I don't normally recommend novels on my website,but I'm making an exception for The Reiki Man by Dominic C James. It's an action packed thriller with lots of spiritual information woven through it, and as the title suggests, lots of Reiki too - I couldn't put it down! Penelope Quest, Best-selling Reiki author
It's about time there was a novel about Reiki. And as an added bonus it is a suspense/mystery story.This is a great read and I recommend the book to all. Steve Murray, world renowned Reiki Master and best selling author of Reiki: The Ultimate Guide
Do you read James Redfield, Dan Brown or Kate Mosse?
Yes? Then you will love this.
The Reiki Man - A deadly assassin. A divine power. A secret to shape mankind.
First of a trilogy.
ISBN: 978-1-84694-413-0, $14.95 / £13.99, paperback
EISBN: 978-1-84694-737-7, $4.99 / £3.99, eBook
- A DEADLY ASSASSIN.
- A DIVINE POWER.
- A SECRET TO SHAPE MANKIND.
When Billionaire industrialist Henry Mulholland is murdered the police are left virtually clueless. The only evidence is a mysterious symbol left on his desk. Recognizing it, Stella Jones - Mulhollands head of security and ex-Special Branch - joins the investigation. Along with Jennings, her Special Branch chaperone, Stella is led into a dangerous world of ancient knowledge and supernatural powers; a world where her perception of the physical universe and her grip on reality are tested to the full.
Dominic C. James is a writer and Reiki master. He has been a singer/songwriter in various indie bands, and has scratched a living as a freelance writer, barman, draughtsman and factory worker. On being made redundant four years ago he committed himself to full-time writing.
The Reiki Man is his first full-length novel, and combines his passion for all things spiritual with his passion for all things temporal. He keeps a foot firmly placed in both worlds. He wants to bring practices such as Reiki to a wider audience by conveying Eastern ideals in an entertaining context.
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Prologue and Chapter 1
Prologue
The study was silent save for the soft ticking of the grandfather clock. Henry Mulholland closed his laptop and sat back in his chair. It was three o’clock in the morning and he was beat, yet his head still swam with numbers. He poured himself a generous malt whisky and lit a cigarette. Closing his eyes he breathed out a sigh of smoke. It had been a long day. The markets were still volatile, as they had been for weeks, and on top of that he had spent most of the day negotiating with the GMB union over the closure of the steelworks. His offer had been more than fair but they were becoming greedy. Maybe if…
His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by his subconscious.
Henry opened his eyes and focused back on the room. The atmosphere had changed. He couldn’t put his finger on it but something was different. He felt cold and the back of his neck was starting to tingle. He tried to take a drag of his cigarette but found himself unable to move his arm. In a panic, he tried to move each limb in turn. It was no use: he was totally paralysed.
“Don’t bother trying,” said a voice from behind.
The man walked slowly round to the front of the desk and stared hard at Henry. He was Oriental and dressed in black from head to toe. Henry tried to speak, but found that too was impossible.
“I’m going to release you now Mr Mulholland. When I do, I want you to stay still and quiet. Only speak when I ask you a direct question. If you understand and are willing to comply, blink three times.” His voice was calm yet commanding.
Henry blinked three times. The man made a zigzagging motion with his right arm and Henry felt life come back to his body. He stubbed out the cigarette which had nearly burnt down to his knuckles.
“I’ve come for the box, Mr Mulholland. Where is it?”
Henry looked quizzical. “What box?”
“The box.”
“I really don’t know what you mean.”
The man made a sign in the air and immediately Henry was paralysed again.
From his trouser pocket the man drew a six inch stiletto blade. He leant over the desk and pushed it to Henry’s throat.
“Mr Mulholland, I will not hesitate to kill you if I don’t get what I want. I suggest you think very carefully about this.”
He slowly withdrew the knife and put it back in his pocket. From the desk he took a notepad and pen and drew a symbol. He released Henry again and held the symbol in front of him. “The box I’m talking about is made of wood and is covered in symbols, this one,” he pointed, “is larger and is positioned directly in the centre. Now again, where is it?”
Henry shook with fear. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead and stung his eyes. He had no idea what the man was talking about.
“I…I…don’t know. I have no box like that,” he stammered.
“I thought you might say that…Very well.”
Without another word he paralysed Henry again and drew the knife. The blade entered Henry’s heart with surgical precision and he died instantly: eyes wide with horror and helpless as a newborn kitten. The man put his mask back on and crept out of the window into the shadows of the night.
Chapter 1
It was dark and it had started to rain. Stella Jones braked swiftly and took a hard left into the lane that led up to Addington Hall. Since the call had come through her mind had been in overdrive. How the hell had someone breached the tightest, most modern security that money could buy? There were no scapegoats, there was no-one else to blame, the buck stopped with her.
She pulled up to the gatehouse and was greeted by the sight of squad cars. A young policeman strode up to the car window and she whirred it down.
“Evening Madam,” he said politely. “What is your business here?”
“Stella Jones, head of security,” she said, and flashed him her ID.
He carefully scrutinized her pass, and when satisfied he wandered out of earshot and spoke into his radio. Thirty seconds later he was back at her window.
“Ok Ms Jones, the boss says you can go up.”
She drove slowly up the driveway and parked behind the mass of marked and unmarked cars that had gathered on the gravel frontage: Henry Mulholland was a well-connected man.
The ornate front doors were wide open and the entrance was barred by crime scene tape. Another young PC was standing guard and Stella strode briskly up to him, ID in hand.
“Stella Jones, head of security,” she said.
The PC radioed his chief, and a minute later a smartly-dressed, portly, middle-aged man came across the entrance hall to the door. He was Stella’s old boss. His name was David Brennan and he was the head of Special Branch (SO1).
“Hello Stella,” he said warmly.
“Hello David, what are you doing here?” she said, pleased to see a familiar face. “I didn’t think this was Special Branch’s territory.”
“Strictly speaking it isn’t, but the PM wants this dealt with quickly. They were good friends, as you know.”
Henry Mulholland had been friends with the Prime Minister, Jonathan Ayres, since university. They had both studied philosophy, politics and economics at Oxford. They were joint owners of three racehorses, one of which was favourite for the Cheltenham Gold Cup. Well, they had been joint owners - now one of them was dead.
Stella and Brennan climbed the grand sweeping staircase, heading for the upstairs study.
“What have you got then?” she asked.
“Not a lot to be honest,” said Brennan, slightly downbeat. “The killer came in through the window and left the same way. No fingerprints, no nothing. Forensics has swept the room minutely, we may get a few fibres or a hair if we’re lucky, but I’m not holding my breath. Highly professional job, may as well have been a ghost.”
“How did he manage to get in? This place is wired up like Fort Knox.”
“Good question. The gatehouse guard can’t remember a thing, one minute he’s awake, the next - nothing. Same with your man in the CCTV room.”
They walked into the study. Stella’s eyes immediately fell upon Henry Mulholland, sitting bolt upright with startled eyes. He looked like he’d been frozen in time. Perfectly mummified save for the dried blood that stained his Saville Row shirt.
“Odd isn’t it?” said Brennan, seeing the look on Stella’s face.
“That’s an understatement,” said Stella. “Surreal is what I would say.”
“Yes, surreal is a better word. No struggle, no resistance, he just sat there and let himself be stabbed. Can’t quite get my head round it.”
Stella carried on staring at the body: Henry Mulholland, 43 years old, billionaire businessman and philanthropist, sportsman and playboy, drinker and gambler, gentleman and scholar; the last of a dying breed. Henry Mulholland; dead.
Brennan produced a baggie from his pocket. Inside it was a piece of notepaper. “I said we have nothing, that’s not strictly true. We do have this,” he said, handing it to Stella. “Mean anything to
you?”
Stella looked at the symbol on the paper. At first she stared blankly at it but then a hint of recognition hit her brain. She was sure she had seen it before, not here at the house but years
previously; another time, another place.
“No, what is it?” she said, not wanting to get Brennan’s hopes up.
“I don’t know, but it was on the desk in front of him when we got here. Seems reasonable to assume that it was either him or the killer that drew it. It’s really the only clue we’ve got.”
“We’ve got a bit of a mystery on our hands then, haven’t we?”
“Our hands?” Brennan looked across at her with quizzical eyes. “I hate to point this out to you Stella but you are a civilian, and have been for a few years.”
Stella bowed her head dejectedly. “I just thought I might be able to help out. I’ve been here for two years now and I probably know more about Henry’s life, private and business, than anyone else. I could be very useful.”
Brennan sighed. “Well I suppose you could assist us with our enquiries, as they say. Just remember The Official Secrets Act is for life, you’re still bound to it.”
Brennan liked Stella. He’d liked her ever since she was transferred to Special Branch as a wide-eyed young constable. There was something about her that had set her apart from her contemporaries. She had a natural feel for the job, and an animal-like sixth sense that had made her ideal for close protection. Brennan had nurtured these raw talents and she had become one of his best and most trusted operatives. He had been extremely disappointed when she left to work for Henry Mulholland. Although he understood that the money must have been a huge carrot.
“Shall we go and get some coffee?” suggested Brennan. “It looks like you could do with one.”
Stella took a quick glance in the study mirror. She looked a mess. Her eyes were puffy, her dark, shoulder-length hair was loose and bedraggled, and the black sweat suit she’d grabbed off the bedroom floor was twisted and crumpled. She looked more like a drug addict than a security chief.
“Yes let’s get some coffee, we’ll go to my office.”
Her office was elaborate and traditional, in keeping with the rest of the house. Brennan was impressed. “You’ve certainly done all right.”
“Yes, not bad is it.”
She made them both some black coffee and they sat down on opposite sides of the large walnut desk. Brennan looked old, Stella thought. It had been two years since she’d last seen him; he looked like he’d aged a decade. His bright keen eyes still shone through but his face was ashen and drawn. The pressures of work had caught up with him.
“So let me get this straight,” said Stella. “Someone put two security guards to sleep without them knowing, disabled the entire security system, climbed through the study window, killed Henry, and then disappeared without a trace. What about the dogs? Did none of the staff hear them?”
“The dogs were asleep as well, just lying there on the lawn. The staff heard nothing.”
Stella’s head hurt. “No-one could have done all that on their own.”
Brennan nodded. “I agree. Somebody’s lying. Probably one of the guards. If not that, then one of the staff has drugged them. Either way the killer’s had help from the inside. Must have done. We’ll know more when the blood tests come back.”
Stella gazed out of her office window. It was now 7am, and daylight was starting to creep through the drab December sky. Some holiday, she thought. She was due to fly out to Mauritius at 3pm that day; Christmas away from it all. Two weeks of lounging on white sandy beaches being waited on hand and foot. Two weeks of doing nothing and thinking nothing. A dream getaway. The dream would have to wait: she was going to get to the bottom of this, with or without Brennan’s blessing.
“Any idea who’d want to kill him,” asked Brennan.
“Can’t think of anyone offhand. He was pretty much wellliked by everyone he met. Could be a jealous husband I suppose - he was a bit of a rogue where ladies were concerned. Didn’t seem to care if they were married or not, they were all fair game.”
Brennan gave her a knowing look.
Stella answered the look with scorn. “No - if that’s what you’re implying. Our relationship was purely professional. He flirted a bit occasionally but I made it very clear where my boundaries lay. He accepted it - end of story.”
Brennan laughed. “Ok, ok… No need to be so touchy.” He’d been winding her up, he knew very well that Stella wouldn’t compromise her position in that way.
“Anyway,” said Stella regaining her thread, “I’m pretty sure that symbol’s behind it, not some love-crazed man.”
There was a knock on the door. Stella beckoned the knocker in, and a tall, muscular, suited man with blond hair entered the room. He was in his early thirties, Stella guessed, and he was good-looking in a pretty boy way. He nodded to Stella and smiled.
“Hello Jennings, what have you got?” asked Brennan.
“Not a lot sir, just thought I’d let you know that the initial blood tests are clean.”
“Nothing?” said Brennan, bemused.
“None of the usual drugs sir, no. They’re going to test for some of the more obscure ones but it’ll take a while. This afternoon at the earliest they said.”
“Any news on the symbol?” asked Brennan hopefully.
“Not yet sir, we’ve got people trawling the Internet at the moment.”
“Ok, keep me updated.”
Jennings left the room.
Brennan turned to Stella and shrugged. “Well this is all fucked up then, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes it’s all fucked up. Dogs, guards, laser trips…everything!”
Brennan eyed Stella thoughtfully; she was holding something back. “You’ve seen that symbol before haven’t you?” he ventured.
“Maybe…How did you know?”
“I’ve been studying body language for over thirty years. I worked with you for five of those. I can tell when you’re on to something - your left nostril twitches. It twitched when I showed you that symbol.”
Stella laughed. “I should know better than to hide anything from you, shouldn’t I?”
Brennan pressed: “So about this symbol.”
“To be honest David, I just don’t know. I’ve seen it before but I can’t quite place it at the moment. I’m sure it’ll come to me, I just need a memory trigger.”
“Ok, no problem,” said Brennan. “Just relax and take your time, there’s no point trying to force it. Just let me know when you remember.”
There was another knock on the door and Jennings came bursting in. “We’ve found it sir!” he said excitedly.
“Found what?” asked Brennan.
Jennings caught his breath. “The symbol sir, we know what it means.”
“Well go on then, spit it out,” Brennan demanded.
“It’s an ancient Japanese symbol sir, from some healing art called Reiki.”
“Oh, ok. But what does it mean?”
Jennings paused nervously, as if embarrassed by the answer he was about to give. “God is here sir, it means God is here.”
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