CycleChat The Novel.

[classic33]

He acted as though he knew no-one in the room. But was it an act, or was there something more sinister behind his behaviour.

Where had he been since they last saw him? Who had he been with? Questions that might be answered at a later date, but for now they'd have to remain unasked. As he led them all out of the room to show them where each would be spending the coming night, they could just wonder.

The stairs were unlit, but the light from the hallway was sufficient for them to see where they were going. The lights on the first floor came on as the last of them made it to the top. An almost silent click had been heard, but there were no switches in sight. What unseen forces were at work. As they followed Marmaduke(Accy), he pointed out who would be in which room. The further they went the lower the temperature became.

Each were hoping that they would be told which room they would be in sooner rather than later. The paintings on the wall seemed to almost follow them. But they were just normal paintings, weren't they? It was all in the mind, nothing else they kept on telling each other.

An eerie silence now pervaded the hallway. No noise was heard, save for the beating of their hearts and their breathing. Slowly and ever onwards they followed, not looking back in the direction from whence they had just come. There could be nothing there that they hadn't seen, could there?

Marmaduke(Accy) turned to the left, leading the remaining few down a short staircase. This part of the building was noticibly barren in decoration to where they had been. The walls seemed closer in, the ceiling lower. Where was he leading them was the question they all wanted to ask, but none dare. Lest the answer be best left unspoken.

A muffled scream, that pierced the air, was heard but no-one asked from whence it came. Had it really only been a few minutes since they were told they would be safe for the night.

Somewhere a Grandfather clock could be heard chiming out the hours, 10, 11, 12, 13. The clock had struck thirteen, of that there was no doubt. In the semi darkness they wanted to return from whence they had come. But were uncertain as to which direction to take. Onwards they went, falling ever more quiet.

Soon they would be safe in their rooms they hoped. Hoping that in the cold light of day, they might laugh at what they were feeling now. Then came the lonesome wail of the beast upon the moor. They were safe from it, within the building, but the howling seemed to grow louder with each step taken.

 

[Oxo]

In turn the remaining protagonists were shown to their rooms until only two remained. The butler turned one last corner in the now decidedly dank corridor and stopped. Facing them were two doors. On a side table rested two keys. The butler look at the two apprehensive bodies, looked at the two doors, looked at the two keys and without a word turned and limped back down the corridor.

And now dear reader it is up to you. You have been given the clues, told the facts of the matter, nudged back on track when you thought you had lost the plot.

I am bowing out, it is for you to decide the innocent and the guilty, the good, the bad or the ugly (that one should be easy).

Others may give you more clues, reveal more acts of treachery and double dealing, but eventually you will each have to reach your own conclusions. My remaining secrets will, for now, remain secret.

Good luck, with your task and stay safe.

 

[Drago]

Mad Mickle awoke with the first rays of the morning sun. He sat grogilly upright, and realised he was backnin his lair in the cellar of the local Halfords.

And then in a rare moment of clarity, it hit him. He would make a full tourer from a carbon time trials bike! After a morning of sweating, grunting, and the occasional fart, his tourer was complete.

Mad Mickle donned his MK8 goggles, wrapped his white Biggles scarf around his neck, mounted his sleek new tourer, and set forth for Midsomer Manor.

 

[User32269]

THE END OF VOLUME ONE.

---------------------------

CYCLE CHAT THE NOVEL
VOLUME TWO

LORD DRAGO'S LARGE EXTENSION
​

 

[roadrash]

all the mods gathered to hatch a cunning plan...

 

[User32269]

The handsome northern writer stared through the bars of his prison cell. Since being unmasked by Inspector Biggs that fateful day in Midsomer, this cell had been all he would have for the next twelve years. Charged with crimes against literature, the future was bleak.
He had known the charges were trumped up, Inspector Biggs had been keen to get away that day, to view a Raleigh Grifter for sale in the Corsdon area. The disgraced author had been an easy target for Biggs, allowing him an early dart and leaving the guilty parties to go free.
What really angered him was the fact he knew the Grifter was too big a frame for Biggs, and would require huge amounts of fettling to be rideable.

 

[Reynard]

In the mean time, Q, left in possession of a trolley load of fake FB pies and a blonde wig, was wondering what to do. Seeings as to how everyone had been fighting over them, he figured that these had to be items of extreme culinary excellence, and therefore needed to find a worthy home.

A bright flash of light followed a twiddled finger, and the whole job lot had vanished, even the wig.

Several hundred light years away, a bright flash of light preceded a loud, rattling clatter that even ankle deep beige carpet couldn't quite manage to muffle.

"Merde," someone swore.

"Temper, temper, mon Capitaine," Q muttered crossly, making himself heard across the fabric of space and time. His gift had obviously gone down like a lead balloon. But what Frenchman would ever turn down the gift of gourmet comestibles?

On the other hand, maybe sending the wig he'd found under the stack of tinned pies wasn't quite such a good idea. Jean-Luc was rather touchy that way...

 

[Bazzer]

As a means of passing his time in prison, he resolved he would, on the face of it, pass on his skills to other prisoners by means of literature and creative writing courses. It seemed a no brainer: Secure privileges: Suck up to the governor that prisoners were learning: May be even convince the parole board he was a reformed man. However, he would in practice be learning from the other prisoners. He wanted to get out of prison and exact his revenge on Inspector Biggs. He would use the prisoners to secure his escape as he sure did not plan on waiting 12 years, or whatever the abatement was for good behaviour.
After many attempts, he had finally secured a meeting with the prison governor, Rupert "You're on solitary" Henry-Smythe.
Henry-Smythe had been receptive to the idea, as a frustrated writer himself. Henry-Smythe's one successful published work had been a letter comprising of completely fictitious content to "Readers Wives" and that had been after some 200 or so quires of paper, had been used writing equally fictitious letters to many other similar publications. Quite apart from the emotional drain of writing the content, his wallet had also suffered. The volume of letters written required the purchase of the publications to see if his letters had been successful. - Or at least, that was how he justified the purchases.
Henry-Smythe instructed the head warder to find a suitable "classroom" within the prison for the proposed classes and said he would personally select the prisoners he considered would benefit from the course. One of them would of course be him.
Within a month the "classroom", a larger prison cell, had been allocated. A month later the classes were up a running. By a further month, the classes were proving very popular. A waiting list had been created and Henry-Smythe had come to the conclusion that his presence in the classes was no longer needed. He had a comment published on a niche adult web site and decided that he was an E L James waiting to be discovered. Thus leaving the creative writing classes to proceed largely unsupervised and for non creative writing ideas to profligate.

 

[classic33]

Here was the perfect example of the crime not paying. The outside world would just have to wait until his freedom had been regained, by fair or foul means, to see who was the person behind the name. Inspector Briggs had made a watertight case, meaning fair means and early release would not be on the cards.

 

[Pat "5mph"]

What's the story, morning glory?
I'm Reiver, two wheeled border rider.
I can be here, I can be there, likely you find me everywhere on known to few roads, infinite snow covered roads leading to hidden swallows' nests.
I fly with swallows, I see with them, as one, an unfolding tragedy.
I am perplexed.
Not omnipotent as The One, nevertheless I know much, I know how to assist Drago in building his bike shed.
But ... is he intending to hide one of his many hunting 4x4's instead?
Is he a danger to Bunnies on Bikes?
I don't think I want to be part of this.
On my antique steed I ride on the thin, slippery line.
My trusty steed goes by the name of GT85 - short for Gaffer taped 85 times.

 

[Pat "5mph"]

Editor's Note:
contributors to the Novel, please note that the Evil Emperor Merciless character must not be renamed: you can call him Mercy if you like
Thank you!

 

[Reynard]

Or Ming the Merciless

 

[colly]

It turned out that Ming the Merciless was in fact just minging.