suddenly lifted from me. I blinked. What is that? Black, brown, red? No, not red, pink. Snowflakes rising? That's not right. My eyes slowly focused on an object a few inches directly above me. It's a God. No, not a God, I mean a dog. What's a dog doing here? I sluggishly regained my senses. Snowflakes weren't rising, it was the dog's steamy breath floating in the cold air. His long pink tongue lolled around his jaws as he panted heavily.

  'Caesar,' I called his name as I slowly became aware of the numbness in my legs and the deep throbbing from my head. I staggered wearily to my feet and shuffled forward. Caesar wagged his tail as he licked my hand. The tempest abated, the snow now a gentle dancing ballet. I could see further. I noticed a path in front of me but wasn't sure wh
at to do. Should I go down it? Why not. I trudged slowly onward following the winding trail as it rapidly descended away from the peak. Within a few metres, the temperature noticeably increased and I saw a refreshing vista of greenery stretching way into the distance. The snow petered out the further I descended. Down the hill I went, slipping and sliding, panting hard. I began to feel the cold in my hands and feet once again, a good sign. My thinking became clearer, although my head still ached. I felt my hairline, something sticky. I inspected my fingers and saw a crimson stain. A flesh wound, nothing serious.

  On and on I went as though trying to escape some monstrous fiend. Finally, at the point of exhaustion, I stopped. I turned and glared at the huge monolith behind me. It was grinning, mocking me, its presence overbearing, as though it still held me in its jaws. I was desperately thirsty and pulled my water bottle from my backpack—my heart sank. The bottle was all but empty and my backpack extremely wet. The jogging down the hill must have loosened the top, releasing the precious contents. I glanced at my watch—4:15 pm—I could not believe it! I must have been unconscious for a couple of hours. I tried to find my bearings by surveying the horizon for familiar landmarks but everything appeared foreign. With resigned weariness, I realised I had descended the wrong path and was now on the opposite side of the mountain. It was getting dark, and at best, there was barely an hour’s daylight left. I pulled out my bar of chocolate and broke it in half.

  'Make the most of it pal; it may be the last thing you eat.' I threw Caesar half the chocolate and deposited the remainder in my mouth. The glucose seemed to work instantly and galvanised me into action.

  'Okay Caesar, here's the plan. We'll continue downwards and sideways in an easterly direction which will eventually bring us back onto the path we took this morning, not far from Inglegor Beck. If we can get to the path before dark, then I know the way back from there, blindfold.' I often talked to my dog—he was a good listener and rarely disagreed.