Helter skelter

Mr PI lit a cigarette, still smiling. I was starting to think he was on something. Surely someone in his line of business had no right to be this happy.

“Funny, son, funny. No, I’ve got a pretty good idea where she is, but I can’t get in there to see how she is. It’s like a private club. Halfway to Pretoria. A select group of individuals, many of them very much like yourself. They’d see me coming a mile off. But you, on the other hand…”

I knew the crowd he was talking about. A farm out near Midrand had been bought by some rich kid who’d inherited the family fortune. He’d turned it over to a bunch of lads. Bikers, survivalists, ex-military types, who’d got involved in some kind of commune effort, and claimed to be setting up a type of church for those living on the fringes of society. Falling squarely into that category myself, I’d been invited out there a couple of times, but had just never got around to actually going.

Not that I had any intention of joining their loony tunes commune (and some of these guys were seriously loony tunes), but I knew some of the girls who’d moved out there. And there didn’t seem to be much talent in Mike’s. Visions of Charlie Manson sitting around a campfire, singing Helter Skelter while his family drove off into the night, swam before my eyes.

Extract from Burning Roses, a decadent tale of sex, drugs, rock n roll & magick, set in the clubs and bars of 1980s Johannesburg. Available on Amazon.

Or in paperback from Curiosity in Pretoria, and The Real Mackay in Blairgowrie.

And throughout the festive season, you’ll also find my books at Chameleon Village in Hartebeespoort, at The Alternative Geeks Artist Alley, running from the 14th of December to the 12th of January. They’ll be sharing a table with a handful of other local authors’ books.

Till next time.

Cheers.