IT FILLS US WITH DELIGHT TO WELCOME BACK TODAY'S GUEST AUTHOR, IAN GRANT, WHO IS SHARING CHAPTER 14 OF HIS NOVEL, 'THE GALLERY OF DEATH' - A DCI WIGGINS ADVENTURE #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat
- 8 hours ago
- 6 min read
Chapter 14 - The President
Sir Edward John Poynter suddenly realised that his immobility was caused by his wrists being tightly bound behind the trunk of a tree. He wrenched at his bindings, only to find that they dug deeper into his wrists while the rough bark of the tree ripped at his skin. His eyes suddenly flashed open as if awoken by a scream from some traumatic nightmare, little realising the nightmare was one that he was about to endure. The President of the Royal Academy had been stripped naked save for a coarse sheet of jute which loosely swaddled his genitalia. Only that, and his abundant grey beard, hid the modesty of his naked eighty-three-year-old body. He was frail and shivered uncontrollably in the early chill of the morning. His feet were wet from the dew-laden grass underfoot and numb with cold.
Lord Poynter had no recollection of how or why he found himself in this terrifying and embarrassing situation. There was a dull ache at the nape of his neck, but apart from the pain he felt emanating from his wrists caused by the tightness of the bindings, he did not feel unwell. He did, however, feel unbearably exposed. He recalled having been knocked unconscious many years before. As a young man, he had fallen from his Polo pony on the playing fields of Ipswich School and had suffered a concussion. The present vague giddiness he felt was redolent of how he had felt after that fall. He looked around frantically, or at least, as far as his arthritic neck would allow, and found that he was tied to a tree in some unremarkable, and as far as he could tell, unidentifiable woodland. He had no idea where he was, nor what time of day it was. His instinctive vulnerability changed sharply to fear and then shockingly to intense, sudden pain as an arrow exploded into his upper thigh, pinning it to the underlying tree. He screamed uncontrollably as pain seared through his leg, as the entry point pulsed and trembled. No noise had accompanied the arrow as it had hurtled towards him, only the sound of its sickening thud as it thrust into the rectus femoris muscle of his right thigh. His hands instinctively tried to make their way to the pain, but only rasped upon the raised ridges of bark, causing the skin to break and bleed. He was gasping in disbelief at the horrific situation in which he found himself, eyes wide with terror, gulping air into his lungs, his stomach churning, when a second, unannounced arrow rammed home, this time pinning his right bicep to the trunk of the tree with a nauseating crunch of splintered humeral bone. The agony was unbearable. His jaw clenched in pain and bit the tip of his tongue clean through.
“Help! HELP!” He screamed as loudly as his lungs would allow, blood now escaping from his injured mouth.
His voice echoed around the silent woods. Panic and shock were beginning to set in as his eyes darted from tree to tree, trying to locate the direction from which the arrows had come. It was then that he suddenly spied his assailant. The figure stood approximately thirty yards in front of him. His assailant was dressed in a long beige robe, secured at the waist with a belt. The hood of the robe obscured the bowman’s face, entirely camouflaging him among the surrounding trees and foliage. He seemed as though he were part of the forest, a grim wood sprite intent on destruction.
“Mercy, please show me mercy! I beseech you! I have done nothing to deserve this! I am a decent, good family man,” Poynter shouted towards the hooded figure.
He felt a churning nausea rise from his gut. His assailant began to reach once again for the quiver slung over his left shoulder. At that point, Poynter knew, with sickening certainty, that his life was about to end, and urine began to trickle involuntarily down his inner thighs. An arrow was carefully withdrawn and notched upon the bowstring and arrow rest, and with amazing velocity, it ripped clean through the left rib cage of Sir Edward John Poynter, who threw his head back against the tree in sheer agony. The robed figure began walking steadily and slowly towards the pinioned Lord. A further two arrows thudded into Poynter’s body in rapid succession, one to the upper right pubic region, ripping through the small intestine, and the other a few inches below and to the right.
“Argh! Lord have mercy!” screamed the aristocrat, tears of desperation running down his cheeks.
His head slumped towards his chest, his entire body coated in beads of icy perspiration. There was extraordinarily little blood loss from the puncture wounds, only an excruciating throbbing pain that wracked his body. The hooded attacker continued to walk calmly towards the tree, crisp foliage crunching ominously underfoot until he was less than a yard away from where Poynter hung as limply as would a straw-stuffed scarecrow. The robed assassin pulled at his victim’s hair, lifting his head from his chest.
“Do you remember me, Mr President?” asked the attacker, removing his hood to reveal his face.
His voice was a deep rasping whisper. Through tear-reddened, throbbing eyes, Poynter spoke in a stuttering, barely audible, whispering death rattle.
“No,” was all he managed to muster, slowly shaking his head.
He could feel the Earth spin around him in a vortex of pain and disbelief. He realised that he was teetering on the very edge of consciousness and about to slip into Death’s embrace. Sliding towards being part of the past - an obituary.
“I suspected as much, Mr President, you never once looked favourably upon myself or my work, and now you have become my latest, and arguably greatest work of art,” snarled the bowman angrily.
“There are merely a few final brushstrokes that I need to make to complete this masterpiece.”
The attacker reached towards Poynter and, with considerable effort, pulled out the first arrow in a twisting motion, ripping flesh as it was withdrawn. He then sadistically plunged the arrow directly and forcibly back into the same gaping entry wound from which it had been extricated. The Lord writhed in excruciating pain and screeched in horror at the sadistic cruelty being inflicted upon him. The pain was such that he longed for death to take him, welcomed blessed oblivion. Each of the other arrows was then, in turn, systematically removed and re-entered loosely, deliberately encouraging blood to flow copiously. As the blood flowed, his life ebbed away. Sir Edward John Poynter thought of the unfinished oil painting which currently sat in the studio of his three-storey townhouse in Albert Gate. Arthritis and dwindling eyesight had robbed him of his lifelong technique, but he had gradually accepted the new freedom of expression his knotted joints and blurred outlook afforded. He began weeping, knowing that the canvas would never be finished. His final dying thoughts were of his beautiful wife Agnes and their three beloved daughters. He died praying that they would not see him again.
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Amazon Book link: https://a.co/d/0ePCxyiS
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AUTHOR BIO
Ian C. Grant is the pen name of brothers Grant and Ian Christie, the creative partnership behind the Detective Inspector Wiggins series.
Grant Christie (d. 2022) was the driving force and original creative mind behind the Wiggins stories. Born in Dundee, he later lived in London and Cork, Ireland, with his wife and two daughters. Alongside a successful career as a Project Manager and Assessor in the building industry, Grant was also a talented artist whose work was exhibited and purchased internationally. He is fondly remembered for his imagination, creativity, and determination.
Ian Christie was also born in Dundee, Scotland. He began his career as a greeting card artist before retraining and joining the University of Dundee, where he worked for 33 years before taking early retirement in 2024. During his time there, he taught students how to communicate their academic research through thesis writing, oral presentations, and scientific conference posters, while also producing high-quality illustrations for research and publication. Ian has designed more than 150 scientific
posters presented at conferences worldwide and created over 4,000 illustrations used in teaching materials and academic papers across multiple disciplines. His wider design work includes creating the official Glastonbury Festival T-shirts for 2002 and 2004, illustrating the covers of three children’s books, and redesigning the cover of The Foot Journal.
Together, under the name Ian C. Grant, the brothers created the world of Detective Inspector Wiggins.
Amazon Book link: https://a.co/d/0ePCxyiS
Promotional Video link: https://youtu.be/Hzvjm6WeNeE
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COMING SOON: On Sunday, 31st May, we are delighted to welcome our guest author, AJ Aberford, who is sharing Chapter 4 of his novel, 'The Conservatory'.
