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ROBERT CRAVEN - AUTHOR

Behind the Author

Robert Craven has always been passionate about writing and storytelling. He is an independent author. He's self-motivated and driven to produce quality fiction. His personal blog and stories can be found on ABCTales.com. An active member of the writing community, he writes regular features for Writing.ie.

https://courses.edx.org/certificates/8b90323b8c424702813a7f4ac1eec0c1

Novels: The Eva series:

(Amazon.com / Smashwords / Kobo.com)

·(2020) Eagles Hunt Wolves - Winner of the Firebird 2021 book award

https://www.speakuptalkradio.com/author-robert-craven/

·(2016) Hollow Point

·(2014) A Finger of Night

·(2012) Zinnman

·(2011) Get Lenin

Other novels:

(2018) The Road of a Thousand Tigers  – best seller on Kobo.

(2017) The Mandarin Cipher

(2021) A Kind of Drowning

(2024) Malign Intent 

The Voice of Get Lenin

https://www.mandy.com/actor/profile/madeleine-brolly

https://www.amazon.co.uk/s?k=Madeleine+Brolly&i=audible&ref=dp_byline_sr_audible_2

MALIGN INTENT

01/24

"Crowe's natural habitat seems to be hot water"

A funeral in Kilkenny

The Massey TE20 operated by a man in a sombre black suit and mid-crown top hat was pulling a low trailer with a wicker coffin on it. A sheepdog lay beside it, its cheeks puffing out mournful yips and low howls. The tractor pulled up alongside the grave. To the increasing drone of the chanted sorrowful mysteries, the wicker coffin was lifted off the trailer and lowered into the pit by the vanguard of uniformed funeral directors. The dog slinked off the trailer and over to the widow’s side. Crowe looked up at the blue azure vault to the solitary mackerel-skinned cloud that seemed to fade into infinity. He felt tired, raw and broken. Then he looked at the profile of his father, Gabriel. Like Yeats’ fisherman all freckles, strong hands and deep creases around the mouth and brow,

“Poor Peadar Lenihan,” said Gabriel. 

He fed his smoothed onyx and silver rosary through his meaty liver spotted hands; Crowe remembered in his childhood seeing them wrapped around the seasoned and worn wooden truncheon that Gabriel used on duty.

Crowe had never shared his father’s devotion to the faith.

The bent, old priest splashed holy water over the coffin placed reverently into the fresh earth. From the small congregation, a piper in Kilkenny tartan stepped forward, and across the still air, the first notes of ‘Isle of hope, isle of tears’ keened reverently. The sobs of Mrs Lenihan punctuated the murmur of dog yelps, rites and rosaries. 

     “Never know what happened. That Massey came down on him off the blocks while he was working on it. The wife found him a few hours later crushed under it. Terrible,” continued Gabriel, “Their only son, Seamus, can't get back from Sydney; his wife just had a baby. One hundred and twenty acres here going to wither and wane, and that poor woman left to keep the farm going with their only son down under in Oz.”  

    “How did Peadar get permission to get buried on his land?,” asked Crowe.

    “A lot of cash and proof his final place of rest was nowhere near a water table,” replied Gabriel.

Crowe had driven to Gabriel’s B&B, his pension investment only to find his father not there. An austere-looking woman who introduced herself as Una answered the door. She wore an apron over a black top and matching slacks, she looked efficient and spruce. He followed her to an outdoor spread at the side of the house. At the rear, in the large garden was a twelve foot canopy tent with bustling caterers. Una told him it was for a local funeral and Gabriel had agreed to host the requiem repast. The spread and activity had the organised solemnity of an old American revival. She poured him a cold glass of fresh lemonade and had then directed him here to this farm where the farmer Peadar was being buried. Crowe’s body felt taut and stiff from the bandages and the fresh sutures. His arms and shoulders ached from his clumsy control of his car on the journey. The cold and refreshing lemonade pressed against his bladder. He craved a belt of whiskey, a cigarette, but knew his father wouldn’t approve. Now entering his eighth decade, Gabriel Crowe had shed the mind numbing habits that had clung to him as a serving Garda. Though the outward dourness remained. 

    “Why didn’t you ring ahead?” asked Gabriel.

    “My phone is locked away. It’s thought it sparked from overheating and caused the explosion,” replied Crowe, “I didn’t get a replacement yet,”

Gabriel looked at his son with a sideways glance, and judged him to be okay and mostly intact.

“Well, no-one should be too contactable these days. Explains Una’s text to me about you arriving on the doorstep. How’s Alison? Cathal?” he asked.

    “It's complicated,” replied Crowe.

    “You or Alison?”

    “Alison,” said Crowe.

    “I’d like to see more of my grandson, John,” said Gabriel after a pause.

There was a finality to that comment.

“O’Suilleabháin was in touch, he told me you’d pull through,” replied Gabriel.  

Crowe baulked inwardly. He could regurgitate the old family wounds, harp on about being raised by an emotionally stunted man. The vanguard of the state. The upholder of the law. A distant man who occupied the family space in a simmering rage that threatened to spill over once the whiskey bottle made an appearance. 

But there was no point. Not anymore.

    “I have a question,” said Crowe.

    “Official or unofficial?” replied Gabriel.

They started walking to the driveway.

    “Chief Justice Barry Gartland,”

    “What’s that feckin’ little gangster up to now?” replied Gabriel, with a derisory snort, “Now I read in the papers, the crooked bastard is off to Europe.”

    “His name has popped up,” said Crowe, “Did you ever have any dealings?”

Gabriel produced a fob that opened a brand new tan-coloured Range Rover. He eyed Crowe’s car that flickered half-heartedly after several attempts by Crowe to open it.

    “That yours?” asked Gabriel.

    “It gets me from A to B,” said Crowe.

    “You know the way? We’ll talk there,”

    “Yes,” replied Crowe.

He followed his father to a place he hadn’t been to in decades.

To find out more - go to my webiste - link below


https://www.robert-cravenauthor.ie

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Memory is the most important asset of human beings. It’s a kind of fuel.

Haruki Murakami 

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THE REAL STORY

January 20, 2019

The great Jazz bass player, Steve Swallow once observed his career was 50% listening, 50% playing, like this discipline, writers too should immerse themselves; inhabit the world of reading and writing. Steven Spielberg always watches John Ford’s seminal work, ‘The Searchers’ before loading a strip of film, every writer too should have a ‘go-to piece’ for preparation; as in the words of the great American poet Kenneth Koch,  “You can’t lose anything of yourself by being influenced by a poet, no matter how strong. All you can do is learn from him [or her] how to do it. Just like by imitating the hand movements of great pianists.” Like Mr. Swallow, I listen and write and listen and write and listen and write, only after careful preparation. Like all good bakers, we work to avoid flat cakes…

My best seller,  THE ROAD OF A THOUSAND TIGERS was a no 1 download on Kobo.

You can find this and my KOBO books here @KOBO

http://www.kobo.com/ebook/the-road-of-a-thousand-tigers


His latest novel EAGLES HUNT WOLVES is OUT NOW!

photo - courtesy of Ger Holland http://www.gerhollandphotography.com/ 

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