The Last Pines is Tom Saunders’ third novel (Reuben Books, 2019).
Something happened in the café on Marriott’s fifty-second birthday that was impossible for any sane man to believe and it would change his life forever.
Reviews will be posted at Goodreads.
The softback book will be published on 17 August 2019. Cover price £10.
Free UK postage if purchased here. Subsidized postage overseas: £4 extra.
ISBN: 978-1-9993172-1-8. 218pp.
This is how the story begins:
It was one o’clock
on March the 5th 1970, Marriott’s 52nd birthday. He was sitting in a small café
in the handsome foreign city that had been his home for many years and he’d
just finished his coffee and celebratory almond pastry when the young woman
came through the door. She was wearing a long black leather overcoat and a black
fur hat and the bottom half of her face was obscured by a red scarf. The three
expensively-dressed men sitting at a table at the rear of the room were
laughing loudly at a joke. All three looked her over as she approached but they
did not judge her to be a threat until she took an automatic pistol from her coat
pocket and began shooting. Two were dead before they had a chance to move,
their eyes wide and their mouths open. The third got up out of his seat and
drew his own gun. The woman shot him in the head as he raised his arm to take
aim. She went closer and shot all three again to make absolutely certain they
Everyone else in
the café, the staff behind the counter and all the other customers, had taken
cover. Marriott, perhaps mesmerized by the unreality of the situation and surprisingly
without fear, remained as he was, his fingers still on the handle of his cup.
Time had slowed and it occurred to him as the sound of the gunshots rang on in
his ears that his life might soon be over. Death on the day of his birth. His
fate a kind of joke. He’d not expected his end to come like this.
The girl with the
gun stood framed by the window of the café. The snow was still falling outside,
the large flakes drifting silently to the ground. Decked with white, the
buildings on the far side of the street had never looked more beautiful. It was
a lyrical sight, one perfect for a final moment, the scene his parting gift, perhaps.
The young woman
turned to leave and as she looked his way the scarf slipped. Her face was pale
and without expression and her eyes were large and dark. It was a face Marriott
knew well. It was the face of Maya his daughter. She was grown-up now, he saw
with a kind of wonder, grown-up and a murderer. She did not recognize him. He
was a stranger to her. A no-one. Part of a past she did not remember. Ignoring
him, she quickly twisted the scarf back into place and let the automatic fall
from her gloved hand. It hit the floor with a solid clunk. A few seconds later
she was gone.