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Come to Brussels, a congestion-free city in 2022, but avoid the day of 'Roadworks', when Akila Kama, an African terrorist takes the city and many foreign heads of state hostage. His demands are simple, either the greatest humanitarian aid package is sent to Africa by the nations of the West, or their leaders die.

In a city where all rail, road and underground traffic is computerised, Hugh Ryan, a Transport Authority controller, realises that while all traffic inside the city is at a standstill, Wellens, a local crimelord who helped the Africans, has embarked on his own traitorous plans which he hatches with a mole in the Transport Authority.

Roadworks received an Honourable Mention in The 2007 London Book Festival in the Ebook category. (http://londonbookfestival.com/portal/content.asp?ContentId=382)

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Details
Publisher	Writers Exchange E-Publishing
Author	Gerard Readett
Recommended Minimum Age	16+
Violence Level	Medium
ISBN Number	1876962968
Word Count	78,481
Electronic Download Formats:	PDF, PDB (Palm/Ereader), HTML, LIT (Microsoft Reader), PRC (Unencrypted Mobipocket), RB (Rocket), IMP (Gemstar 1150), IMP (Gemstar 2150/Rocket 1200)
Other Formats	Buy Print Version Direct From Amazon
Price:	$4.95

Excerpts (Read a sample or view an illustration):

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Prologue Brussels, Belgium The sun was high in the sky. Even through the soles of my shoes, I felt the heat rising from the sand. In the distance, a couple of lonely trees shimmered in the haze. An eerie, high-pitched shriek made me look upwards. I used a hand to block out the sun. Far away, I could just make out the dark shape of a vulture, circling lazily. As I watched, it started to swoop down towards me, but then it veered and caught another thermal. I shuddered involuntarily. The sheet in the doorway flapped as a warm breeze stirred the air. I stepped through gingerly, trying to keep from making any noise. They had warned me that the patients tended to sleep through the scorching African afternoon. My wife, lying peacefully in an ankle high bed, and covered by a single white sheet, was deathly pale. The mosquito net, hanging from crude wooden bedposts, surrounded her like a ghostly shroud. Seeing her like that made me want to hold her and tell her everything would work out. A net might be a thin barrier against mosquitoes, but for me, it was like a prison wall. It tore me apart to see her like that. She held on by a thread, a strong will to live. The doctor had stressed that one more mosquito bite would sever that last thread. It was my fault. She had not been particularly keen to come to Africa. It had taken me a week of cajoling to convince her that a month-long Safari trip would be an unforgettable experience. Well, unforgettable it certainly would be. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead, then gently trickled down over her eyebrows and onto her cheeks. She moaned once, and her head fell to one side. I reached out to touch the mosquito net. For a long time I stood there, staring at her while she fought the fever. She moaned again, and her arm fell from her side, hitting the floor. I bent down, gently taking her hand in mine. It was very warm and slightly clammy. Suddenly, she gripped my wrist. My head snapped up, and our gazes locked. The crazed look in her eyes curdled my blood. Her mouth curled into a horrifying, lop-sided grin. The sweat on her forehead drenched her face. She must have seen the fear in my eyes, but kept on grinning. The skin on her face was rapidly reddening, and my wrist felt as if someone had poured boiling water on it. I tried to pull away, but she only tightened her grip, and pulled again. Blisters began to form on her cheeks, then on her forehead. Tears flowed in continuous streams, her nose began running, and she opened her mouth. Her tongue, bloated beyond recognition, was a sickly shade of grey. I began sobbing while I scratched frantically at her hand. Then the blisters burst. I sat up and felt around me. Beneath me was something soft and yielding. The ambient darkness disoriented me. My heart was pounding out a frantic rhythm, and I could feel the sweat trickling down my back. It took several seconds for my brain to make sense of the last few minutes. The panic receded as the rush of adrenaline stopped, and my racing heart slowed to a walk. My bedside clock displayed 06:30 04 April 2022. That nightmare would be the end of me one day. It was still as clear as the first time, and still as painful. I rose and headed toward the bathroom, where I splashed water on my face, then drank some from the tap. Back in the bedroom, I found the newspaper cutting, and read it for the thousandth time. It always devastated me, but it was the only way I had found for facing another day without Sarah. "Mrs. Sarah Ryan died on Tuesday of a malignant form of malaria that she had contracted on a Safari trip with her husband, Mr. Hugh Ryan. Medicines needed for the treatment of her ailment were unavailable at the lodge where they were staying. Some had been ordered and flown in from the capital but they had arrived too late." I flopped back onto the bed. For a year and a half, I had that nightmare every day. Nowadays, it was a bit less frequent, but I no longer have any tears left to shed. Lifting my hand to look at the picture, I sighed. I had been the perfect incarnation of the tourist, with my flowery silk shirt covering my protruding belly, and my camera hanging loosely around my neck. At the time, I had sported dark, shoulder-length hair at the back, accompanied by sideburns. My blue eyes seemed to sparkle, and my round face had radiated happiness. A week after the picture had been taken, everything had changed. The only thing that remained nowadays was my height. On long sleepless nights, the loneliness and guilt had driven me to exercise. Carefully keeping away from fitness centres where I would be forced to meet other people, I had taken up running and home training. The excess weight had been replaced by muscle. My face had thinned, and I had started to keep my hair in a crew cut, along with a well-trimmed beard. I had to buy a whole new wardrobe to compensate for the change in sizes. When I had gone shopping, I had chosen only smart clothes of good quality, and had vowed never again to dress carelessly. I must have spent twenty minutes or so, reliving the guilt and the sadness. Up until now, I had been like an automaton, losing myself in my work, but today was going to be a step forward. I put my morbid thoughts behind me and got up to prepare for court. I tried to dress better than usual - white jeans, black cord belt, mustard yellow shirt, and a pair of suede shoes. The jacket was one I had bought while Sarah was alive, so it was several sizes too big, but I wore it for her. For the first time since Sarah had died, I had a goal in my life. It was one that would have made her proud of me. I arrived early to avoid the crowds that would once again descend upon the trial. The trouble was finding a suitable parking space far enough away from the entrance so that I could depart unmolested by journalists. The trial took place inside one of the most majestic sights in Brussels. The Palais de Justice was an impressive work of art by the famous Belgian architect, Joseph Poelaert. From the outside, it was difficult to judge the daunting size of the building, and the big cupola sticking up from the centre was reminiscent of the Capitol in Washington D.C. Entry to the law courts was up an enormous stone stairway and through tall marble pillars. In contrast, the back entrance was rather simple and mundane; it looked just like any other building entrance. There were already a few clever journalists gathered nearby. I darted past them. In the courtroom, I quickly took my place near the front row of benches. Ten minutes later, all the benches were full, and only the jury was missing. The murmur of whispered conversations slowly died away as the jury trudged back in. Clearly imbued with the importance of their role, they were playing out their brief moment of fame for all it was worth, making a show of solemnly resuming their seats. Photographers, who only seconds before had been quietly chatting amongst themselves, went berserk. They pushed and shoved to obtain the best shot of the accused, to get the picture that would be splattered over all the papers the following day. At the back, the fake marble pillars graced the room more with the air of a Roman senate than a contemporary court of law. Beside these and slightly more demure than the photographers, were the journalists. They promptly powered up their laptops while trying to avoid the judge's disapproving glare, as a chorus of beeps, buzzes and whirrs disrupted the silence. Media coverage, in the first few weeks, had superseded virtually all other stories, both at the national and international levels. However, as it soon became apparent that the case would be a long, drawn-out one, other news items began taking precedence. The reporting had been relegated to weekly hour-long updates on only a few major networks. From the start, the case had been full of surprises, but even the moguls of the TV stations were stunned. The weekly shows soon afforded them the highest ratings ever recorded for a non-fiction programme. They even rivalled the most successful soaps; so much so, that on Friday nights popular shows were reprogrammed into other time slots. The tabloids had tagged the case with the unsuitable name of 'The Bank Holiday Fiasco', although it had taken place on a normal working day and, for maximum effect, during rush hour. Some clever-dick reporter had written an over-the-top sarcastic criticism of the security forces, suggesting that the police force as a whole had taken the day off. That the reporter and his editor were subsequently fired for placing the paper in an untenable position, and that the following day a disclaimer was published did nothing to alter the fact that the unfortunate name stuck. Again, the courtroom was jam-packed. The Mayor of Brussels or the Bourgmestre in French, as well as various high-ranking city officials, crammed the two front rows. Twenty-odd people were squeezed onto hard wooden benches, built to hold half a dozen. They bore the discomfort stoically. The accused slouched in his chair, calmly observing the chaos of photographers in front of him, like a child watching a magician performing tricks everyone has already seen many times. His round fleshy face had, in the past few months, been splashed on every magazine cover, newspaper front page and prime-time television news show in the country, despite his having long ago given up according interviews. Since then, an amazing transformation had taken place. The Saville Row suit had been traded for a pair of faded black jeans, the shirt and tie replaced by a dark blue T-shirt featuring a gun-wielding actor and the words 'Make my day'. The expression now on his face was a sardonic smile that he did not even bother concealing from the photographers. The attack had been meticulously planned and executed, with two distinct objectives. Stunned military strategists had participated in a top security meeting with a government intent on avoiding a recurrence of such an embarrassing event. They were rumoured to have said that ingenuity, co-ordination and sheer bravado had not been heard of on this scale since D-Day. Ironically, though, the professionalism of the police force, outstanding as it was, did not succeed in preventing what happened. The attack was a beautiful mechanism, a masterpiece, and a living work of art. Not something usually attributed to the criminal mind. Still, it failed. If anyone was to blame for the debacle, or to be congratulated, depending on your point of view, it was Murphy, who, when he expounded his law, 'If anything can go wrong, it will', really knew what he was talking about. The plan fell apart, only when it seemed the 'bad guys' were going to get away with it. In the end, a few of them escaped, unsuccessfully, I hasten to add; the others were killed in a peculiar set of circumstances that to this day remain, at least partially, unexplained. In sharp contrast to his client, the lawyer was a small nervous man, who frequently had to remove his glasses to wipe perspiration from his tiny forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. Throughout the trial, he had not stopped fidgeting, and during moments of extreme tension, when the testimony of a witness was hurting his client's case, he took to frantic scribbling on his legal pad. For my sins, I must say that I have followed this case assiduously, never having missed a single court appearance. I know how many pads that lawyer went through in the last eight months: one hundred and thirty-four. The lawyer for the accused glanced over at the jury, as he had done many times during this case, with a defeated look. The faces of the jurors said only one thing - "Guilty." The judge seated himself. Flashes went off in every direction, while whistles and cries reverberated off the walls. The defence lawyer flopped into his chair, then dropped his head onto the table in front of him, placing both hands on the nape of his neck. His client, seemingly unaffected by the ruckus, laughed aloud and clapped him on the back. The judge banged his gavel, and glared at the reporters. "Could we next time dispense with such a lurid display? And," he turned to the audience, "if I hear any more noise, I'll clear the court." As silence settled, he motioned the prosecutor to continue. The whole thing had started nearly a year ago. At the time, I didn't have all the pieces of the puzzle but these court proceedings were clarifying it all. Now, I had virtually the whole picture. To fully understand all the events that led up to today, I needed to go back to the beginning. For my purposes, I had to have to replay it all, and include the actions of certain people that I only learned about here, in this courtroom. Like that scumbag, Wellens.

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