WINNER OF THE AMBROSIA BOOKBURNERS’ SPECIAL ACHIEVEMENT AWARD
“Best book in my collection!” Reginald (One Book) Nutall
“Unputdownable!” Muriel (Can’t put a book down) Titchmarsh
Bob Leaver was born in Sheffield, South Yorkshire, England, to Fred and Leila Leaver. His family background is working class. His early childhood passions included reading Enid Blyton’s Famous Five and Secret Seven mysteries, watching Top of the Pops, Up Pompeii!, and the early Carry On movies on television. Comedy, music and the desire to tell a good story have fuelled his creative work as an adult.
A cassette tape of his comic songs and sketches led to his involvement in The Crucible Youth Theatre, Sheffield, under the directorship of Jem Warr. It was there that he developed his love of theatre, and his first one-act comedy Cremation Street was performed in the Crucible Studio as part of a festival of new writers. This was followed shortly thereafter by his first monologue Reclaiming the Right to Love which was selected and performed by playwright Noel Greig (Plague of Innocence) also in the Crucible Studio.
He embarked on a Foundation in Performance Arts course, also in Sheffield, before studying Dramatic Arts at Bretton Hall College, Wakefield, which was an arts college affiliated to Leeds University and renowned as the RADA of the North, being home to writers of the calibre of Colin Welland, Kay Mellor and John Godber, and actors such as Mark Gatiss, Reece Shearsmith and Steve Pemberton.
Bob’s work for the theatre as writer, devisor, script consultant, actor and director has been performed in England, Scotland, Eire, and the USA. Most notably in the Crucible Studio, Sheffield, at the Sunday Times National Student Drama Festival, Scarborough, at the Southwark Playhouse, London and, under the auspices of the National Student Theatre Company, at the Edinburgh Festival where the play he both scripted and directed, No Tender Vocabulary, was Guardian Critics’ Choice.
Following a lengthy stint in Theatre in Education and Community Arts, in particular at Norton College, Sheffield and as Drama specialist and Arts Centre Co- ordinator for Cunninghame District Council, Scotland, where he helped to devise, script, and direct several plays for and by the community, a move from England to Germany saw Bob switch from writing for performance to literary fiction.
He is the author of two published genre novels and numerous short stories and also editor of two genre anthologies. The Strange Case of Jaklyn Hyde is his first novel published under his own name.
His most recent work for radio has been broadcast frequently on BBC Regional Radio and subsequently posted on his two YouTube channels, Spuktastic Audio and Bobologue Audio.
His two published collections of tales of the supernatural, A Christmas Hornpipe and Other Ghostly Yarns and Dracula’s Boyfriend followed. Along with Whatever Love Means a collection of interior dialogues. All are available as paperback and ebook on Amazon.co.uk
His latest theatrical projects were a new adaptation of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol for Hey Up! Theatre Company, Sheffield, and Fanny’s Your Aunt, a short play, selected by Hive North to feature in OutStageUs at The Lowry in Manchester, September 27-29 September 2022.
You can also find additional audio logs on the authors youtube channel and amazon
JAKLYN HYDE SUCKED PURPOSEFULLY ON THE STEM OF HER MEERSCHAUM PIPE. After a suitably long pause, she extracted it from between the grip of pearly white teeth and exhaled with an equally dramatic flourish. For the past half-hour she had not so much paced as minced up and down the hospital carpark; the heels of her spanking new, multi-coloured Doctor Martin boots chaffing the ratty plasters which barely covered two ripe blisters.
Pausing now under a streetlamp, she replenished the pipe bowl with premium shag from her rhinestone encrusted tobacco pouch as a light drizzle began to fall. From above, the amber streetlight cast a ginger tinge over her dirty-blond Ziggy Stardust fright-wig. Too much slap. Pancake face and panda eye make-up rounded off with blurred lips - like a huge white plate sporting two meat pies with a slash of cheap ketchup.
Cher hit the nail on the head... Jaxx puffed again, sighed and exhaled meaningfully into the cold night air. If I could turn back time... Alas time only went in one direction – in this dimension at least. To live life forwards but to understand it backwards was a sad reality and one that was, for the most part, better viewed through beer goggles in Jaxx’s estimation.
Mawdlin Hospital loomed large behind her. A 1960's monstrosity framed against a starless sky heavy with the portent of rain; a prefabricated warren of concrete and pebbledash. Born of some architect's distinct lack of imagination it was, to all intents and purposes, a triumph of financial considerations over design. Somewhat inappropriately, the main block towered overhead like a giant tombstone, whilst at ground level, a maze of outbuildings housed the likes of the Casualty department and set at a discrete distance, naturally, lurked the unmentionable though indispensable clap clinic.
Of course, she knew she couldn't stay outside in the car park all night, with the storm leaden sky above being the least of her worries. Eventually she would have to march up to hospital reception and enquire whether her fellow drama student and friendly acquaintance, Lesley B. Presley, was alive or dead. Yes, Jaklyn would have to face the music however dour or 80s but, either way, she consoled herself with the certain knowledge that, whilst culpable, she was not responsible. The distinction somehow made all the difference and whilst there had indeed been occasions when Jaxx had herself felt like throttling Lesley, though mostly during the rehearsal process, she had always managed to stifle the urge. Alas, her own innocence was cold comfort, for if she hadn't done the diabolical deed herself then someone else surely had. ‘But who?’ she exclaimed and, in the moment, felt like some character in a crap American made-for-TV thriller.
NextThe hall phone had first rung at eight in the evening. It rang again at nine and then again at ten. On and on it rang without a murmur being heard from any of the other bedsits in the three-storey, South East London townhouse she called home. No surprise there then. Much to her chagrin she seemed to be regarded as their personal answering machine. Resist it as she may, no one else had bothered to answer the incessant ringing so Jaklyn finally threw aside her textbook and pen, ventured out onto the landing and clomped downstairs.
'Brattersea Dogs & Cat’s Home. How can I help you?’ she demanded, irritably as she grabbed the receiver. The timorous voice of fellow ingénue, Lesley Presley, had piped out of the earpiece. 'Jaxx? It's me... It’s Les! Jaxx, I'm desperate... I've got BIG problems... I...’ Jaxx cut her short, 'Can I just stop you there. Is Jaxx a dog or a cat? C’mon speak up!’ There followed an uncomfortable silence. Jaxx was not impressed. ‘Well...’ ‘Sorry we don’t do other species.’ As soon as she slammed down the handset Jaxx recognised her cruel, childish stunt for exactly what it was, threw her head back and laughed until the laces on her basque threatened to snap under the strain.
To be fair to Jaxx, she wasn't normally such a grump. Indeed, she prided herself on the fact that she wasn't the type of person who took the liberty of inflicting their bad temper upon others unless absolutely forced. Ah, but today... Today it had felt not only necessary but essential. Today had been the bad hair day to end all bad hair days. Tresses that began at waist-length at breakfast had been transformed into a Louise Brooks bob by noon and a K. D. Lang quiff by tea-time. By suppertime she looked like a cross between a Tibetan monk and a coconut. In a vain attempt to stem her mounting hysteria, she had locked herself out of harm’s way. Her game plan had been to channel her anger into her dreaded third-year, student dissertation. Sad to say, switching off her mobile had solved nothing for there was to be no escape from interruption and Les’ intrusion was not only unwanted, but it was also ill-timed. Jaxx felt she had enough big problems of her own without playing personal tutor to a desperate Les - sister student or no.
Still, Lesley never could take a hint, so Jaxx wasn’t at all surprised when the hall phone had rung again after it had gone twelve. It was impossible to ignore. The stairwell acted like an echo chamber which made the bell sound like an air raid siren on red alert. Jaxx finally threw aside her text book and pen yet again, stomped down the three flights in an attempt to cause maximum disruption to her fellow housemates but with no discernible effect as she trounced once again into the entrance hall.
‘What now?’ she snapped - only to yank her ear from the receiver as the sonic boom of another fellow student, Viva España, exploded out. 'Jaxx! Jaxx! Something terrible has happened! It's...’ long pause for dramatic effect ‘Les! She's... '
Next PreviousThus, Jaxx was to learn that Lesley had been found swinging violently from the light fitting in the hallway of her bijou residence; hoisted aloft by her favourite black lace brassiere. Viva trumpeted on that had she not looked through the letterbox and used her friend Cleo to batter the door down precisely when she had then Les would have been a goner for sure. As it was, her life still teetered in the balance. Viva was distraught and savouring every moment of it as she blathered on about foul play and expounded on a host of conspiracy theories. Jaxx found that she couldn't help but be reminded of the conclusion she had reached many moons ago. Somewhere down the line, Viva had definitely dropped one tablet too many.
Yet the idea that Les would willingly attempt suicide struck Jaxx as ludicrous – especially via the method in question. Not least because Lesley’s fear of heights was so marked that she got dizzy just climbing up from the pavement onto the bus and would, in fact, frequently embarrass her cronies by asking the driver to lower the gang plank just to accommodate her irrational fears. The possibility of her climbing a step ladder without an electric cattle prod up her posterior was, therefore, almost unthinkable.
But who would solve the mystery? Not the police, that was certain. As if they would waste valuable police time considering the possibility of foul play. The Boys in Blue were hardly renowned for their defence of those who lived on the fringes of society - like students or artists - amongst whom Jaxx and people of her stripe could be numbered. No point involving the media either. The News of the Screws would doubtless muse: “TIT’S A MIRACLE!! Wonderbra saved my life!!” Or conversely: “TIT’S A CATASTROPHE!! One boob too many!!”
It would be a case of tomorrow's chip wrapper on sale today. Jaxx could hardly bear to think about it but think about it she must. She had failed Les in her hour of need even if she’d had more important things to concentrate on. Now she must be her champion.
Lost in thought, Jaxx was caught off-guard as the automatic doors of Accident and Emergency suddenly flew open in a blaze of fluorescent light and Viva España and her big-boned gal-pal, Cleopatra Sneedle, tottered down the access ramp from Mawdlin’s Casualty department as quickly as their sky-high platforms would carry them. Triumphant above the clatter rose Viva's high-pitched screech - ranting on about born-again Evangelicals and Leviticus. Cleo, meanwhile, suffered in silence. Indeed, she seemed to be suffering more so than usual as her arm was in a sling and her head was a mass of bandages that were draped around her bushy, back-combed ginger afro.
To say they made a strange pair was an understatement. Viva was four foot eleven inches and beyond pale with a lank, black fringe and shoulder-length hair which, on this occasion, was scrunched back with a bobble tie into a lack-lustre ponytail. Her leopard skin print combo of smock coat, frock and bag failed to match and were clearly not modelled on the same animal skin whilst the woolly, black tights and pink patent leather platforms were at odds with the rest of her curious ensemble. Cleopatra, poor thing, stood a foot and a half taller in her purple plastic mac, mauve crimplene pant suit and silver, thigh-length, zip up moon boots. If the pair had been hoping to make a fashion statement, then they could hardly have made a more offensive one.
Fortunately, Bad and Ugly had yet to spot the Good. Jaklyn ducked down behind a concrete bollard and hid herself successfully until the gruesome twosome squeezed into a pre-ordered mini-cab and sped off into the night in a pungent cloud of exhaust fumes.
Jaklyn emerged from her hiding place, but any sense of relief at her lucky escape was quickly replaced by foreboding as she made her way towards the bright lights beyond the automatic doors to A&E. As she drew close, they held shut as if by the ghostly hands of the grim reaper. She started to say, ‘Sod this for a game of soldiers...’ but stopped at the first syllable. And being, from the emotion she had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or the lateness of the hour, she gave the doors a swift boot in frustration with a well-placed toecap and they parted company upon contact. She crossed the threshold with no idea of what fate awaited her on the other side.
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