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The first sentence in the book you're reading

Not quite ehhh, the first-sentence-book, This was the 'phone call to Derbyshire Police's "Edendale's 'E' division* Which I've given here in full, he's one nasty bloke.

Soon there will be a killing. It might happen in the next few hours. We could synchronize our watches and count down the minutes. What a chance to record the ticking away of a life, to follow it through to that last, perfect moment, when existence becomes nothing, when the spirit parts with the physical. The end is always so close, isn’t it? Fate lurks beneath our feet like a rat in a sewer. It hangs in a corner of the room like a spider in its web, awaiting its moment. And the moment of our dying already exists inside us, deep inside. It’s a dark ghost on the edge of our dreams, a weight that drags at our feet, a whisper in the ear at the darkest hour of the night. We can’t touch it or see it. But we know it’s there, all the same.
But then again … perhaps I’ll wait, and enjoy the anticipation. They say that’s half the pleasure, don’t they? The waiting and planning, the unspoiled thrill of expectation. We can let the imagination scurry ahead, like a dog on a trail, its nostrils twitching, its tongue dribbling with joy. Our minds can sense the blood and savour it. We can close our eyes and breathe in the aroma.
I can smell it right now, can’t you? It’s so powerful, so sweet. So irresistible. It’s the scent of death. Wasn’t it Sigmund Freud who said that every human being has a death instinct? Inside every person, the evil Thanatos fights an endless battle with Eros, the life instinct. And, according to Freud, evil is always dominant. In life, there has to be death. Killing is our natural impulse. The question isn’t whether we kill, but how we do it. The application of intelligence should refine the primeval urge, enrich it with reason and purpose.

Without a purpose, the act of death has no significance. It becomes a waste of time, a killing of no importance, half-hearted and incomplete. Too often, we fail at the final stage. We turn away and close our eyes as the gates swing open on a whole new world – the scented, carnal gardens of decomposition. We refuse to admire those flowing juices, the flowering bacteria, the dark, bloated blooms of putrefaction. This is the true nature of death. We should open our eyes and learn.
But in this case, everything will be perfect. Because this will be a real killing.

And it could be tonight, or maybe next week. But it will be soon. I promise.
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Jack the Ripper did it, so too did someone in the Yorkshire Ripper case do it those of you old enough to remember, or not, if not see this for info :
wwwenpen.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yorkshire_RipperPeter Sutcliffe - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Or This site, OTT methinks, maintaining that YR is still out there. : wwwyorkshireripper.co.uk/The REAL Yorkshire Ripper

So Derbyshire Police in Edendale's 'E' division* get it one too. Oh and Edendale
has it's first body snatching case too. All in a day's work, for Edendale 'E' Division really.! NOT. :eek:

Stephen Booth's: The Dead Place

*
Derbyshire Police DO NOT have an 'E' Division, that bits fictitious, sorry about that.:(
 
This is my first time posting so...let's see how it turns out, shall we?

"Snowman wakes before dawn." --Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood
 
Welcome, Lugnuts!



Soon before daybreak on my sixth birthday, my mother's breathing wheezed more raggedly than ever, then quieted. And then stopped.
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This House of Sky: Landscapes of a Western Mind by Ivan Doig
 
The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.
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The Picture of Dorian Gray
-Oscar Wilde
 
Raging Emotions, DEAD Tissue. Polar opposites was the way Jeremy Carrier had always seen it.
Chapter 1, page 1 of The Conspiracy Club.
 
Not remarkably beautiful, he thought. Not, that is to say, if one could ever measure the beauty of a woman on some objective scale: sub specie aeternae pulchritudninis, as it were.
From: The First Inspector Morse Omnibus, prologue to The Dead of Jerico.
 
It was autumn of 1981 and i'd been asked by my paper the Leinster News to do an article on folklore and changing ways in Ireland, a chance I jumped at, availing myself of the opportunity to return home to Slievenageeha, which i hadn't been to visit in years.
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Winterwood~ Patrick McCabe
 
Cappuccino. That New Age answer to driving one's blue's momentarily away. A few tablespoons of espresso, a froth of steamed milk, an accompanying and generally tasteless dash of powered chocolate and suddenly life was supposed to be all in order. What drivel.

(Opening to, Missing Joseph, page 13 )
 
'Some hours before dawn Henry Perowne, a neurosurgeon, wakes to find himself already in motion, pushing back the covers from a sitting position, and then rising to his feet.'

- Saturday by Ian McEwan.
 
Charlie lived in a place where the illegal was legal, where the immoral was moral, and where some people's fantasies were other people's realities.
 
It was at Mestre he stopped thinking; the dissolute friar, Balbi, had very nearly let the police get wind of him because he had looked for hiim in vain as the mail coach set off, and only found him after a diligent search, in a coffeehouse, where he was blithely sipping a cup of chocolate and flirting with the waitresses.
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Casanva in Bolzano - Sandor Marai
 
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