Literary a disaster pending - the rebirth

I might put the first chapter of my latest up here. It wont win me many friends though as its about debt collecting

Theres a point actually TC. ODM has the first 40k words at the mo & i've asked him a few questions when he's read it. I cant decide if it should be one book or expanded into either 2 or 3. Problem being that the background alone is all that 40k & thats only upto 1987 & the story was being originally set in 1993. Possibly thinking of splitting it down. Too ambitious, bearing in mind unpublished?

She had made the mistake of opening the front door wide upon hearing the knock, and the look on her face suggested that she had been expecting her neighbor to be standing there, not two large men in suits wearing sunglasses.
The fearful look on her face suggested that she knew who they were, or certainly who they represented, and any doubt that she was having quickly disappeared when ‘Jacko’ placed his left foot into the door jamb, preventing it closing, whilst thrusting his identification card forward at her, forcing her to give ground.
As she stepped backwards, ‘Jacko’ was like a ferret and into the house, ignoring the escalating voice, both in volume and tone, as he stepped into the hall. He was grinning, Killarney noticed, undoubtedly proud of himself, causing Killarney to shake his head in resignation as he followed his colleague in through the door. As he closed it behind him he looked out, noticing the two youths on the other side of the road watching the house, together with the older man walking his bull mastiff. It didn’t matter, he told himself, they knew the van anyway.
He leant up against the door as ‘Jacko’ started talking his way through why they were there. He only half listened, having heard it all before:
“Calm down a minute, love, let’s talk it through.”
“Don’t you ‘love’ me, you fucking animal….you’ve just barged your way into my home!” she spat, picking up the phone and dialing. “Let’s see if you’ll be the same with my husband.”
‘Jacko’ started to say something but after a quick glance from Killarney he stayed silent, simply listening as the woman described through tears on the phone what had happened. ’Jacko’ had the feeling he wasn’t being portrayed in the best possible light.
The phone went down into its cradle with a slam, the woman crossing her arms and glaring at ‘Jacko’ with contempt.
“The big man, eh? You must be very proud of yourself, picking on defenseless women.” She spat again.
‘Jacko’ looked uneasy, thought Killarney, as he watched him glance around the room, constantly moving on the spot, fidgeting with his hands, restless. He knew what he was looking for, a photograph of the husband, as the mind played tricks whilst you awaited a resolution to a situation like this. Killarney caught himself smiling and neutralized his expression, replacing it with a steely glare, eyes slightly squinted, his ‘Clint’ expression as he referred to it. He thought back to the early days, when he was just the same as ‘Jacko’, keen to make an impression and to earn the respect of his peers. What it did was make you too gung-ho, he had realised very early on, and if you didn’t keep your wits about you then you very quickly could become a statistic.
He had seen a lot of younger men walk in, and he had watched the vast majority of them walk out again shortly afterwards, not able to take the strain and stress, the heartache. Most tried to run before they could walk, he realized that, but he also had the sense to realise the environment he was working in.
It was May, 1993, John Major was a rather uninspiring prime minister and Margaret Thatcher was long gone, but she was still buying the bread and milk for Ady Killarney. She had originally floated the idea of the Community Charge back in 1974, but it was only finally brought in to highly controversial effect in 1990. The riots of Trafalgar Square and other places were distant memories and the public unrest had succeeded in ousting Thatcher, causing her to resign shortly after the ‘Poll Tax’ as it became known, had been installed. All of her contenders in the leadership election had vowed to remove it and, although she had held on to power her position had soon become untenable. There was no smoke without fire and she had been forced to fall on her sword. Major had brought in the ‘Council Tax’, which was similar to the old rates system meaning it was based on the value of the property, whereas the hated ‘Poll tax’ meant there was a bill for every adult member of the household.
The fact that there were so many bills was the purpose of Killarney’s employment. The existing system had been unable to cope and the ways in which people had refused to pay, either by returning the bills ‘not known at this address’ or simply by just refusing point blank, had brought the system to a standstill. Therefore bailiff companies were recruiting endlessly, as the nature of the job meant that the staff turnover was large and never ending. That was how a debt-collector like Ady Killarney had made the subtle transformation to a bailiff, which was a bigger difference than people imagined.
Killarney had worked for his present company for just over two years, but he had been an unlicensed debt collector for many years before that. He was not what you would call a normal recruit, as he had been brought in by one of the managers of the company who had known of him, and it was quite clear that he was expected to deal with the harder stuff rather than the more mundane. Therefore when the newer bailiff’s were attending the local magistrates court to be certificated for the collection of rent, the only real legal standing in the country in that line of work, Killarney was still on the streets, collecting the money. Both he and those in the know knew that he had no hope of getting through the credit checks, never mind the police ones, but they also knew that he was too good and important to lose.
That was how Ady Killarney happened to be leaning in the kitchen doorway, chewing gum with his sunglasses perched on top of his head, of a council semi-detached in Brauncestone, Leicester, watching his younger colleague going paler and more fidgety by the second. He was forty years old, and although he hadn’t asked he reckoned that ‘Jacko’ was around twenty-four. He knew that he had used to work as a car salesman in a showroom in West Bromwich but he had been made redundant during the ongoing recession. He also knew various other things about him as ‘Jacko’ had hardly shut up during the journey there, in fact he may well have mentioned his age, Killarney mused, just that he’d stopped listening by then.
He looked at the soft backed folder in his hand and the notes that were held within it. He had read them on the way as ‘Jacko’ had driven and talked…and oh, how he’d talked! He knew that the previous bailiffs had made the same mistake as this and barged their way into the house, what the bailiff would call poetically ‘peaceable access’ but the debtor would call ‘taking the piss’. He had done it, of course, but very rarely on a woman, not unless the case really needed sorting out and had gone on for ages. The difference was, he mused, that he had nothing to prove.
At that point, the front door crashed inwards, nearly coming off its hinges in the process, and a large, well built, balding man in his late thirties came through it, and in his left hand was a baseball bat. Killarney didn’t move, simply stayed leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed, watching, waiting. ‘Jacko’ wasn’t quite as cool, however, and had immediately taken up a position with the three seater sofa between him and the new arrival.
“What the fuck were you doing letting the bastards in?” shouted the man to the cringing woman, all bravado now gone from her face as she appeared close to tears.
“They..they barged their way in, Kev.” She squealed. “That one” she pointed at a very unconfident looking all of a sudden ‘Jacko’.
The man raised his hand and in a blur slapped the terrified woman hard across the left cheek, her eyes vacant as she slid down the wall to end up in a heap on the carpet.
“I’ll deal with you later” he grunted as he turned his attention to ‘Jacko’ who by now was looking very pale indeed.
“L..lo..look, sir, there’s no need to be aggressive” he stammered as the man moved towards him, hefting the bat in his hands.
“Barge into my fucking house, will you? You cocksucking turd! Lets see how brave you are now!”
That’s a new one, thought Killarney, as he saw that all the bravado had disappeared from ‘Jacko’s’ face and he now looked plainly terrified.
There then followed a somewhat comical chase in the traditions of the best Laurel and Hardy movies where ‘Jacko’ was chased around the room, with the sofa being the main island. At one point they both vaulted it as Killarney half looked on, whilst the other half valued the goods in the room.
Decent Sony television, he thought, maybe a couple of hundred quid? Three piece suite? Looks too old to have the right fire regulations. Stereo? Looks decent, he thought, man likes his music, all separate amplifiers, speakers, the works, so maybe another two hundred. He glanced into the kitchen when he gauged that the man was far enough on the other side of the room to not be a problem. Zanussi washing machine and tumble dryer, he saw, relatively old but removable if no kids under five. He glanced back at his notes, no mention of any so seems okay, he thought, wondering at the wisdom of asking whether there was any incontinence in the house. He glanced at the rest of the inventory that had been made some months before, and calculated that the goods might raise about eight hundred pounds in total at public auction with no reserve price, which was how they valued them. He looked at the figures on the balance sheet, between the husband and wife they owed one thousand seven hundred pounds, so the goods would only make half way to covering the debt. More to the point he thought, that washing machine looked heavy!
His mind made up, Killarney stepped forward as the man ran past him. He reached for the bat, grabbed it and twisted, pulling it from the mans grasp, noticing ‘Jacko’ disappearing out of the front door as he did so.
“What the…!” the man grunted as he spun round and aimed a haymaker at Killarney, who ducked and pivoted away but still caught the fist on his chin. He rode the blow as best as he could and raised the bat, the man stopping in his tracks in front of him, breathing heavily, the bloodlust disappearing from his eyes as he feared the worst.
Killarney slowly lowered the bat and held it at his side, before looking the man in the eye and speaking in a low but commanding voice.
“Mr. Nicholls, you know who I am and what I’m here for, you and your wife’s poll tax. Now I know we’ve been here before and you chased the lad down the road, probably with this” he slightly raised the bat off the floor for emphasis before continuing. “I also know that he barged his way in past your wife, as my colleague also did just now, and I apologise for that. If that was done to my wife I would react the same, but you trying to fight it out won’t make the problem go away.”
Nicholls’ breathing was slowing down to its normal speed as he gauged the steel in Killarney’s eyes and reasoned that he wasn’t the man to mess with. With this knowledge he appeared resigned to his fate, and waited upon the next words.
“Now, neither me nor this problem is going away today, and the only choice is whether you pay me seventeen hundred pounds in cash, or I remove your goods. Its as simple as that, as it’s the end of the road. You can want to fight me all you like, Mr. Nicholls, but it won’t do you any good. If you beat me, then I’ll go to hospital whilst you go to the cells and my colleague empties your house. Its your choice, you can’t win, so do us both a favour and raise the money.”
They stared at each other for what seemed an eternity, before Nicholl’s dropped his gaze. Inwardly, Killarney breathed a sigh of relief, but his expression never wavered.
Nicholl’s looked across at his wife, still sitting slumped on the floor, but alert enough now to hear every word, and the look of terror on her face told Killarney that was the lever he needed, and he was right. The man took a deep breath before turning back to the bailiff.
“You’ll empty us out? Everything?”
Killarney simply nodded, knowing the battle was won.
“It’d kill her” said Nicholls, nodding towards his wife, taking another deep breath. “How much time can you give me?” he asked, turning back to the man who had the power to wreck his life.
“Supposedly none, I’m here for the goods, but I can wait and charge you thirty pounds every half hour.” He said it matter of factly, leaving no argument, there was no point in allowing the man any more room for defiance.
“Jesus man!” he snorted, “I’m asking for help here!”
“I know, and I’m helping you by waiting. With all due respect, Mr. Nicholls, its not me that hasn’t paid.”
He looked ready to reply to that, but he simply shook his head resignedly.
“I’ll be back in half an hour” he said. “And its not because I think that pussy of an idiot outside can back you up for shit, but at least you acted like a man.” And with that he walked out of the door.
Killarney didn’t care for the reasons nor the consciences involved. To him it was just a game. A game that paid well, but a game nonetheless. He thought about helping the woman to her feet but decided against it, and simply waited it out, browsing through the mans music collection.

Forty five minutes later, Killarney climbed back into the passenger seat of the van, tossing the thick envelope of money onto the seat in front of a disbelieving ‘Jacko’.
“I..I..don’t think I can do this job” he stammered quietly.
Killarney just looked at him, smiling:
“No shit.”

Don't tell me on a forum of about 16 people we've got a third author

Meant to ask, need to know if thats strong enough to be a 1st chapter?

Astronomical odds on a gambling forum no wonder Mickeys gone awol/mad/cuckoo

And whilst I'm thinking about it TC, something I alluded to before....Terry Pratchett's just brought out a book called 'snuff', doesnt that put you at a disadvantage straight away?

And whilst I'm thinking again, you can get a go ahead on a non-fiction project on theory alone, as long as you've proved you can write, whereas you have to have the finished product fiction wise. Big difference, & massively in your favour I would think Hotspur.....not that I've any idea what your writing about. Seens done it though, you could ask him, although I've always had the impression he didnt enjoy the experience.....& as long as I've posted on the same forum as Seen, he does appear to like enjoying his 'experiences'

4 authors

point taken, although 'snuff'as a word is quite strong, I would think. Not criticising in any way, either. Dunno what Pratchetts books about mind you

Slick, we need to renegotiate my contract......

'point taken' was to TC, post 116 is self explanatory

Blatant post boosting

I find that hard to believe having read it, though obviously not my genre. I could see them being potentially unhappy with the content, as in a bit strong possibly, but boring? Could it be a standard rejection mate? Have you tried this lot before? I mean, obviously you being published you have preferred publishers you go to first, I assume, as in them you've succeeded in tricking already