Wednesday, 21 November 2012

Nano part 4

So NaNoWriMo became InNoStarMo, however it's now changed to InNoMiMo or International November Middle (of book) Month. I got fed up of writing starts so I've written a middle chapter that would probably link in with Nano 2.

Britwell had only been there ten minutes and she’d already banged on about chakras and energies. The tea was shit too, some infusion of tree bark and herbs or whatever. He sighed and looked back at the hanging charms and symbols. The place stank. Petuli oil and joss sticks. He knew what she was hiding, what those smells were hiding. If she pissed him off too much, he’d search her.

“Here we are.” She walked back into the room. White, ghost like dress, almost a sheet with three holes cut in it. Hair tied back with some hemp bangle thing and sustainable sandals on her blackened feet.

“I could feel the energies last night in this crystal.” She held up the purpley-blue stone, her eyes piercing his.

“And what did the stone tell you, miss?” He’d tried not to be flippant, but she just wasn’t helping.

“The crystal points to tonight. A farmhouse on a hill. A troubled mind continues by doing all he knows how.” She paused, he reckoned for effect. “The next one’s tonight.”

Britwell rolled his eyes. The killer had drawn out every nut job, crystal snitcher and long haired psychic this side of Taplow. Always the same, always had been. Murderers drew these lot out like a ad in Exchange and Mart.

“Does your stone have any idea which farmhouse it’s going to happen in?”

“Inspector, I sense your bitterness again. Not only is it not good for your energies, but my aura can’t take scepticism. I fear I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Britwell stood up. “It’s okay, I’m gone. You and your stone’s aura can be at peace now.”

He let himself out. Lighting up a cigarette, he lent against his car before opening the door. Three of them now. Roughly the same age, but otherwise no connection. The random killer the papers were calling him. A bit of fear was always good for paper sales, but they had a point. Without picking some form of pattern or victim, no one was safe.

Inside, the starter motor took three turns before the engine kicked in. He’d have to get that fixed. With his luck, a dodgy starter would come back to haunt him at the wrong time.

Driving off, he pulled out his mobile, rung Walters.


“Another fruitcake. What about yours?”

“Well, he is a very charming man, sir. I can understand why so many go to his séances and shows. It’s quite hard to not believe him when he gets going.”

“It’s all bollocks though, isn’t it?” Britwell held his phone between ear and cheek while he tried to change gear and flick fag ash out of the window at the same time.

“God yeah. He says his spirit guide made contact with the last victim yesterday.”

Britwell shook his head, the phone falling to his lap. Picking it up, he nearly mounted the kerb. “Sorry, missed some of that.”

“I hope you’re not driving, sir? I said he’s made contact with the last victim from beyond the grave.”

“Nah, just stuck in traffic. So I take it he’s given us a full description of the killer and place then.”

“Apparently, it doesn’t quite work like that.”

Britwell grunted. He'd hoped for more, but hadn’t expected less.

Friday, 9 November 2012

Nano part 3

I should actually rename what I'm doing as, instead of writing a book like you're suppsoed to, I instead appear to be writing several starts to different books. NaNoStarMo? Actually as the Na stands for National, it really needs changing to In (International). InNoStarMo.

This one doesn't have a name, I half thought of the idea a few months back. Suppose it should be called Banging or Sorted or something.

She’d worn a lot of make up before.

It wasn’t as if she needed too. Clear complexion, what people called a caring, friendly face. Beautiful without make up.

Still, what did he know. He was still off his head. Everyone was fucking beautiful at seven in the morning after a heavy night.

“Coffee okay?” she asked.

“Fine, it’s great,” Rick replied. He nodded his head. The beat from the radio kicked in. Just some rubbish on the local station but his mind picked out the bpm. His head kept nodding, then from side to side. The club had been good last night. Really good. The adrenalin from five hundred people watching you and dancing was still there. Better than any drug that feeling was. Except caffeine of course. He felt his head moving again as the song’s bpm increased. If he wasn’t careful he’d be back up there again.

She’d walked to the counter. It looked like she was on her own today. Only one other customer, so not busy. Then again, who else wanted a coffee at seven on a Sunday morning? Very limited customer base, that’s what he reckoned a marketing man would say. He smiled as she looked over, then he turned away, realised he was probably staring at her.

He wondered where the chef was this morning. A lie in maybe? They were an item, married possibly. That’s what everyone said. Some weeks he’d be in, all smiles and big chef’s hat. Other times he wouldn’t be there. The make up: did it correspond with those days? Did she only wear it when he wasn’t in? He couldn’t remember.

He looked at his coffee. Filter, but as good as something  from an expensive machine with chrome and steam. First pot of the day and freshly crushed beans, that was why.  Always the perfect cuppa, every week. The perfect way to kill the hour wait between train and bus. That was the problem with Sunday mornings. They threw everything at getting you to London on a Saturday night, but no thought of getting you back the next day. Council was probably to blame. They usually are.

“Thanks, love.” The other customer placed his mug on the counter and left. Dog walker. Rick had seen him before once. A month or so ago maybe? Could be six months. He looked at her again, caught her eye. She turned, back to the pile of muffins and flapjacks. The make up was heavier than he’d seen before, especially around the cheeks. He thought of telling her she didn’t need it, but it would come out wrong. He’d mean it as a brother to his sister but it would sound corny. It always did.

“On your own today?”
He turned, checked she was talking to him and not someone else or her phone.  He cleared his throat. “Yeah.  I don’t always get free tickets, so you know, they don’t always come.” He looked at his coffee. That had come out wrong. Sounded like his mates were only his mates for the free entry. That wasn’t the case, he knew it. They actually paid their own entry sometimes. Well, they had once.
“Must be tiring, all night I mean.” She polished the counter with a cloth, her eyes on the muffins.

“You get used to it,” he said. He didn’t mention the caffeine or adrenalin, nor the pills that most of the dancers used.

He saw her look at the clock, the hour was ticking by. A quarter of it left. He knew he ought to get going, the bus didn’t hang around. With the next one at ten, he didn’t dare miss it.

Drowning the last of his coffee, he stood. “Better, you know.” She looked at him, nodded. The makeup was heavier on her left side. Much heavier.

“See you next week.”

He smiled as he picked up his bag of records. “Bye.”

Tuesday, 6 November 2012

Nano part 2

So, 6 days in and I should have racked up 10,000 words by now.

I've done possibly nearly a thousand. Not all on the same book which is a bit of a problem and not very nanoish. I've written a bit of Off The Rails, but don't like it, written a small extra piece of Inspector Cliche and dabbled with a few starts. Ideas are still thinner on the ground than my hair. The only real idea I've had that I like is below...

Working title 'Ears'

His ears were too fucking big.

Jeff knew that was the problem. Everyone else’s were different: they started level with their eyes, the bottom level with the upper lip, even the nose for some people. But no, he just had to be born with two fucking big question marks either side of his skull.

Looking into the mirror he sighed. He wasn’t that pig ugly. He didn’t have an extra fucking nose or three eyes or anything. But the ears. Every time he met someone, even if he’d met them before, eye contact only lasted a second. Their eyes would move, away from his across his left temple to his ear. Then back over his eyes to the other. Always the left first. Their face would drop too. A look of disgust or sympathy as they noticed and really took in the ears that stretched from the top of his head to his chin. Poor bastard, they’d be thinking. Can’t he get surgery for them? Some would even smile the evil fuckers. They were the worst.

They’d also be the first.

Trying to stretch that into a 90,000 word book might be a problem. Though I reckon Inspector Britwell could be forced from retirement to help investigate.