At long last!


My latest (and indeed first) novel - The Return of the Black Magician - is now available. Set in Ormskirk (Lancashire) and the surrounding district, it is a peculiar tale of a severely dystopian community – a curious mix of humour, politics and the macabre, and therefore highly apposite for the turbulent times in which we live.


To order and obtain a copy go to Amazon by clicking on the link below. Book early to avoid disappointment.

Illustrations (and cover) designed by artist Lorna Johnstone.


Essential reading for the dark, gloomy winter months. 


https://www.amazon.co.uk/Return-Black-Magician-Richard-Raftery/dp/1786236419/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=the+return+of+the+black+magician&qid=1574976972&s=books&sr=1-1


To order a copy from hive.co.uk click on the following link

https://www.hive.co.uk/Product/Richard-Raftery/The-Return-of-the-Black-Magician/24601326

And from Waterstones go to https://www.waterstones.com/book/the-return-of-the-black-magician/richard-raftery/9781786236418  


Chapter 1 - Throat Cut!

The Black Magician stumbled down the road to Ormskirk. His gait was clumsy, uneven; he weaved from side to side like a ship in a strong wind. His right hand was clasped tightly against his neck in a valiant attempt to stem the flow of blood that poured from a hideous wound. This was only partly successful; his black garments were soaking up considerable quantities of the red fluid and there was a zigzag trail of droplets on the road he had faltered along. His face had a ghastly white pallor, but his eyes flashed with rage and frustration.A normal person would, long ago, have succumbed to the weakness that swept in waves over his body,but not the magician! His feet were leaden, and the coldness spreading slowly upwards through his body was enough, perhaps, to give ample warning that death was impending — yet he failed to surrender. His head was bent forward, his left arm hung at his side —but still he staggered on. Some instinct sustained him,and he turned off the road and down a dusty track towards a peasant’s cottage. He lurched against the old wooden door, kicking it to get attention.
           “Let me in,” he croaked. “In the name of Beelzebub,let me in.”The door opened, the occupant leaping back as the senseless form of T’osh fell to the floor. Then he seemed to revive. He whispered:
            “I will stay here . . .You will obey . . . I shall spend some days here. You will hold your tongue . . . Perhaps you will be rewarded . . .”
      As soon as T’osh mentioned a reward the peasant dragged the magician inside, placing him in a comfortable bed. Bandages were produced so that while T’osh slept his wounds were tended. In due course, he wakened and was convinced to take a herbal remedy, a dose that was repeated whenever he regained consciousness, which, in those first few weeks, was an occasion neither frequent nor prolonged.
           “Will he live?” asked the peasant’s wife.
           “I do not know,” said the peasant.
           “Who is he?”

           “A man of some clout, judging by his garb.”
           “But the wound . . . has he been in trouble?”
           “Methinks an assassination attempt.”
        And with that the conversation ended. At this point it might be best to mention that the cotter was a fellow in his late twenties by the name of John Ambler. A stocky, unintelligent, stoic person, he lived with his wife, Adaline, and eked a steady if miserable existence from the land. In the back of his dull mind he suspected that his guest could possibly be the infamous Black Magician and, oblivious to the dangers of dealing with such an unscrupulous and evil creature, thought that his charitable deed might land him in good stead with T’osh.

Three weeks passed . . .
. . . and the magician could now sit up in bed and hold a monologue. He did not do this too often, but
preferred to scribble madly upon pieces of paper, committing to ink his plans for the perfect state: a system that incorporated certain individualistic, and indeed idiosyncratic, economic and social theories. This book,when completed, would become, he hoped, the sole charter of his rule in the land. It would give the peasants an unfailing instruction book for their existence, an explanation of the universe and much, much more: in fact, it would be the only book allowed in the land, a sort of Bible, Leviathan and Look and Learn Book of the Black Arts — who could wish for more?
       Apart from this scribbling T’osh did little else,
other than gobbling down the basic fare as was reverently placed in front of him by the Amblers, but once or twice when he seemed to be thinking aloud and trying to put his thoughts into coherent sentences, he would stare into space and deliver a monologue in a gabbling, high-pitched shriek.
          “The essential nature of man: what it is. Man is
a slave to various passions, and these can and must be channeled into the correct direction for the betterment of myself; or, as it shall hereafter be called, the State.
           Firstly, man is SUPERSTITIOUS: There is no doubt
but that this can be forced into the correct direction. He can be controlled by his superstitions and they can be used to bring out certain innate qualities. He will bring gift sand unquestioning obedience to his Superior. To allay the dread of the unknown he will offer up some — nay,nearly all — of his produce, and he will execute certain rituals to keep the demons of the dark from his hearthside. The coming state will utilize this to the full;the economic gain will be obvious to all who can consider the matter with intelligence.
          “BIGOTRY: Man is by nature a slave to bigotry and prejudice of all kinds. Only scholarly fools believe otherwise; they shelter behind a smokescreen of detailed rationalizations. In the perfect state, it will be necessary to utilize this bigotry for the greater good of the state, for the bigoted man can and will hate all who live outside of this state, and he will despise and then destroy all who would seek to change things, desire for power, desire to dress differently, speak differently, walk differently — in short— any who would aspire to question any aspect of the perfect and eternal state. Man can be reduced to a seething foaming maniac when the objects of his hate are mentioned; he can be ever vigilant and ready to take up the pitchfork and the cudgel against any who would differ from the norm, seeing them as his sworn enemy, though they have done him no harm. He will despise any who would seek to enter the perfect state regardless of their talents and disposition, for he is easily persuaded that they are intent on pursuing an evil agenda.
          “IGNORANCE: Man is by nature ignorant. He does not seek learning; he eschews it. He does not wish to become erudite, except, as a way of belonging to the peer group should society place learning as its desiderata; if he cannot achieve this learning, he will despise not only the most learned, but also the knowledge itself. Taught to read, man will only gravitate to the most lowly, trashy and dismal written words. He is much happier burning a dissident at a stake, and he is of a melancholy nature when trying to absorb knowledge. He rejects advances and fears progress, believing that things were always better in the‘old days’. Education will be discussed in a later chapter,but it needs must be said at this point that man in the perfect state need only be taught in a very limited sense: to be able to read and write to the extent that he will be able to absorb the propaganda put forward by the rulers. There will be no place for books or learning other than these books already mentioned. Certainly, the new citizen will not be allowed to think, neither for himself nor anyone else. He will remain suspicious of any who appear to have expertise in any subject and is easily swayed into thinking that such people are charlatans and best ignored and to adopt instead a much more simplistic ideology reduced to a few basic mantras designed for endless repetition.“However, in each generation a few will be spawned who do desire learning. Such children will be identified and given instruction in the Black Arts and leadership;this being dealt with in a later chapter . . .
          . . . ah, indeeeeeeeeeeeed, but the planning for the new state is no simple affair.”

             And so it went on. T’osh would scribble away for hours, sometimes breaking into speeches like the one above until, with eyes flashing and hands shaking, he would fall to the floor and roll upon the carpet,pounding with his fists some unseen adversary. Meanwhile, the cotter and his wife went about their daily business, promising themselves that their end reward would justify their actions.