So I've managed to lose a story. I've got a word document with loads of half written shorts, flashes, book attempts, even just first lines in and I thought it was there. But it's not. I can't find it.
The story in question was written about a year ago. The start of a novella. A classic, and probably cliched, PI story. I can remember parts of it. I started writing it in third person but it didn't work so I rewrote it in first. This may be how it got lost. I might have deleted too much after the rewrite.
What's that you say, back ups? Yeah, that'd be a good idea wouldn't it? Keeping regular copies of everything in case a disaster happens. Yeah, what a good idea.
I really fancied writing a bit of it today. Instead I'm racking my brain, trying to think of the plot and start.
I think it started thusly:
Yeah she's still talking but I've long stopped listening.
I can't remember much more, but it's bugging me now so I'm going to have to re-write it.
Anyway, submissions keep going out and rejections keep coming back. Had a really nice one the other day. She said, after rejecting it, 'let me know when it's published as I would buy it.'
That cheered me up.
Thursday, 21 July 2011
Friday, 15 July 2011
Inspector Cliche - Chapter 3
There's one problem with posting this chapter by chapter as I write it. Plot holes. The plot twists slightly in chap three which means a slight amendment is needed to chap 1. It's not even a huge change that's needed, if you've been following it, you might not even spot it. Anyway, here's part 3.
Chapter Three
Barry Safford was in his bath towel when they arrived. The sauna still pumped steam and heat into the large, indoor swimming pool making Britwell already feel hot under the collar. The pool itself was a shrine to Essex. Poorly grouted tiles lined the floor while Statues of Greek gods and Goddesses stood round the pool edge. Occasional pot plants and trellis filled in the gaps while the mirrored ceiling proved that class just couldn't be bought. Unlike the tacky pool, Britwell though it a modern wonder of the world how Barry Safford, from his meagre background, had become so successful and rich.
“Whatever this is about, officer, I think you’ll find you’ve got the wrong person, again.” He sucked hard on his cigar and placed his hands on his hips.
Britwell shook his head. “I think you’ll find, Mr Safford, that things may not go your way tonight.”
Britwell looked round. Of course nothing traced the six foot lump of flab and muscle to crime. Searches by the Fraud Office, Vice and Firearms always came up with nothing. He just seemed to be lucky. Whatever new venture he started, it made a mint. He had the Midas touch. He was as bent as a fishing hook, but there was no proof.
“Think I better ring my lawyer, constable, he says my claim for harassment should get me a new house in Tuscany.”
Britwell ignored the constable jibe. He was always trying to wind him up. The odd smart Alec phrase here, little dig there. Britwell knew he couldn’t lose his cool with him. Again. What little evidence they may get could be destroyed on a technicality by a well-aimed kick at his towelled knackers.
“I’ll explain down the station.” Britwell tried to look smug, but the bags under his eyes gave a more sinister effect. Safford’s face dropped slightly. Britwell knew he was checking back through his deals, wondering just what piece of evidence he may have left in the house or forgotten to cover. He almost looked worried. Britwell smiled.
The hastily drawn together search team of insomniacs and overtime freaks continued their search of the mansion. They’d come up with nothing, but that wasn’t the point. Annoying Safford and his walking silicon-implant of a wife was the point. Britwell could hear her sharp cockney accent, telling the officers upstairs to “Fack off and catch some real villains or immigrants. Someone what’s actually guilty.”
Britwell lowered his voice and looked Safford in the eye. “We got a witness. He can place you with the gun in your hand, pulling the trigger.”
Safford looked confused, which wasn’t unusual. More confused than normal though. “I’ve been here all night.” He seemed to be thinking through the evening, squinting his eyes to give more focus. He finally shook his head. “How much you paying them to lie, constable? Seems the police get more corrupt every day.”
DS Walters walked over, nodding her head at him. “Don’t go far,” said Britwell, walking to meet her by the unnecessarily well-endowed statue of Eros. “What?”
“Cars not outside. Fish wife upstairs says it’s been at the garage for a week. Problem with the radio. Can’t pick up BBC Essex.”
“That’s a problem.”
She laughed then seemed to realise it wasn’t either a joke or a question. “Just sent a squad car to the garage.”
“Any bets on ‘The garage’s been broken into and the car stolen?’ Shit. All we’ve got’s a singing, cross-dressing newsagent.” He shook his head. “He only saw the back of him then fled. Shit. CPS won’t touch this with his.” He pointed at the statue.
“Maybe we could find other witnesses? Someone else might corroborate?”
Britwell looked at her. Her bright, keen DS eyes hadn’t yet been burned out with failure and frustration. Still looking on the bright side. Still hope. He shrugged his shoulders. He’d give her two more years before her first breakdown.
“All we need is someone else to place him in his car tonight?” She waited for him to answer.
Britwell was lost in thought, the unthinkable running through his head. What if Safford hadn’t done it? Forget the embarrassment of the cock up and the effect on his harassment claim. Something bigger lurked in the background. What kind of a nutter would steal Safford’s car and kill someone, knowing people would see it? This could get very messy.
He looked back at Walters. “What do you reckon?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “We could go to the red light district, see who we can pick up?”
Britwell nodded. “Best offer I’ve had in ages. Come on, I’ll get uniform to bring in the mockney cockneys.”
Chapter Three
Barry Safford was in his bath towel when they arrived. The sauna still pumped steam and heat into the large, indoor swimming pool making Britwell already feel hot under the collar. The pool itself was a shrine to Essex. Poorly grouted tiles lined the floor while Statues of Greek gods and Goddesses stood round the pool edge. Occasional pot plants and trellis filled in the gaps while the mirrored ceiling proved that class just couldn't be bought. Unlike the tacky pool, Britwell though it a modern wonder of the world how Barry Safford, from his meagre background, had become so successful and rich.
“Whatever this is about, officer, I think you’ll find you’ve got the wrong person, again.” He sucked hard on his cigar and placed his hands on his hips.
Britwell shook his head. “I think you’ll find, Mr Safford, that things may not go your way tonight.”
Britwell looked round. Of course nothing traced the six foot lump of flab and muscle to crime. Searches by the Fraud Office, Vice and Firearms always came up with nothing. He just seemed to be lucky. Whatever new venture he started, it made a mint. He had the Midas touch. He was as bent as a fishing hook, but there was no proof.
“Think I better ring my lawyer, constable, he says my claim for harassment should get me a new house in Tuscany.”
Britwell ignored the constable jibe. He was always trying to wind him up. The odd smart Alec phrase here, little dig there. Britwell knew he couldn’t lose his cool with him. Again. What little evidence they may get could be destroyed on a technicality by a well-aimed kick at his towelled knackers.
“I’ll explain down the station.” Britwell tried to look smug, but the bags under his eyes gave a more sinister effect. Safford’s face dropped slightly. Britwell knew he was checking back through his deals, wondering just what piece of evidence he may have left in the house or forgotten to cover. He almost looked worried. Britwell smiled.
The hastily drawn together search team of insomniacs and overtime freaks continued their search of the mansion. They’d come up with nothing, but that wasn’t the point. Annoying Safford and his walking silicon-implant of a wife was the point. Britwell could hear her sharp cockney accent, telling the officers upstairs to “Fack off and catch some real villains or immigrants. Someone what’s actually guilty.”
Britwell lowered his voice and looked Safford in the eye. “We got a witness. He can place you with the gun in your hand, pulling the trigger.”
Safford looked confused, which wasn’t unusual. More confused than normal though. “I’ve been here all night.” He seemed to be thinking through the evening, squinting his eyes to give more focus. He finally shook his head. “How much you paying them to lie, constable? Seems the police get more corrupt every day.”
DS Walters walked over, nodding her head at him. “Don’t go far,” said Britwell, walking to meet her by the unnecessarily well-endowed statue of Eros. “What?”
“Cars not outside. Fish wife upstairs says it’s been at the garage for a week. Problem with the radio. Can’t pick up BBC Essex.”
“That’s a problem.”
She laughed then seemed to realise it wasn’t either a joke or a question. “Just sent a squad car to the garage.”
“Any bets on ‘The garage’s been broken into and the car stolen?’ Shit. All we’ve got’s a singing, cross-dressing newsagent.” He shook his head. “He only saw the back of him then fled. Shit. CPS won’t touch this with his.” He pointed at the statue.
“Maybe we could find other witnesses? Someone else might corroborate?”
Britwell looked at her. Her bright, keen DS eyes hadn’t yet been burned out with failure and frustration. Still looking on the bright side. Still hope. He shrugged his shoulders. He’d give her two more years before her first breakdown.
“All we need is someone else to place him in his car tonight?” She waited for him to answer.
Britwell was lost in thought, the unthinkable running through his head. What if Safford hadn’t done it? Forget the embarrassment of the cock up and the effect on his harassment claim. Something bigger lurked in the background. What kind of a nutter would steal Safford’s car and kill someone, knowing people would see it? This could get very messy.
He looked back at Walters. “What do you reckon?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “We could go to the red light district, see who we can pick up?”
Britwell nodded. “Best offer I’ve had in ages. Come on, I’ll get uniform to bring in the mockney cockneys.”
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
Zombie Noir Chick-Lit
Or Noir Zombie Chick-lit?
A month or so ago I wrote a little short story for a competition. We were given the first line and had to write the rest, max 250 words.
Well, I've made the five finalists.
Not my normal genre, and the story that came out was a little bit absurd, but nonetheless, I really enjoyed writing this. It's somtimes more of a challenge to write something unusual.
A month or so ago I wrote a little short story for a competition. We were given the first line and had to write the rest, max 250 words.
Well, I've made the five finalists.
Not my normal genre, and the story that came out was a little bit absurd, but nonetheless, I really enjoyed writing this. It's somtimes more of a challenge to write something unusual.
Monday, 11 July 2011
Da Vinci again
On a recent trip to a car boot sale, three things became clear.
1 Every other household has a copy of the Da Vinci Code.
2 Said households are prepared to sell it for 50p or less.
3 Contrary to popular opinion, it is possible to get sunburnt in two hours in Nottinghamshire.
It made me remember just how many copies he sold. I think I once read 40 million worldwide. Though slated by many, Stephen Fry called it, "Arse gravy of the worst kind," I actually sort of enjoyed reading it. Not a classic definately, and the flashbacks to his lectures were more than cringeworthy. But I've read worse thrillers. I've read better ones too, but I've read worse ones. I suppose one measure of success, as a writer, is seeing a copy of your book for 50p at a car boot sale.
I bought a bike rack for the car too. Only a tenner. Bargain. Mrs Pie says It'll live in the shed along with all the other crap, but it won't. It's different this time. It will get used. Next sunday, or maybe the week after...
1 Every other household has a copy of the Da Vinci Code.
2 Said households are prepared to sell it for 50p or less.
3 Contrary to popular opinion, it is possible to get sunburnt in two hours in Nottinghamshire.
It made me remember just how many copies he sold. I think I once read 40 million worldwide. Though slated by many, Stephen Fry called it, "Arse gravy of the worst kind," I actually sort of enjoyed reading it. Not a classic definately, and the flashbacks to his lectures were more than cringeworthy. But I've read worse thrillers. I've read better ones too, but I've read worse ones. I suppose one measure of success, as a writer, is seeing a copy of your book for 50p at a car boot sale.
I bought a bike rack for the car too. Only a tenner. Bargain. Mrs Pie says It'll live in the shed along with all the other crap, but it won't. It's different this time. It will get used. Next sunday, or maybe the week after...
Monday, 4 July 2011
Inspector Cliche - chapter 2
Chapter two of the book I shouldn't yet be writing because I've got far too much editing, two already unfinished books and two or three short stories on the go. For now, it's called Inspector Cliche, but I'll give it a proper title in due course.
If you missed chapter one, it's here.
Chapter two
Britwell never looked forward to time in Chief Superintendent Wighton’s office. His over-indulgence in deodorant and the high heating setting always left him gagging. The seats weren’t comfortable either, shoddy plastic things that belonged on the beach or in a cheap garden set.
“Why didn’t you tell me we had a...” CS Wighton paused, as if lost in search for the correct word. “A person of non-specific gender in the cells. There’s very clear procedures you know. You haven’t interviewed him, or her, yet have you? Please say you haven’t interviewed him.” He shook his head.
“I thought, sir, that treating him, or her, any different to anyone else would be seen as discrimination of some sort to him,” said DS Walters. “Or her,” she added.
Britwell loved it when Walters got going. He’d taught her well. Too well, probably. It was like her mind had a natural response mechanism. Always the correct answer came out. Just a little bit of flippancy, but always with respect.
“Yes, yes.” Her comments had thrown him. “But, there are procedures for ensuring the non-discrimination is, urm, isn’t indiscriminate.”
Britwell nodded. “Long story short, sir, he’ll sing if we give him a new identity and a posh frock.”
The outrage grew so quick on his face time itself could have stopped while it was painted on. “How dare you, Inspector.”
“Sorry, sir. Really. I am. Just, you know.”
“This isn’t a laughing matter. You’ve probably opened us up to claims for discrimination and err, well everything. Walters, were you in on this?”
She tried to speak but Britwell spoke over her. “I led the interview sir, she was taking notes. Sorry, about the joke. I mean, It’s been a long night and you know, trying to keep morale up.”
He sat back in his comfy chair. His face still tomato-like, he sighed. “So he’s prepared to help?”
“As I said, sir, new identity, fresh start, he’ll help.”
Wighton nodded. “Any other witnesses?”
“Just the usual suspects, sir,” said Walters. “Some ladies of the night who suffer from temporary blindness when anything interesting happens and a few rent boys who’re too scared to even say their names.”
Wighton looked towards his pot plant in the corner of the room. Britwell had noticed before he always looked at it when thinking. Shame the thing was dead. It just looked like a few sticks in a vase. Whenever he thought of the plant, a joke half-formed in his head, but it just never seemed funny enough to use.
“Not sure we’ll get a conviction with just one person’s evidence. Defence will tear him to shreds. DNA?” He looked at Jill Wighton. That proved, in Britwell’s mind, that he had taught her too well.
“SOCO’s still at the scene, sir. We need to bring him in soon if we’re going to, before he disposes of all traces on himself.”
Britwell nodded. Barry Safford was as astute and cute as they came. He’d have already burnt his clothes, had a bath and sauna and most likely even torched his own car. He knew what he was doing. Britwell lost count of the times he’d tried to put him away. Teflon Baz he called him.
“Has er, he said it was him?”
Britwell shook his head. “Didn’t need saying, sir. He knew exactly who we were talking about. I reckon he could be good for more info too. It’s not the first time he’s been down there at night. Could give us enough ammo to really clean up West Street.”
Wighton shook his head. “I think there’s been enough guns and ammo tonight, don’t you?”
“Bad choice of phrase, sir.”
He nodded. “I’ll ring the Chief Super, you get a warrant for Mr Safford before he disposes of absolutely everything.”
Outside the office, Britwell wanted to shout, to scream. Years ago, he’d have put his arm round the shoulders of the DS that’d helped him. But, things were different now. An arm round the shoulder wasn’t acceptable. He’d forgotten once too. He still no idea how she’d got her leg up that high and round so quickly. Apparently it was called a roundhouse kick. His jaw throbbed whenever he thought about it.
“Well done, Walters.” He offered a hand for her to shake. “Let’s get ourselves a friendly magistrate.”
If you missed chapter one, it's here.
Chapter two
Britwell never looked forward to time in Chief Superintendent Wighton’s office. His over-indulgence in deodorant and the high heating setting always left him gagging. The seats weren’t comfortable either, shoddy plastic things that belonged on the beach or in a cheap garden set.
“Why didn’t you tell me we had a...” CS Wighton paused, as if lost in search for the correct word. “A person of non-specific gender in the cells. There’s very clear procedures you know. You haven’t interviewed him, or her, yet have you? Please say you haven’t interviewed him.” He shook his head.
“I thought, sir, that treating him, or her, any different to anyone else would be seen as discrimination of some sort to him,” said DS Walters. “Or her,” she added.
Britwell loved it when Walters got going. He’d taught her well. Too well, probably. It was like her mind had a natural response mechanism. Always the correct answer came out. Just a little bit of flippancy, but always with respect.
“Yes, yes.” Her comments had thrown him. “But, there are procedures for ensuring the non-discrimination is, urm, isn’t indiscriminate.”
Britwell nodded. “Long story short, sir, he’ll sing if we give him a new identity and a posh frock.”
The outrage grew so quick on his face time itself could have stopped while it was painted on. “How dare you, Inspector.”
“Sorry, sir. Really. I am. Just, you know.”
“This isn’t a laughing matter. You’ve probably opened us up to claims for discrimination and err, well everything. Walters, were you in on this?”
She tried to speak but Britwell spoke over her. “I led the interview sir, she was taking notes. Sorry, about the joke. I mean, It’s been a long night and you know, trying to keep morale up.”
He sat back in his comfy chair. His face still tomato-like, he sighed. “So he’s prepared to help?”
“As I said, sir, new identity, fresh start, he’ll help.”
Wighton nodded. “Any other witnesses?”
“Just the usual suspects, sir,” said Walters. “Some ladies of the night who suffer from temporary blindness when anything interesting happens and a few rent boys who’re too scared to even say their names.”
Wighton looked towards his pot plant in the corner of the room. Britwell had noticed before he always looked at it when thinking. Shame the thing was dead. It just looked like a few sticks in a vase. Whenever he thought of the plant, a joke half-formed in his head, but it just never seemed funny enough to use.
“Not sure we’ll get a conviction with just one person’s evidence. Defence will tear him to shreds. DNA?” He looked at Jill Wighton. That proved, in Britwell’s mind, that he had taught her too well.
“SOCO’s still at the scene, sir. We need to bring him in soon if we’re going to, before he disposes of all traces on himself.”
Britwell nodded. Barry Safford was as astute and cute as they came. He’d have already burnt his clothes, had a bath and sauna and most likely even torched his own car. He knew what he was doing. Britwell lost count of the times he’d tried to put him away. Teflon Baz he called him.
“Has er, he said it was him?”
Britwell shook his head. “Didn’t need saying, sir. He knew exactly who we were talking about. I reckon he could be good for more info too. It’s not the first time he’s been down there at night. Could give us enough ammo to really clean up West Street.”
Wighton shook his head. “I think there’s been enough guns and ammo tonight, don’t you?”
“Bad choice of phrase, sir.”
He nodded. “I’ll ring the Chief Super, you get a warrant for Mr Safford before he disposes of absolutely everything.”
Outside the office, Britwell wanted to shout, to scream. Years ago, he’d have put his arm round the shoulders of the DS that’d helped him. But, things were different now. An arm round the shoulder wasn’t acceptable. He’d forgotten once too. He still no idea how she’d got her leg up that high and round so quickly. Apparently it was called a roundhouse kick. His jaw throbbed whenever he thought about it.
“Well done, Walters.” He offered a hand for her to shake. “Let’s get ourselves a friendly magistrate.”
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
The first line
I've had this first line rattling around my head for a few weeks now.
“Do you know what they do to people like me inside?”
It's the next book. Not the one I'm writing now, not the other one that I'm submitting now and also, not the one I'm editing ready for possible self-publication. It's another one. The fourth book. It's also set to be DI Britwell's first full length outing.
I had another start to the book in mind since about Christmas, but this just kind of fits him better. The story's still formulating and taking shape, but as a first line, I like it.
This morning, while driving to work, the whole chapter took shape. Here it is. It's a bit raw and unedited and liable to change a million times, but, here it is.
“Do you know what they do to people like me inside?” he said.
DI Britwell nodded. Yeah he knew alright. He also yawned to show just how much he cared. He was scared, real scared, but not scared enough to sing yet.
“You better start talking then,” said DS Walters, “reckon we’ve got enough to put you down for six months so far.”
The man shook his head. Britwell watched his long hair sweep from side to side with the nod. He was what Britwell had always called a pretty boy. Smooth complexion, dainty nose, small adam’s apple. Of course the blonde wig, make up and summer dress made him prettier than most boys.
“I can help you, Bill,” said Britwell. “I know magistrates. If you help us, I’ll put in a good word. Reckon I could get you off with a suspended.” He looked at Walters. She nodded in agreement.
He shook his head again. “They’d kill me.”
“Wasting police time. Withholding evidence. Charge sheet’s getting bigger. Could get a year, what do you reckon, sir?”
Britwell nodded. “She’s right. You gotta help us, Bill. Who stabbed the young lad? Who was it? You know who it was, it’s obvious. It’s written all over your face.” Britwell looked again at his face. Blue eye shadow rolled into his green eyes. Heavy red lipstick accentuated his mouth. He should have shaved his moustache though. It just ruined the effect.
“I told you. I don’t know who it was. I saw the two of them get out of that car and one of them stabbed the kid. I panicked. Got in my car and drove.”
“And that was when you crashed into that car. They had to take the other driver to hospital, you know. That could be seen as attempted murder. We can prove you weren;t concentrating,” said Walters.
He shook his head. “She just came from nowhere.”
Britwell hoped he'd have cracked by now. He was made of sterner stuff than he’d thought. The man had just lost everything in an hour. Successful small businessman, good house and doting wife, yet he obviously needed more. Much more. Dressing as a woman and frequenting the red light district, looking for trade, was not how most Newspaper shop owners spent their Friday nights. This world took all sorts, thirty years on the force had taught him that.
Why this though? Britwell couldn’t get it. What drove a man to it. Sure, Britwell himself had a few odd tendencies, a few skeletons in his own closet. But that? Tranny or cross dresser or whatever the PC word for it was now? He couldn’t see it.
“Those boys in E wing’ll pass you around like currency,” said Britwell. He noticed Walters’ disgusted look. She was the bad cop, he the good. He’d forgotten again. He regretted letting her be the baddie. It just felt natural to be bad. Helping was so hard. Especially if you didn’t understand who you were helping.
“I’m told a lot of accidents happen in the showers,” said Wighton. Britwell thought she was trying to outdo his badness. She was winning too.
He played his trump card. “Of course, it might be possible to get you protection. New identity. Surgery.” Britwell pointed at the paper-stuffed bra sitting awkwardly on his chest. “You must see a lot hanging round there. We think we know who it was. But, we need help. Given that help, we could make the streets clean so that g...” He’d no idea whether to say guys or girls. “People like you can do what you do. We need a name. You get a new life. Think about it.”
Bill dropped his eyes to the table, staring at the half full ashtray. He was definitely thinking about it. Britwell reckoned he’d played his card bang on time. It was almost too perfect. The start of a new life awaited. He could be whoever, and whatever, he wanted to. All he had to do was turn snitch. Just one name for freedom.
“I want it in writing,” he said.
“Good lad,” said Britwell. He stood and made for the door. “Need to speak to the Chief Constable. Just a formality, you know.”
Jill stood and followed him. “By the way, that eye shadow with red lipstick.” She shook her head.
“Really.” He turned and looked at the mirrored two way glass panel, a frown growing on his forehead.
“Go for a pastel or light colour,” she said leaving the room.
“Do you know what they do to people like me inside?”
It's the next book. Not the one I'm writing now, not the other one that I'm submitting now and also, not the one I'm editing ready for possible self-publication. It's another one. The fourth book. It's also set to be DI Britwell's first full length outing.
I had another start to the book in mind since about Christmas, but this just kind of fits him better. The story's still formulating and taking shape, but as a first line, I like it.
This morning, while driving to work, the whole chapter took shape. Here it is. It's a bit raw and unedited and liable to change a million times, but, here it is.
“Do you know what they do to people like me inside?” he said.
DI Britwell nodded. Yeah he knew alright. He also yawned to show just how much he cared. He was scared, real scared, but not scared enough to sing yet.
“You better start talking then,” said DS Walters, “reckon we’ve got enough to put you down for six months so far.”
The man shook his head. Britwell watched his long hair sweep from side to side with the nod. He was what Britwell had always called a pretty boy. Smooth complexion, dainty nose, small adam’s apple. Of course the blonde wig, make up and summer dress made him prettier than most boys.
“I can help you, Bill,” said Britwell. “I know magistrates. If you help us, I’ll put in a good word. Reckon I could get you off with a suspended.” He looked at Walters. She nodded in agreement.
He shook his head again. “They’d kill me.”
“Wasting police time. Withholding evidence. Charge sheet’s getting bigger. Could get a year, what do you reckon, sir?”
Britwell nodded. “She’s right. You gotta help us, Bill. Who stabbed the young lad? Who was it? You know who it was, it’s obvious. It’s written all over your face.” Britwell looked again at his face. Blue eye shadow rolled into his green eyes. Heavy red lipstick accentuated his mouth. He should have shaved his moustache though. It just ruined the effect.
“I told you. I don’t know who it was. I saw the two of them get out of that car and one of them stabbed the kid. I panicked. Got in my car and drove.”
“And that was when you crashed into that car. They had to take the other driver to hospital, you know. That could be seen as attempted murder. We can prove you weren;t concentrating,” said Walters.
He shook his head. “She just came from nowhere.”
Britwell hoped he'd have cracked by now. He was made of sterner stuff than he’d thought. The man had just lost everything in an hour. Successful small businessman, good house and doting wife, yet he obviously needed more. Much more. Dressing as a woman and frequenting the red light district, looking for trade, was not how most Newspaper shop owners spent their Friday nights. This world took all sorts, thirty years on the force had taught him that.
Why this though? Britwell couldn’t get it. What drove a man to it. Sure, Britwell himself had a few odd tendencies, a few skeletons in his own closet. But that? Tranny or cross dresser or whatever the PC word for it was now? He couldn’t see it.
“Those boys in E wing’ll pass you around like currency,” said Britwell. He noticed Walters’ disgusted look. She was the bad cop, he the good. He’d forgotten again. He regretted letting her be the baddie. It just felt natural to be bad. Helping was so hard. Especially if you didn’t understand who you were helping.
“I’m told a lot of accidents happen in the showers,” said Wighton. Britwell thought she was trying to outdo his badness. She was winning too.
He played his trump card. “Of course, it might be possible to get you protection. New identity. Surgery.” Britwell pointed at the paper-stuffed bra sitting awkwardly on his chest. “You must see a lot hanging round there. We think we know who it was. But, we need help. Given that help, we could make the streets clean so that g...” He’d no idea whether to say guys or girls. “People like you can do what you do. We need a name. You get a new life. Think about it.”
Bill dropped his eyes to the table, staring at the half full ashtray. He was definitely thinking about it. Britwell reckoned he’d played his card bang on time. It was almost too perfect. The start of a new life awaited. He could be whoever, and whatever, he wanted to. All he had to do was turn snitch. Just one name for freedom.
“I want it in writing,” he said.
“Good lad,” said Britwell. He stood and made for the door. “Need to speak to the Chief Constable. Just a formality, you know.”
Jill stood and followed him. “By the way, that eye shadow with red lipstick.” She shook her head.
“Really.” He turned and looked at the mirrored two way glass panel, a frown growing on his forehead.
“Go for a pastel or light colour,” she said leaving the room.
Friday, 10 June 2011
Are we nearly there yet?
The only better thing than flash fiction on a friday is the seaside. I wrote this one for a little comp that Do Some Damage has got running.
Are we nearly there yet?
The world just ain’t the same anymore.
I took the wife and kids down to Margate for the day. We got up early, packed up the car at seven in the morning. The nippers were well excited. Beaming little faces. Seaside for the day. A real treat. Don’t forget the bucket an spade, dad, they said.
The drive took two hours. Road’s were busy. Scorching day too, hottest of the year, the radio said. Kids got restless in the back, Are we nearly there yet, they kept saying.
We finally got there, parked in the multi-storey and spent the day on the beach. Kids built sandcastles, played in the sea, dug great big holes in the sand and ate ice creams. The works. The full works. The wife read a book, while I just sat there, in me deckchair, taking it all in. All those happy, smiling kids. They just love the sea, don’t they?
But the world ain’t the same anymore.
I nipped back to the car to check I’d put enough money in the meter. As I got near, I saw some young scally by the passenger door. He was looking through the window, coat hanger in his hand ready to pop the lock.
I sneaked round another car, he hadn’t seen or heard me. I could feel my muscles tensing. My blood was pumping fast. I knew what was coming next. Me eyes seemed to lose focus. Red mist was descending.
The mist slowly faded.
I opened the boot of my car and picked up the lifeless, bloody lump of scally on the ground and chucked him inside. I covered him up with that old travel blanket and used some of the wife’s wet wipes to clean the blood off my hands. My own knuckles were cut, busted open, his blood had mixed in with mine.
This country’s gone right downhill. Can’t even leave your car in a car park nowadays. No where’s safe, is it? Never used to be like this. I blame the teachers. A good clip round the ear never hurt no one. Nowadays, they get away with everything.
Kids loved that day at the seaside. We went on the roller coaster then had fish and chips. Best day ever, they’d said. They slept all the way home, too. Probably just as well. The smell from the boot was just starting to leak into the car as we got back.
Are we nearly there yet?
The world just ain’t the same anymore.
I took the wife and kids down to Margate for the day. We got up early, packed up the car at seven in the morning. The nippers were well excited. Beaming little faces. Seaside for the day. A real treat. Don’t forget the bucket an spade, dad, they said.
The drive took two hours. Road’s were busy. Scorching day too, hottest of the year, the radio said. Kids got restless in the back, Are we nearly there yet, they kept saying.
We finally got there, parked in the multi-storey and spent the day on the beach. Kids built sandcastles, played in the sea, dug great big holes in the sand and ate ice creams. The works. The full works. The wife read a book, while I just sat there, in me deckchair, taking it all in. All those happy, smiling kids. They just love the sea, don’t they?
But the world ain’t the same anymore.
I nipped back to the car to check I’d put enough money in the meter. As I got near, I saw some young scally by the passenger door. He was looking through the window, coat hanger in his hand ready to pop the lock.
I sneaked round another car, he hadn’t seen or heard me. I could feel my muscles tensing. My blood was pumping fast. I knew what was coming next. Me eyes seemed to lose focus. Red mist was descending.
The mist slowly faded.
I opened the boot of my car and picked up the lifeless, bloody lump of scally on the ground and chucked him inside. I covered him up with that old travel blanket and used some of the wife’s wet wipes to clean the blood off my hands. My own knuckles were cut, busted open, his blood had mixed in with mine.
This country’s gone right downhill. Can’t even leave your car in a car park nowadays. No where’s safe, is it? Never used to be like this. I blame the teachers. A good clip round the ear never hurt no one. Nowadays, they get away with everything.
Kids loved that day at the seaside. We went on the roller coaster then had fish and chips. Best day ever, they’d said. They slept all the way home, too. Probably just as well. The smell from the boot was just starting to leak into the car as we got back.