My stories have been accepted and published in

TAKE A BREAK
WOMAN’S WEEKLY
LOVING
THE PEOPLE’S FRIEND and
MY WEEKLY

      Recently I was proud and honoured that the prolific author Jean Saunders kindly reviewed one of my short stories entitled TWO OF A KIND. In her article ‘Great Beginnings’ which was published in WRITERS MARKET Jean Saunders quoted my short story beginning: 

    "Bob the Builder was being sick in the bathroom. Sleeping Beauty was tying the cat to the leg of the kitchen table. The rest of the children at the party were running around screaming as if high on E numbers at the very least. Wearing a Spiderman outfit, Tobias, whose mum had warned us was hyperactive, was actually the quietest of the lot. It was the children's party from hell..."

and made the comment:

      "All right, just one comment about why I think those are great openings - it's because all the characters are in identifiable, yet very personal situations. Maybe we haven't all been there - yet - but the problems make us smile, because we can all sympathise with them.  Good characters aren't so very hard to find when you look inwards!"

      I love writing short stories and get my ideas from everywhere and everyone. A chance comment usually sparks off the plot and once I ‘people’ it the story will take on a life of its own.

     Oddly my favourite short story about a rogue Father Christmas hasn’t sold yet … but I will continue to rewrite it until it reaches a publishable standard.
 

      I was delighted to sell my first novel - a light romance called LOVELINK - when I was twenty eight.

      ‘Although tormented by the heartache of being jilted Vicky Lewis is nevertheless determined to make a new life for herself. Moving to Brookleigh she sets up a dating agency called Lovelink. However no sooner has she opened for business than strange things start to happen. She soon realises it is the determined action of someone trying to drive her out of the town.
Is the dark and brooding Marcus Foster, who seems to delight in antagonising her, in any way connected with the relentless campaign? But she soon discovers a potentially more dangerous problem: her deepening attraction to Marcus.’

      The whole process thrilled me from acceptance letter through checking the copy editing to the magical day when the first copies arrived.
LOVELINK did very well in that it sold in hardback, paperback, large print, audio and we also had an offer for the foreign rights.
I might have continued to write romance but six months after my novel was on the market the publisher’s light romance list folded after 60 years.
I was devastated but it led to me changing genre to crime and I must admit I love the freedom of writing darker novels.

     My novel COMPANY OF STRANGERS is complete and I am hoping to gain a publishing contract for it. It is a contemporary psychological thriller set in Portsmouth - a city and its people I know and love well. Here is an extract from it.

“COMPANY OF STRANGERS”
by
TESS KIMBER.
PROLOGUE.
 

     The Watcher hid in the shadows.
     Waiting ...
     Always from a distance.
     There is much to learn when others cannot see you. It’s how animals hunt. Still. Breathing shallowly, ready to pounce.
     A deep breath now as rage charged through mind and body.
     Their names filled the Watcher with a loathing that was so extreme, so dark.
     Dangerous.
     But first their fear must match the Watcher’s hatred.
     Only then could it begin …

*
CHAPTER ONE

  “I’m scared, Marley,” Roo whispered into her mobile.
     “Why?” he drawled. “What’s happened now?”
     “Someone’s after me.”
     Hurrying over the cobbles, she glanced all around. Even framed between the two pubs she didn’t feel safe.
     She was certain she’d heard footsteps - getting closer and closer …
     Suddenly the door of the ‘Still and West’ opened.
     A couple, slightly swaying with their arms wrapped around each other, fell out, laughing.
    The woman looked a bit like her, Roo thought. Late thirties, willowy, long auburn hair. She was even wearing a similar, full length, camel coat.
     “Who’s after you?” Marley’s voice tugged her attention away from the couple. “Anyone to do with Meg?”
     “I don’t know.” She was shaking. “Help me.”
     With one last wobble the couple disappeared around the corner.
     “Where are you?”
     “Old Portsmouth. Broad Street … Just getting back to the car.”
She pointed the key at her blue VW Beetle and pressed it. The lights flashed reassuringly.
     “Are you in? … Lock all the doors.”
     She did as he said, then put the key in the ignition. She turned it. Nothing.
     “The car won’t start! Where are you?”
     “I’m stuck at Port Solent. I wish I was with you, honey,” he said. “Wish I could help.”
     “I need you, Marley,”
     “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Try the engine again. Keep calm,” he said. “Automobiles break down all the time.”
     “Will’s only just had it serviced.” Roo turned the ignition key with her free hand. “Come on.” The engine whined but wouldn’t turn over. “I can’t stand it, Marley …”
    Suddenly the line went dead.
    Now she was truly alone.
    Throwing her mobile onto the passenger seat she frantically turned the key again. No bloody good. It refused to start.
     She checked her watch. The sky was growing dark.
     Then she saw it; pinned in place by the wiper blades and fluttering against the windscreen like the wings of a trapped butterfly.
     A piece of lilac paper.
     She opened the car door, got out and snatched up the paper.
     Just like a scene from a thriller the note was made of letters cut from newspaper headings.
     “NeXt TIme, BiTCh, I’LL cUt YoUR BraKe LINe.”
She shook. Her mouth filled with saliva as the mobile rang again.
“Marley?”
“I’m watching you.” The voice was indistinct; disguised. “I’m always watching you …”
 

*

   Now COMPANY OF STRANGERS is complete I am beginning work on my latest psychological thriller with the working title LIFELESS.

“LIFELESS”
by
TESS KIMBER
PROLOGUE

     Years spent alone had darkened the soul. Emotional pain deeper than torture forced a mind to hunger revenge.
     Only when eyes saw blood spent; when ears heard the sharpest scream; when lives were snuffed like candle wicks; could thoughts wither.
     Murder stilled the sea of craving. But with the act guilt was conceived. So hot it cremated the spirit.
     When good is twisted into evil, morals erode like chalk cliffs.
     But consider - are the victims always truly innocent?

*
CHAPTER ONE
1965

     “Please I beg you. Not my baby,” Evie cried. “Don’t take her.”
     The girl sounded like an untamed animal, Father Pete thought. And she protected her young like one too.
     There was a wildness to Evie’s dark eyes as her mother tried to prise the screaming baby from her fierce hold.
     “It’s for the best,” her mother coaxed. “She’ll have a settled life.”
      But still Evie gripped her child.
     “Yes, a good life,” Father Pete said in his gentle voice.
      He dropped his gaze from the heat of hers and studied the small room with contempt.    Religious clutter mingled with posters of the Beatles, attempting to hide nicotine stained wallpaper.
     “The couple the Bishop have found are solid, Christian people.”
      Hearing his words Evie turned her knowing gaze to him. With one last embrace she finally let the crying baby pass to her mother.
     Father Pete smiled tightly and nodded at her. The drama was fading at last. The girl had seen sense.
     Evie continued to stare at him for a few more seconds.
     “There, you’re a bright child. I knew you’d see reason eventually …”
     Suddenly Evie flew across the room at him.
     Kicking. Biting. Clawing.
     His hands grasped her forearms tightly as he drew her nails from his stinging face. It was the first time they’d touched since …
     But as soon as he relaxed his hold she broke free and her fingers reached to scratch at his eyes.
     Pain sparked a suppressed rage. He lifted his fist to beat her. Defiance flashed in Evie’s eyes.
     “Go on,” she teased.
     But then Evie’s mother slid between them; dividing them.
     Pulling her daughter away the older woman held her tightly by the arms. Exhausted by the struggle Evie slumped.
     Father Pete froze with his fist even now raised in readiness to punch her.
     “Father - your arm.”
     He caught the look in Evie’s mother’s eyes and felt an unmasking. He shuddered as he brought down his arm.
     Touching his throbbing cheek, he switched mentally from villain to victim by the gouging of her nails.
     Seconds before the room had been filled with the theatre of the moment but now it grew as quiet as his empty church.
     Once calmed he moved closer to touch Evie’s head in a profound blessing. But as soon as his hand touched her silky hair she drew in her cheeks and spat up at him. Right in his face.
     “You fraud …”
     “Enough!” The girl’s mother shouted. “Go now, Father, with the baby. While I still have her.”
     Wiping the phlegm from his face he wordlessly scooped up the infant and the holdall.
     Immediately Evie began to howl. ‘Keening,’ he believed it was called. Hearing her he finally understood the term.
     It cut through him like a flick knife as he unlatched the door with his free hand and slipped into the night.
     The sound echoed through his head as he hurried from the house towards the railway station.
     If this was right, why did he feel like a thief?
     If this was truly God’s way, why couldn’t He make it easier?
     He rounded the corner with the baby held tightly in his arms. Two young men in leather jackets and watertight jeans stood leaning against the bus shelter sharing a roll-up.
     “Bitter night, Father,” sniggered Tom Martindale’s son Lee. “To be babysitting.”
     “Fuck off,” he muttered, delighting in the young man’s shock.
     Light danced across the puddles as he headed for Fratton’s railway station.
     Punishment. That was the answer.
     He’d sinned. The girl had sinned. Now they must both pay with pain. It was God’s way. The only way.
     The sound of Evie’s screaming haunted Father Pete as he stood shivering on the dark platform.
     Anxiously he glanced up at the station clock. Was he too late?
     That shite Martindale was right. The night was cold. Fratton station was open to all the elements at the best of times.
     He pulled the baby closer. If he was freezing despite his heavy suit he could only imagine what she was feeling.
     Making a rushed sign of the cross he looked down at the sleeping child. Ardently he prayed that what he was about to do was right.
     “Oh Lord bless and save us,” he muttered.
     Sometimes God’s way was hard.
     But it stood to reason a child could not bring up a child.
     Fourteen. He shook his head. Evie hadn’t looked fourteen …
It was so difficult to tell these days. All the girls wore too much make-up and too little clothes. Long, bare legs in these new mini skirts. It was enough to turn a man’s head …
     Guilt blazed through him, incinerating his soul.
     Yes, a man’s head perhaps but it should not a priest’s …
     “Please forgive me Father for I have sinned …”
     He gazed down at the baby and tried to memorise every detail of her perfect face. It must be the last time he saw her …
     He closed his eyes. Instantly his mind filled with echoing screams.
     No - this was a new sound. Gentle at first. Rapidly it grew. The train was approaching the station.
     It was time ...
     Almost as if she realised the baby stirred in his arms. Sleepily she opened her eyes.
     As she stared at him he shivered. The look was so … knowing.
     “My dear child remember always how much your God loves you.” He pulled her even closer and whispered, “Remember too … your father.”
     The train hissed to a stop and the doors flapped open like wings. Several people spilled out. Father Pete searched for the couple.
     “Sometimes,” the Bishop had said to him on that darkest of days,“when our eyes see it all, we still do not understand …”
     As the passengers scattered Father Pete spotted them. Thank God he’d studied the photo the Bish had shown him. Lewis and Regina Baxter. As yet the chosen couple had not seen him.
     Father Pete watched.
     Mr Baxter was dressed in a tweed suit and wore a trilby. His wife stood ramrod straight beside him in a cream trench coat with a leather handbag crooked over her arm. They looked respectable. Well-to-do. Just as the Bish had promised.
    But they did not look warm.
     Finally they glanced in his direction and hurried over.
    “Father,” Lewis Baxter offered his hand.
     He nodded. “Good evening.”
     The man’s skin felt as dry as paper.
   “Your face ..?”
     Father Pete flushed and touched the scratches on his cheek. But he didn’t comment.
     Instead in a remarkably generous gesture he held out the baby to Regina Baxter.
     The woman was surely older than thirty five, he thought. Her brunette hair was tightly permed and looked as unmovable as her demeanour.
     Leaning forward she peered at the baby. Wordlessly she studied the child but didn’t reach out to touch her. Father Pete wasn’t certain but felt Regina wrinkled her nose.
     “No diseases?”
     He pursed his lips. “No, Mrs Baxter, she’s just a healthy, beautiful child.”
     “A bastard?”
     “In name,” he sighed, “but I’d wager not in nature.”
     “Take the child, Lewis. We’ll soon have to change platforms.”
     Mr Baxter awkwardly reached for the baby.
     If Father Pete hadn’t seen the hint of a smile on his lips he wouldn’t have surrendered her.
     Later as he watched them board the London bound train he seethed with regret.
     Ambition shone in him more brightly than love. Or lust.
     Was he safe now?
     The Bish had offered an alternative that day. But if the child ceased to exist …?
     The parish was crawling with whispers.
     He was a priest but a man of the street first. The street’s remedy was more certain.
     Father Pete might yet have to pursue it. After all it wouldn’t be the first time …

*