“The leaf moved and scurried in a circular motion, he realised it was a tiny shrew. It was too late to brake or swerve, Victor glanced in the rear view mirror a split second later, the shrew was still there in the centre of the lane, going about its business, known only to itself; an insignificant creature in the grand scale of things, but important to itself as we all are.”


A long established simple country life is shattered by a conspiracy of violence and deceit; that reaches far beyond a small country village.


“Dare to venture into the dark woods?”


Victor Drew, the gamekeeper at the Brockleston shoot, receives a threatening letter from what appears to be a group of animal rights activists, threatening the future of his job and the continuation of sporting activities on the estate. But he knows that Richard Mowbray, Lord Hugo Brockleston’s land agent, has no loyalty to the estate’s long-standing traditions.

Victor cannot imagine the size of the storm that is just over the horizon, nor the strength of the forces stacked against him and the countryside traditions he upholds.


The Shrew brilliantly encapsulates one man’s attachment to traditional rural life and culture in the face of the depredations of an uncaring, modern world.




It's that time of year again....
It's getting darker and colder as autumn again embraces it's old friend winter.
The long winter nights are ideal for settling down by a nice fire and enjoying a good read; and what better is there than `The Shrew` a book written for those with a love of the countryside, its sports, traditions and characters with a liberal helping of drama, mystery and crime thrown into the mix.
Since it was published under my assumed name of Nicholas Gordon back in December 2008, The Shrew has had a fairly reasonable run for a book from new author and continues to feature with online book sellers.
I still have a good supply of the hard back first edition available for direct sale and these can be personally signed to create a very unique gift for Christmas or any other occasion.

Reviews:

This book grabbed my attention from the first sentence, with its combination of tight writing, fast paced action, and yet sensitive characterisation. The theme is partly a protest against those who do not understand the part field sports can play in preserving wildlife. However, the author displays a grim realism about contemporary society and the way the global economy impacts on the environment and traditional ways of life, not only in rural England but in other parts of the world. Indeed, things turn out not so simple as they first appear when the embattled gamekeeper, Victor, receives a menacing letter apparently from animal rights activists. In addition to sharp description of the countryside and field sports, the book provides thriller/mystery and good sociological insight. There is much here to interest many people.
A review written by Stephen O'Kane for The Shrew


What a great story The Shrew is! Gordon is obviously a man who himself is close to the land, and out from his closeness to nature he tells a tale of the cruel theft of a man’s livelihood. The Shrew is a story about sabotage: lives, whether they be human or animal. It is a fine example of how ancient and passionate traditions are disappearing in Britain and are being forced into history, insignificant to the greater many and remembered only by the few. I enjoyed reading The Shrew, and like all good books that find a permanent home on my bookcase, I shall take great joy in reading it again.
A review written by Deborah Berkeley for The Shrew


An excellent book for lovers of country life, with an exceptional attention to detail showing a deep understanding and love of its infrastructure, warts and all. It deals with both a reflection on past glories and changing times equally but without sentimentality through the eyes of its characters: nothing is permanent, and all things change however much the characters might wish otherwise.
A review written by Val Cornish for The Shrew

Set on what remains of a once extensive game shoot on a declining great estate, the shrew tells the dark and haunting tale of a solitary gamekeeper trying to protect his livelihood and traditional rural lifestyle against an unknown and largely unseen malevolent force that is set against him. Victor Drew the central character of the book is the real `shrew` in the tale, like the tiny solitary mammal, he shows his true determination and aggression when faced with impossible odds. The other characters in the book are very realistic and developed with a great understanding of the intricacies of how individuals of all social levels interact through field sports such as shooting and hunting. The unwelcome visitors to the estate who are the source of Victor’s problems are described with an unnerving accuracy and far too deep a knowledge for the reader to be comfortable with. If Thomas Hardy was still around in the 21st century, I could imagine producing similar tales. Not only does it provide some excellent observations of the sport of shooting both past and present; it also has the elements of a good thriller and crime novel. Anyone with an interest in the countryside in general is likely to find it an interesting and absorbing read. Far from being bland political statement; the book is a finely crafted tale with an intriguing and at times very disturbing plot and so in many ways it should have wide appeal. The imagery in the book is extremely vivid, it is clear that Gordon\'s writing is based on his real life experiences. The fine detail of events and scenes is very informative and the reader could almost be there with him and the tale roles on at a cracking pace towards its surprising and tragic end and The chapters outside the UK are excellent and at times it almost becomes a travel book; such is the accuracy of its research, this shows in the descriptions of events during a big game hunt in South Africa and a contrived business trip to the Amazon in Ecuador. I was put in mind of a reincarnation of Hemmingway at times.
A review written by George Lewis for The Shrew

ALTHOUGH THE SETTING IS ON ANOTHER CONTINENT, THE STORY PARALLELS WHAT IS HAPPENING IN TEXAS. THE LOSS OF CUSTOMS AND TRADITIONS IS ONGOING AND DOWN RIGHT DISHEARTENING. "THE SHREW" HITS CLOSE TO HOME WITH IT'S STORY LINE. THERE TRULY IS A GOOD MYSTERY IN THIS BOOK, YOU WON'T BE DISAPPOINTED.
A review written by Phil Curlin for The Shrew

£9.99 with free UK Post

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Please contact via email with your requirements

nigel.nicholas@yahoo.co.uk




Chapter 17

The lights on the big decorated tree that almost filled one corner of the bar in the ‘Brockleston Arms’ twinkled brightly across the room; Bill Stewart had dimmed the lights in the pub to show the tree to best effect. The blazing log fire completed the festive atmosphere and trade was swift as it always was on Christmas Eve. Folks from the Village who never usually set foot in the pub for the rest of the year were out in force. There had been a group out carol singing around the houses, making a collection for St John’s, and even the rarely seen Vicar was amongst the group that were indulging in the hot sausage rolls and mince pies that Bill had laid on for them. Outside in the lane the scene was far from seasonal; the snow of a few days earlier was no more than a distant memory and the rough tarmac was being washed again by torrential rain which had held off just long enough to see the revellers into ‘The Brocky’. Victor stood at the bar talking to the landlord and making use of the free hot fare. He was enjoying the opportunity of spending a few hours in the company of others instead of preparing for his usual nightly patrol of the last few weeks. As the bells started to ring at St John’s, calling the festive worshippers to the midnight mass, Roger McAlister was already five hours into his night vigil in The Hall Wood. The sound of the bells was just about audible to him, carried on the wind through the driving rain from the other side of the Brockleston Road. He had managed to find shelter in an old hut used to store bags of grain. The hut was close to one of the old release pens, making it a convenient storage site for pheasant food and a handy shelter for any keeper working at the pen. Roger sat on an upturned wooden beer crate, rolling himself a cigarette and wondering if he would manage to stay awake all night. As it turned out he had no reason to worry on that front. As he was about to light his roll-up he heard the sound of voices from the direction of the nearby ride. He placed the unlit cigarette in his tobacco tin and returned it to his coat pocket. He pulled the shed door shut and listened; the voices were getting louder, they were heading his way. He tried to look through a small gap in the rotting wooden boards but could see nothing but the darkness of the night. Within a few minutes he could tell that whoever it was out there was passing the hut just a few yards from him. “Why did the silly old sod have to fall in there, that’s what I want to know? Walking around those woods in the middle of the night at his age; should know bloody better, bloody pain in the arse now not knowing what’s going on round here.” Roger caught part of the conversation as they passed. He waited a few seconds for the two to pass before slowly exiting the hut and following at a discreet distance, just concealed by the darkness. He could just make out that one of them was carrying a sack, which appeared to be heavy by the way he was stooping. They headed for one of the nearby feeders and one of them lifted the lid while the other appeared to get ready to pour the contents of the sack into it. Just as their attention was taken up with the task in hand Roger made ground on them and swung the stout stick he was carrying. The heavy end of the piece of hawthorn made contact with Hatton’s skull as he bent over the hopper with the sack. The lights went out for Elvis and the king left the stage, slumping into immediate unconsciousness as the hard wood embedded itself in his dura mater having fractured his skull like a thin eggshell, such was the force of the blow from the stout woodsman, fuelled by the adrenaline of raw fear. The sack fell to the floor of the wood, scattering its contents as it went. Hampton took a few seconds to connect with reality, taken by complete surprise, staring in disbelief at the motionless form of his erstwhile partner. He reacted like a cornered fox. Lashing out at whatever had attacked them, he rained frenzied kicks and punches at the shadowy figure that loomed before him. His right fist connected with the orbit of Roger’s left eye, knocking the woodsman back in a dazed state before he turned and ran like a frightened hare. Roger got to his feet and ran after Hampton through the darkness, tripping and stumbling over the clinging briars as he went. He could make no ground on his quarry; the wiry Hampton ran like his sort always did, fast, the habit of a lifetime’s running from the law. Despite the short time of the pursuit the woodsman had got some distance by the time he gave up and headed back towards the wounded Hatton. It took him several minutes to walk back to the feed hopper. When he got back to where it had started all that remained was the half-empty sack, his hawthorn stick and scattered grains; there was no sign of Hatton. He leaned back and sighed; he didn’t know if he was more relieved to see that he had not killed the man or frustrated that he had got away; either way he supposed it made life simpler, he thought. He shone his torch around the area; the grains of wheat lying around appeared to be coated with some sort of white powder; it could just have been wheat flour from broken grains but he doubted it. He had grown up in the countryside and had been a farm worker on the estate when required so he knew what whole wheat grains usually looked like. If the white powder was poison it would explain why the two had been trying to fill a hopper in the middle of the night; helping out with pheasant feeding was not really their style. He put on his work gloves and scooped up the spilled grain into the sack, lifting the leaf litter with it in an attempt to get all of it out of harm’s way. Having satisfied himself that he had cleared most of the grain, he picked up the sack and walked back to the hut. He sat back down on the beer crate and picked up a piece of baler twine from the floor. He wrapped this around the neck of the sack and tied it securely. He then placed the suspect sack just outside the door of the hut to avoid it getting mixed up with the other sacks already in the hut. Taking out his tobacco tin he opened it and took out the cigarette he had rolled before the disturbance. He leaned back on the grain sacks behind him, enjoying the calming effect of the familiar Virginia tobacco. A few minutes later the woodsman started to feel nauseous, a few seconds after that he was convulsing on the dusty floor of the hut, retching and vomiting and struggling for breath, a few seconds after that he was dead. Hatton was still dazed as he ran up the ride in the direction of the hall. He didn’t know where he was heading; he only knew that Hampton had abandoned him. His instinct was to put as much distance between him and the scene of his crimes as he could and this drove him on. The intense throbbing pain in the back of his head took second place to his flight as a sticky mix of blood and cerebrospinal fluid oozed down onto his shirt collar. As he reached the clump of three oaks he too started to feel sick and he stopped to lean against one of the ancient tree trunks. His legs buckled and darkness overtook him, easing his panic and pain. Half an hour later the massive swelling that developed within his skull closed down its blood supply and the king was dead. Hampton made it back to where they had hidden their latest vehicle, an old black Ford Escort; they had parked it just behind a hedge on the Limcester side of Keeper’s Cottage. He started up the protesting engine and sped off towards his unkempt earth in the town caring only for his own welfare. He knew Hatton was as resourceful as he was and that even if he was picked up, he would be saying nothing to the police and if he had died, well, the same rules would still apply. Victor came out of St John’s at just after 12.45am; he had enjoyed the service and meeting up with people he had not spoken to in some time. David Radford had taken him down to the church in his Range Rover and was now taking him back to the cottage, both totally unaware of the drama that had unfolded and the two bodies that now lay close by, cooling in the damp cold air of Christmas Day. The keeper was in bed just after 1am, still oblivious to recent events.
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