Casimir Greenfield's Slow Poison: Revenge Takes Time

STROUD, U.K. - Dec. 22, 2016 - PRLog -- Cas Greenfield is an author, musician and broadcaster based in the English west country. A prolific songwriter and columnist, Slow Poison is the first full-blown published novel by Greenfield.

Described as 'the perfect winter chiller', we have included some of the reviews for Slow Poison that were published before the official release date.

Slow Poison opens in Amsterdam in the days around the feast of Saint Nicholas in December in the mid 1980's.

The brutal slaying of a British tourist and the subsequent arrest and imprisonment of a young football supporter sparks off an orgy of violence. But the killing is no random act. The boy is innocent. The real killer returns to England to begin the final chapter of an obsessive campaign of revenge spanning several decades.

The twisted acts of violence and vengeance are punctuated by the pages of a stolen diary written in the dark days of the second world war. The killer identifies with the unspeakable horrors of the death camp as he coldly wreaks revenge for a series of traumatic events that took place in the mid 1950s on a Gloucestershire council estate.

The story culminates with an abduction and a bloody siege high in the snowbound Cotswold hills...

In conjunction with the recent release of Slow Poison we have obtained an excerpt of the book which you can read below:

SLOW POISON BY CASIMIR GREENFIELD

The street looked quite pretty illuminated in the glow of the blazing Fiat, festive clouds of noxious smoke pouring from its smouldering tyres. The wall of policemen moved slowly and deliberately toward the drunken revellers, cheered on by the gable-high onlookers. The noise from the drunks spiralled into the night sky; sending scores of startled pigeons fluttering like grimy snowflakes from their rooftop perches. At a signal, the police broke rank and moved toward selected targets. Doorways burst in and the cafes and bars of the Warmoesstraat filled with the pack in all its colourful guises. "Gis four pilses, guvnor." The overhead aquarium, casting aqua-lights over the bar, held so much water. How long had it taken to fill it to the brim? A day or more, the owner remembered. The glass sarcophagus was over two meters long. The owner prayed that the cracked glass might hold out just long enough for him to run to the cellar for the silicone sealant. He thought it might hold out just long enough for the police to arrive and prevent a second blow. "BASTARD WATERS HIS EFFIN' BEER! IT'S GNATS PISS!" A second glass was hurled against the aquarium wall, but it was the bar stool that brought the tropical fish to their deaths on the beer stained floor. How could the hundreds survive? The regulars, soaked and frightened, ran for cover, slipping and sliding on the squirming floor. The owner, as tough as they come, took the full force of a broken bottle in his left cheek, a futile tube of sealant in one hand. "Godver-de-godver! Scum!" Beer mats and fish floated out into the gutter, eddying away into the drains. Above the city the moon rose, a week away from fullness. It hung haloed, like a broken opaline lamp. Most of the city was peaceful, the taxis and trams and cars and bicycles moving along, unaware of Hell in progress, growing like a malignant tumour in one of the many arteries. Fred was at the outer edge of death when the young surgeon reached him. "Heartbeat? Pulse?" There was no heartbeat, no pulse. He had already lost so much blood. Poor Becky. She waited beyond the gates of sanity, her head resounding with the pounding of her own blood. The surgeon glanced across at her. "This woman should be attended to. Give her a sedative." But Becky refused the bitter capsules. Then suddenly she knew that Fred had gone. She could not pinpoint the exact moment, but she knew. All her preconceptions of death had not prepared her for this moment. A thousand discordant thoughts rang through her. In the brief seconds before death, Fred could still not understand why he was dying. "I'm Fred! I can't die! Becky, Becky!" Spiralling lights drew him away. He struggled against them. "I'm Fred. I can't be dying." And then he recalled the thrusting fist, the blade and the pale blue eyes. And then he died.

For a longer extract, the link to Amazon is here: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00VH5GOFM

http://www.casimirgreenfield.com

Slow Poison: The Harper Collins Authonomy Reviews

Slow Poison has a breathtaking desperation about it from the very first line, and you are able to keep up that tension with every paragraph. Fantastically vile and fun to read. That's right, it is filthy and fun to read. Julie

This is so gritty and powerful a read; To experience the world of the mindless football hooligans as they wreak their way across Amsterdam. But then we are introduced to some more likeable people only to learn that their fate is to become the catalyst for even more horrible encounters. Geoff

I wanted to stop reading, but I could not as your tight dialogue and setting had gripped me in your remorseless tirade of slime and evil as these losers are swept to their doom. My goodness this is excellent and I see now why you found my book so different a read. I loved your wonderful descriptions, whether they are just a few lines or whole passages that brought the red-light district to life. Ray Jones