---

This is Swindon's Novel - we've started it off, now it's down to you to write the next part. Simply read what's happened so far and then click here to send us the next section and we'll add the best ones in to the story. Please quote the last line of the story so far when submitting your entry.

Who knows how it will turn out? It could be a thriller, a romance, a murder mystery - or the next winner of the Orange Prize for Fiction! Happy writing...

---

Chapter One: A Cold Kind of Night
The snow was the kind of fresh snow that crunches beneath your feet as you tread on it, and that night in late December, it was the loudest sound I'd ever heard, the sound of my own footsteps walking in this muffled, monochrome world. I could not begin to comprehend what I had done.

I slid my hand into my coat pocket and ran my gloved fingers across the item that was at the centre of my troubles. Why hadn't I left it behind? Why had I brought it with me? It was a sure-fire way for the truth to be discovered. And that was the last thing I needed.

As the snow compacted underfoot I glanced up into the night sky and wondered how this would all work out. I needed to clear my head, to get off of the street and out of view. I shut my eyes and inhaled the cool air.

And that was when it happened.

She came tearing down the street towards me, slipping and sliding on the ice in her frenzied state of panic. I knew then without a shadow of a doubt, that our terrible secret was out, they knew.

Where we went from here I had absolutely no idea. The whole thing was just too huge and terrifying to comprehend in its entirety. Her face held the picture of someone haunted by a million lies. Her eyes were wide and full of panic, streaked with mascara that had run down her face.

I was still stood frozen to the same spot when she finally reached me. She clung to me in her desperation, mumbling jumbled up incoherent words. We carried on walking slowly down the street, silent tears were rolling down her face and I was clinging even more tightly to the secret in my pocket, the one responsible for destroying us both.

I clutched at that terrible thing in my pocket. How could one small thing have caused so much harm and misery? The route that we must have walked to get to the place was a complete blur to me. Tears had welled up in my eyes, but were almost frozen to my face by that bitter cold wind. We slid and stumbled over the snow crazily in our haste to arrive at our pre-ordained destination.

The sepulchre like blackness of the long abandoned building added to our tension. She shivered next to me as I tried to peer through the gloom using my phone as a pathetic torch. It was hopeless. We didn’t need light to know that the person that we had to meet would be there. The person that had drawn us there by invading our minds and manipulating us with their knowledge of our dire secret; and using the power of the item in my temporary possession.

She gave a low moan, and then started to weep awful wrenching tears. He had arrived; he was there in the darkness. I stood rooted to the spot by fear. He was there.

The small, silver locket grew hot as I clutched at it. That small thing was centre of all my problems. I could not bear to stand, my knees were weak but I knew I could not give up, not stand there and give him the satisfaction of seeing me break down.

Alexandera, as they called her, but I knew her as Alex, stood at my side. She had given up weeping, seeing that he had no mercy, seeing he would not let her off. Her copper red ringlets were wild and tangled, the tear streaks on her face were faded but still fresh. The bitter cold wind blew her hair about her face and her red lips were chapped and sore.

He had a heart as black as ink and not even the tears of an innocent woman were going to stop him doing what he had been waiting to do for so long. He had almost forgotten what power was like. He had given up everything just to do this one thing.

I still held the locket, my hand was shaking holding such a evil thing. Never had I imagined in my wildest dreams I would be doing such a thing like this. It was as if the locket actully was a living thing, a shadow of its soul, the thing that had now taken place in the locket.

I didn't understand why I was calling him 'he' and not by his real name. The name that if mentioned would terrify a person, even now to this day as I recall the horrible feeling. I can still feel the chill that ran through my spine that fateful night. Laundufort. Not a scary name, some may think, and in any other circumstances I would have agreed - but it wasn't other circumstances, it was me. And that name scared the life out of me.

Laundufort came forward and pulled the locket from my grasp. He chuckled to himself as he took it to a small lamp to make a detailed examination. Minutes passed.

"Good. You did what I wanted," he said and returned to his seat.

I felt Alexandera slip her hand inside mine. She squeezed gently.

"What now? If they find it missing we lose our jobs," she said.

Laundufort shook his head. He took out a tight roll of banknotes and slipped off the elastic band. Quickly he counted out some notes. Half he gave to Alexandera and then half to me.

"Compensation. And nobody will find out it's missing or more importantly, a switch has been made," Laundufort said.

"Heck! After all the bother," I protested, "I hope you are right."

"I've paid you. It's enough," Laundufort replied . His voice changed. "Now listen. I want you to replace the real locket with this one. Here take it. Do it. In the morning agent Natalie will contact you. She will have full instruction for you. Don't mess with her as she hates working with fools. The contact code is 'Red Sky'. Go."

Laundufort switched off the table light and left. I put the copy of the silver locket inside my coat pocket and prepared to face the icy conditions outside.

Alexandera followed me and we made our way back to the large manor house. But before we reached our destination a Cossack patrol looking for an escaped prisoner stopped us. Apart from the unwanted delay I noticed one of the soldiers fancied Alexandera and offered to escort her home. If he did that there was every chance we'd draw more attention to ourselves.

---

Chapter Two: The family secret

The words I was reading did not seem real. They were, surely, a work of fiction from an era long past when ladies had nothing better to do than dress well and be enraptured by Gothic whodunnits.

Yet they were real. I had found them here among my grandmother’s possessions. Several pages of shabby, handwritten manuscript. It didn’t make sense - the intrigue, the danger, the Cossacks… But two things told me there was truth in these words: the locket and the name.

For I was a Laundufort before marriage. And on my wedding day, a parcel had arrived by special delivery at nine-thirty in the morning. It was wrapped in brown paper and when opened, the box itself was unremarkable. But buried deep within the tissue paper was a silver locket, bearing the inscription ‘Labora et amare’ - work and love. The locket was oval shaped and beautifully engraved with a pattern of roses. It was empty though. And, although I did not know where it had come from, I took it as a sign and wore it to my wedding. And I have worn it almost every day since.

Now, sitting in this dusty attic a few weeks after we’d buried my grandmother, I fingered the locket around my neck and wondered about its provenance once more. I wanted to know its history and who had sent it to me. But how would I be able to find out?

Racking my brains for a family member who could shed some light on the subject drew a complete blank.

My grandmother had suffered the terrible fate of burying her daughter, my mother, four years ago and my father knew little about that side of the family.

But something was nagging me at the back of my mind. Snippets of an overheard conversation between my mother and grandmother about a man called Robert. I had only been young at the time but they seemed to be arguing about this mystery man and his whereabouts. As soon as my grandmother caught sight of me peeking around the door the conversation was abandoned.

Maybe my father knew something about - it was a long shot admittedly but worth trying.

The sound of the phone ringing pulled me back to the real world and I climbed down the rickety ladder onto the landing.

My husband handed me the phone. "It's the warden at your father's nursing home," he said. "He needs to see us urgently."

I took the phone from my husband. He was used to these phone calls and had, over the years, become resigned to the regular interruptions to our home life.

The warden said that my Dad was agitated and kept talking about his wife, my mum and that he had to talk to her urgently. The warden always knew that in circumstances like this I would come to settle him down as I lived close by. As I made my way to him I put the manuscript to the back of my mind as in his own little world of dementia my dear Dad was not likely to be able to shed any light on my burning questions. He was the last of the family, the only surviving member of the family, my chances of finding the answer as to who sent me the locket were ebbing away with the relentless march of Alzheimer's through my father's once agile mind.

Dad was facing the heavily draped French doors of the dining room and hardly noticed when I entered the room. The view seemed to have mesmerised him as he looked out over the bare expanse of grass which were the Marlborough Downs. As I went to him, I took in the room with all its faded splendour of days gone by. I looked at Dad, his grey hair neatly combed and a hint of a five o' clock shadow on his face and my heart cried out for the man who had spent years of his life in service of his country working in Germany and Austria for various Government departments. I was never told what he did and saw little of my parents as I was boarded at Oscombe House School for the children of gentle folk in the Cotswolds. As he turned his head to look at me I could see the torment in his eyes, and wondered what he was thinking in that sadly tormented brain.

“Janie, my dear, beloved Janie Laundufort, I have to tell you something. I need you to do something for me.“ I looked startled as that was my mother’s name.

“Yes, Dad,” I said. “What is it troubling you?”

“The Cossacks are coming, we must leave, you must go and find a safe place. Please go now, it is important, you are in danger! I will follow you when I have finished the work here.”

I felt a sudden fear inside me and I shuddered, remembering the words of the old faded manuscript in which I had just been engrossed for the few hours before the call from the warden.

"You are in danger, my darling Janie, go now, go now, please," And with that, he pushed me towards the door and as I reached it he shrouded me in his arms and hugged me close.

The next thing I knew my father let me go and stood there quivering.

I watched as he grew more agitated , no doubt because I never rushed from the building . Moments later he was escorted away and I was left alone with the sounds of that terror filled nursing home.

There was no doubt in my mind something had happened, something had fired up all the demons from Hell. What had pursued my parents? Was it the Cossacks? Only one man I knew might be able to help me and that was the man called Robert. I realised my task was hopeless because of the number of Roberts in the world. Wasn't there something different I might try to solve the problem?

After many long minutes of standing still I decided to return to my home and that manuscript. I picked it up and began a more detailed read. It was interesting reading it for the second time. Luck for once was on my side. As I turned a page, somewhere towards the middle, a scrap of paper fluttered out from between the pages.

"My God," I shouted.

I stooped to pick up the paper and read what was written in capital letters.The Ninth Kozanski Cossacks photographed by Robert Robinofski. But what excited me was the pencilled address of the studios.

“Hurrah. Softly, softly catch a monkey”, I said aloud. “Even a red one. Maybe a 'Red Sky.' And then I reminded myself of the meeting with that black-hearted man Laundufort and his reference to agent Natalie.

---

Authors so far: Adver Web Team, Beckie Wolf, Jon Wood, Katherine Cenaj, Cleveland W Gibson, Madelin Bexon