The Devil’s Soul Garden
By Ray Drayton
“Loved it. Ray Drayton is brilliant with his landscapes.
You have to read this enlightening story to find out what happens. You won’t move until you have finished it.”
Synopsis:
“Would you not be buyin’ me a drink?” A pretty woman appears from nowhere.
“Sorry darlin’ – I’ve got to go.” I reply in a strong Ulster accent.
Her blue eyes framed by curly blonde hair show disappointment. “Are you on a promise, then?” She pouts her full red lips provocatively.
The warning bells scream in my head. One thing is clear. She is a ‘plant’ for the Provos. ‘If I arouse her suspicions – I am a dead man. My cover is blown. This is Catholic territory… IRA territory.’
James Daniel, a member of the SAS was working undercover in Belfast.
He survives the sudden death of his wife to become a best selling novelist. New found fame and fortune leads him to another ‘Powder Keg’ in the Balkans. Thousands of Muslims are being slaughtered in the name of ‘Ethnic Cleansing.’
The UN are powerless to control sheer slaughter imposed by Serbian warlords.
James Daniel enlists financial backing of two Texan heavyweights. One of which is a US Marine General commanding Allied Forces in The Balkans, and is a key contact for establishing a charity to bring Muslims and Serbians together. For James Daniel, the killing must stop, before there is no one left to kill. A chance meeting with the beautiful Contessa da Marco has him implementing a daring rescue of her friend in Montenegro. Unforeseen circumstances have James Daniel embarking upon a new life in the Italian Alps.
This is a story of a man haunted by tragedies of his past and horrors he finds in
THE DEVILS SOUL GARDEN…
“Arabella has wanted to meet you since she knew of your visit to her favourite uncle.“ Vincenzo grins mischievously, sitting down next to me.
“I hope Arabella did not leave disappointed.” Sounds of the Contessa da Marco driving her Mercedes coupe reaches my ears. I visualize the petite Italian with her Jet black hair blowing in the wind.
“No, my friend.” Vincenzo’s grin broadens. “She had heard so much about you from Ronaldo before he died, her curiosity was aroused.” He laughs quietly. “Amongst other things.”
The Italian becomes serious. “I contacted Monsignor Alberto at the orphanage near Sarajevo.”
Besides the purpose of visiting an old friend at his home high above Lake Maggiore, this is the news I had been waiting for. “Did Alberto say he could help me?”
“Si – I think so.” Vincenzo shrugs his shoulders, “when do you intend going to Sarajevo?”
“Tomorrow.” I hear myself saying.
“So soon?” Vincenzo sounds disappointed.
“When I get things organized, I want to return and spend some time with you.”
Our friendship was cemented by tragedy. Vincenzo lost his son and then his wife shortly before my wife died.
“Who – me or Arabella?” He laughs softly.
“Preferably both of you.” I mask a smile, deciding it is not the time to enquire if there is a Signor Arabella rattling around the Chateau da Marco with countless Bambini running riot.
He refills my wineglass. “Grazie, James. Our time together is special to me.” His dark eyes show the sadness he feels.
Next morning the mountains appear dark and sinister as dawn approaches Lake Maggiore. I stay on the E62, aiming for the E64 junction north of Milano. The turnoff to Lake Como soon comes up on my left. I keep the Alfa on track for Bergamo. Lake Como means Argegno, and Argegno means Arabella. I grip the steering wheel tightly. ‘Not this time, James.’ My destination is Bosnia, not a beautiful Italian Contessa in a chateau above Lake Como…
“Noah, lets check the tunnel out.” I don’t want to spend more time in this eerie place than I have to. A stench filling the air as we approach the entrance is overpowering and has us gagging for breath.
“What the hell is it?” I am covering my nose and mouth with a hand. We are ten metres inside the tunnel. The heavy smell is becoming stronger seemingly surrounding us. A short distance further into the gloom I can see countless large bundles wrapped in heavy clear plastic.
Noah emits a loud sigh. “It is the smell of formaldehyde, used as part of the embalming process.”
During my time in the regiment I had seen many dead bodies, but nothing on this scale. “Christ!” I exclaim in disgust. ”There must be hundreds of them.” I shine a torch along the tunnel walls. There is no doubt we have stumbled upon a mass grave site.
“ The question is, who are they and who put them there?” Noah asks as we stagger out into daylight and welcoming fresh air.
I don’t reply but I do have a name for the genocide witnessed in the tunnel behind us. We have found The Devil’s Soul Garden…
“Sorry darlin’ – I’ve got to go.” I reply in a strong Ulster accent.
Her blue eyes framed by curly blonde hair show disappointment. “Are you on a promise, then?” She pouts her full red lips provocatively.
The warning bells scream in my head. One thing is clear. She is a ‘plant’ for the Provos. ‘If I arouse her suspicions – I am a dead man. My cover is blown. This is Catholic territory… IRA territory.’
James Daniel, a member of the SAS was working undercover in Belfast.
He survives the sudden death of his wife to become a best selling novelist. New found fame and fortune leads him to another ‘Powder Keg’ in the Balkans. Thousands of Muslims are being slaughtered in the name of ‘Ethnic Cleansing.’
The UN are powerless to control sheer slaughter imposed by Serbian warlords.
James Daniel enlists financial backing of two Texan heavyweights. One of which is a US Marine General commanding Allied Forces in The Balkans, and is a key contact for establishing a charity to bring Muslims and Serbians together. For James Daniel, the killing must stop, before there is no one left to kill. A chance meeting with the beautiful Contessa da Marco has him implementing a daring rescue of her friend in Montenegro. Unforeseen circumstances have James Daniel embarking upon a new life in the Italian Alps.
This is a story of a man haunted by tragedies of his past and horrors he finds in
THE DEVILS SOUL GARDEN…
“Arabella has wanted to meet you since she knew of your visit to her favourite uncle.“ Vincenzo grins mischievously, sitting down next to me.
“I hope Arabella did not leave disappointed.” Sounds of the Contessa da Marco driving her Mercedes coupe reaches my ears. I visualize the petite Italian with her Jet black hair blowing in the wind.
“No, my friend.” Vincenzo’s grin broadens. “She had heard so much about you from Ronaldo before he died, her curiosity was aroused.” He laughs quietly. “Amongst other things.”
The Italian becomes serious. “I contacted Monsignor Alberto at the orphanage near Sarajevo.”
Besides the purpose of visiting an old friend at his home high above Lake Maggiore, this is the news I had been waiting for. “Did Alberto say he could help me?”
“Si – I think so.” Vincenzo shrugs his shoulders, “when do you intend going to Sarajevo?”
“Tomorrow.” I hear myself saying.
“So soon?” Vincenzo sounds disappointed.
“When I get things organized, I want to return and spend some time with you.”
Our friendship was cemented by tragedy. Vincenzo lost his son and then his wife shortly before my wife died.
“Who – me or Arabella?” He laughs softly.
“Preferably both of you.” I mask a smile, deciding it is not the time to enquire if there is a Signor Arabella rattling around the Chateau da Marco with countless Bambini running riot.
He refills my wineglass. “Grazie, James. Our time together is special to me.” His dark eyes show the sadness he feels.
Next morning the mountains appear dark and sinister as dawn approaches Lake Maggiore. I stay on the E62, aiming for the E64 junction north of Milano. The turnoff to Lake Como soon comes up on my left. I keep the Alfa on track for Bergamo. Lake Como means Argegno, and Argegno means Arabella. I grip the steering wheel tightly. ‘Not this time, James.’ My destination is Bosnia, not a beautiful Italian Contessa in a chateau above Lake Como…
“Noah, lets check the tunnel out.” I don’t want to spend more time in this eerie place than I have to. A stench filling the air as we approach the entrance is overpowering and has us gagging for breath.
“What the hell is it?” I am covering my nose and mouth with a hand. We are ten metres inside the tunnel. The heavy smell is becoming stronger seemingly surrounding us. A short distance further into the gloom I can see countless large bundles wrapped in heavy clear plastic.
Noah emits a loud sigh. “It is the smell of formaldehyde, used as part of the embalming process.”
During my time in the regiment I had seen many dead bodies, but nothing on this scale. “Christ!” I exclaim in disgust. ”There must be hundreds of them.” I shine a torch along the tunnel walls. There is no doubt we have stumbled upon a mass grave site.
“ The question is, who are they and who put them there?” Noah asks as we stagger out into daylight and welcoming fresh air.
I don’t reply but I do have a name for the genocide witnessed in the tunnel behind us. We have found The Devil’s Soul Garden…