Hi Nigel,

Could you forward this to the Rand group? Most grateful if you can. You might enjoy it. A theme near to your heart.

Vinay

 

 

A forbidden love draws the Mafia into fighting Radical Islam

 

An affair between Marlon, a politically correct history teacher, and Jamila Khan, his young student, must be kept a secret. Jamila works covertly toward liberating women oppressed by radical Islamism.

 

As Marlon awakens to the dark underbelly of orthodox Islam, a turn of events leads to Marlon becoming a fugitive charged with murder. Jamila’s testimony can free him, but her eyewitness account could incur a death fatwa from the Islamic orthodoxy. Marlon won’t let her risk herself.

 

Hunted by Scotland Yard, and betrayed by England, Marlon must now work with the men he once loathed—his Sicilian uncles. Jamila’s life, and his, depend on it.

 

 

There is an editorial review on the purchase site by Romantic Revolution Books.

Here’s the site, and that’s where you buy it. If you don’t have a Kindle, a Kindle app is a free download on any smartphone, tablet, laptop, or desktop, and fulfills the same function.

http://www.amazon.com/Sharia-London-Vinay-Kolhatkar-ebook/dp/B01EYLFF5A/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8

It’s been online for less than 24 hours, and it’s climbing rapidly in the sales ranking without any marketing, or any major publisher backing.

 

 

 

EXCERPT:

 

Marlon took the Breathalyzer test. He knew he was clear of drugs and alcohol. The change of clothes was optional. He refused the prison-issued tracksuit and T-shirt, putting his own clothes back on after the full-body search.

 

He stepped into the central hall. In the middle, the dome-like ceiling was exceptionally high.

 

Pentonville was a Victorian prison built like a half octopus, an octopus with four limbs. The wings radiated outward from the center. Each of the four main wings was five stories high.

 

He was taken to the A Wing First Night Centre, where officials briefed him about various matters—food times, gym times, visitations, protocol.

 

The A Wing had a communal area with tables and chairs. He took a seat and waited. The few other inmates about stared at him. They had seen him before.

 

Word will get to Paolo inside a minute.

 

Later, he sat in the communal area, soaking it all in, refusing the offered talk with a counselor at the First Night Centre. The large metal doors jangled when the clock struck nine. Men in overalls walked in with industrial-sized vacuum cleaners. He watched their methodical and dispassionate efficiency with interest. The drone of the equipment calmed him.

 

Eventually, he accepted the supervised walkabout offer. He had heard the stories of bullying—of rape, of grown men reduced to tears, of suicides and nervous breakdowns. He had always worried about Paolo. So he walked chest out, head high, showing no fear. Inmates glanced at him, sizing him up.

 

Murder gets you respect. They’ll be shit scared of me. But I’m shit scared of where the fuck my life has ended up.

 

In the A Wing there were two prisoners to a room. He wondered which monster he would share the night with. A prison guard took him to his cell.

 

Marlon guessed it was no more than eight feet high, and twenty by twenty feet with two bunkbeds held to the walls by chains on either side. The guard unlocked the door. Marlon went inside. The grated door clanged shut.

 

Bit different to a night with Jamila at the Sheraton in Paris …

 

One of the beds was occupied by a short, slight man, who lay facing the wall. He wore the Pentonville inmate outfit. The man seemed to be awake, but resting.

 

Marlon plonked himself on the empty bed. “Hello there,” he called.

 

The man turned to face him. He looked haggard. Early sixties, Marlon guessed. The man’s face was wrought with bitterness. The skin was fair but not pale, the hair gray and thinning. A long scar reached from under his collar to behind his ear. His gray eyes shone with an intelligence alien to these surroundings. One of his eyebrows stood up in an arch higher than the other. The eyes and ears were noticeably of unequal size. The prominent asymmetry was beguiling.

 

On the man’s bed, Marlon saw a worn copy of the Quran.

 

The inmate sat up. “I’m Ismail. I killed a guy in cold blood.”

 

What’s this? A game of one-upmanship? You don’t scare me, you little old man.

 

“I’m Marlon,” he said.

 

“Do you want to know whom I killed and why?” Ismail spoke more from one side of the mouth than the other.

 

Marlon shrugged. “Not particularly.”

 

“You should be interested, professor.”

 

Dammit, he knows me. Is the news out already?

 

“Senior Lecturer, actually.” Marlon laughed.

 

I’m sure I’ll lose my job when the media circus starts.

 

“Not for long when you’re an ex-convict.” Ismail showed a toothy grin.

 

The diction. He doesn’t belong here.

 

“Your brother speaks highly of you,” Ismail continued.

 

So that’s how he knows me.

 

“Now I’ll tell you whom I killed and why,” Ismail said.

 

Didn’t I just tell him I’m not interested?

 

“I don’t scare easily,” Marlon said.

 

“I don’t wish to scare you, Dr. Stone. Just to teach you.”

 

A night with Hannibal Lecter. Just what I need right now.

 

Marlon grinned. “I’m not Clarice Starling.”

 

Ismail laughed. “Nowhere near as pretty, that’s for sure. Although you’re a pretty boy. Some guys in C Wing might fancy you.”

 

“I can look after myself.”

 

“Against them? Maybe. You are a big unit. Perhaps you can fight with your fists. But I heard you recently on Question Time. You’re an ignorant fool.”

 

And I praised Islam as a religion of peace in all my answers, you eccentric old man.

 

“Let me tell you my story. The night is still young,” Ismail said.

 

The lawyer said there could be a pre-trial hearing within two days. So I’m stuck here for one night at least, perhaps two.

 

“All right. If I get bored, I’ll tell you to stop,” he said.

 

Ismail settled himself more comfortably. “I’m an Ismaili. Do you even know what that means? Your blank expression tells me you know nothing, Senior Lecturer. But I will make you a professor in one night.”

 

“You can give it a try, Hannibal. I’ve no better offers,” he said.

 

Ismail laughed. Marlon realized he had moved on his bed to get closer to Ismail. Ismail pulled himself closer from his side.

 

There was a noise of a large lever being pulled down. The corridor lights went off. Marlon remembered the protocol—the ten p.m. lights out. Outside the cell, the light dimmed slowly.

 

Paolo did say there are drift-lights in the corridors on a ten-minute timer.

 

Two guards walked the corridor to check each cell, their boots landing heavily on the concrete.

 

The thud of the boots faded into silence. It became pitch dark. Marlon was all ears as Ismail’s voice lowered to a hoarse whisper.