Wednesday 7 November 2012

Output hiatus

Due to a combination of work pressure and imminent foreign travel there will be a pause in the output of flash fiction. BUT, as that great cultural icon, Arnie, put it, "I'll be back..."

Thursday 1 November 2012

Flash Fiction Friday, Cycle 102

Click here for the brief.


L’APPARITION

It was a strange coincidence that I should get a phone call from my old friend, Chief Inspector Pierre Vincennes, just as I finished digesting the terms of this week's Flash Fiction Friday challenge. I explained to Pierre how tough it was going to be to make the keywords - murder, bedchamber, rack, clock, wine, time - fit the story. His response took me completely by surprise.

Pierre told me how the brief reminded him of a case he was working on. After giving me the bare bones he confirmed he had just filed a report with his superiors and asked me if I wanted to read it. Curiosity pricked, I said 'Yes' and 15 minutes later the following arrived as an email attachment.

[The copy I share with you has had a number of personal details either changed or redacted out of consideration for the relatives of the victims and, of course, it is translated from the original French.]

POLICE REPORT
OCT 31, 2012
Officer in the case (OIC): Ch Insp P Vincennes

Sir,

This report concerns my attendance at the scene of a fatal Road Traffic Collision (RTC) as OIC at [location details redacted].

On arrival I found there were numerous members of the different emergency services already in attendance. In accordance with protocol I took command and required the police officer who was first on scene to brief me.

It was explained that the incident involved a single car which had come to rest after a severe frontal impact with a tree. The car was still in situ. The female driver had been confirmed dead by the first paramedic to arrive. Her body, crushed between the steering wheel and the seat, had not been removed.

A female front seat passenger was also still in the car. She was trapped between her seat and the deformed dashboard. A doctor had examined her and expressed the opinion that, although she was alive and conscious, there was no hope of releasing her from the car without causing her death. There was some internal bleeding but a substantial arterial rupture that had been observed through an open wound in her abdomen was being staunched by considerable pressure exerted by the dashboard. The opinion I received was that should the pressure be released for any reason the bleeding from the rupture would be catastrophic, unstoppable and inevitably fatal. The position of the passenger and the extent of other injuries ruled out any possibility of temporary corrective surgery or the application of some form of tourniquet.

I approached the car and spoke to the passenger through the open door window. I established that she was fully aware of the situation and stressed to her the importance of obtaining an account with regard to the RTC circumstances. The following statement was supplied by the witness.

I am Sophie [surname, date of birth and address]. My partner, Claudette [surname, date of birth and address], was driving us to a party. Neither of us had consumed alcohol before departure. The forest road was dark but visibility was good and the volume of traffic light.

As we came round a bend we both saw the silhouette of a figure that had human form on our side of the carriageway but floating about 1.5 to 2 metres above it. I recall Claudette screamed and then the car veered violently as if she had swerved to avoid it. The car left the road and the next thing I can remember is coming round after what was obviously an impact with a tree.

Claudette is a respected physicist working at CERN, the home of the Large Hadron Collider. She stays in Geneva during the week, returning to me in Paris at weekends and other times when she is not working.


I wish to put on record, before it is too late, that I have been wrong to question, as I have over the last several weeks, the sanity of some of the views expressed by Claudette. She has explained to me how she believes that an experiment she has been working on has had the unexpected side effect of causing a rift in the fabric of space-time and allowing entities from another universe to enter our own. Claudette has experienced several apparitions that, for reasons she has been unable to rationalise, she has found to be extremely intimidating. Initially, they were confined to the vicinity of the lab. More recently they have followed her home.

Having not witnessed any of the apparitions myself I tried to be concerned and sympathetic but to my shame I was dismissive of the possibility the phenomenon was real. What I thought was delusional behaviour I put down to the stress of Claudette's job. I now realise it was all genuine.

At this point the witness weakened and passed into unconsciousness. A further medical examination was undertaken and approximately 30 minutes later she was certified dead by the doctor.

I remained on scene until the bodies and car had been cleared and all other members of the emergency services had departed. I decided to take a last look at the point of impact with the tree.

Having completed my examination I then turned to go back to my vehicle. At this point I noticed a dark humanoid figure levitating about 2 metres above the highway. I pointed my police issue torch at what I can only describe as the apparition. It promptly disappeared.

Wednesday 24 October 2012

Flash Fiction Friday: A Little R and R - the final chapter

I hope nobody minds this digression away from the brief suggested by Michael Juzwik this week. Going back to FFF Cycle 95 the challenge set by Michael's grandmother, Joyce (J.F. Juzwik), led to an impromptu collaboration with the latter contributing the most recent episode in the guise of Chapter 4. My FFF effort this week is in the form of the fifth and final chapter (apologies, Michael, for not having the time to do something underground as well).

So, if you haven't been following the series and have a little extra time to spare please use the links below to access the earlier chapters and enjoy our 'novella'.


A LITTLE R AND R

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4


Chapter 5


Teddy Cornmow picked up after the third ring. I had decided George's voicemail message could wait. The priority was to get the ball rolling and unravel this mess.

I kept the pleasantries to a minimum. Teddy is astute and it didn't take him long to realise I was seriously worried. I gave him the bullet points of the story so far. My old associate had just got started on the obvious questions when there was a sudden bang from the direction of the boat house. I swivelled round to see the door rebounding back off the wall after being thrown open. Clearly, the building was not as deserted as I had led myself to believe.

The double barrels of a shotgun were pointed in my direction. Holding the firearm was a female. I recognised the face from the photos in George's cabin. The cell was still in my right hand as I raised my arms.

"Janine, I presume?" I asked while glancing involuntarily to where I had propped George's gun against a mooring bollard.

"Don't give it another thought. I see you as much as flinch and you're getting both barrels."

I froze.

"Good boy. Now we're going to take this nice and easy. No sudden moves. We'll be going on a little voyage together in that yacht but first I need to make you nice and secure."

Janine took a couple of paces forward and said, "Ok, keep your hands up and turn so that you're facing away from me. Good. Now throw the cell into the water."

As the phone disappeared I hoped Teddy had picked up enough of the gist to understand what was happening. It looked as though I would never know what the message was from George.

Next I felt the barrels of what I assumed to be the shotgun press up against the back of my head. Janine told me to bring my arms down slowly and cross my hands behind my back. As I did so she deftly slipped a plastic cable tie over my wrists and tightened it.

On board the yacht Janine sat me down in the cockpit. Keeping one eye and the gun trained on me she cast off fore and aft. She then produced an ignition key and started the yacht's engine. I got the impression she had done this before.

In silence Janine manoeuvred the boat away from the jetty then pointed it between the red and green buoys forming a channel out of the inlet. As we exited into open water the chill wind returned. I couldn't quite determine whether it was this or my situation that sent the shiver down my spine.

"So it's going to be a double burial at sea then, Janine?" I asked. "Presumably, Danny and I will be keeping each other company in the briny at some point?"

"Not while you have some value to me." Janine said. There was a glimmer of hope in this comment but I didn't place a lot of faith in any possibility that she intended seeing me live to tell this one to the grandchildren. Janine didn't deny knowing that the recently deceased Danny was taking up bunk space down below.

"What possible value could I be to you?" I asked. It seemed like I'd nothing to lose by testing the water and seeing how far Janine was prepared to let me swim.

"Well, let me explain it like this. I've only started to realise over the last 24 hours just how much of a slime ball George is but both you and me are going to take a gamble that even he will not want to see his little brother joining Tommy and Danny on the roll call of the recently deceased. I'm hoping there are two things on this boat he is willing to pay a million bucks for - a large quantity of cocaine and you, Frank."

Janine pointed the nose of the yacht into the wind and dropped the engine revs so that it was standing virtually still in the swell. She reached into her jacket and pulled out a cell.

"George, it's Janine ... Just shut up and listen. I'm on the yacht and I think you will be interested in the passenger manifest. Danny is down below with a chest full of lead and getting stiffer by the minute, the packages are in the forward locker and, get this, Frank is enjoying the cruise despite being trussed up like a turkey at Christmas ... What do I want? Well if you'll shut up I'll tell you. That mil you think is stashed for a rainy day will sort everything out nicely ... Yeah, that's right; I saw the statements in those nice neat folders last night after I took care of Slick ... Danny? Well I didn't like his attitude when I got to the yacht and challenged him about why he was intent on casting off with the cargo by himself. Listen, you've got my account details. I will check via my banking app in 30 minutes whether a nice fat one million transfer has appeared and call you back." With that Janine hung up and pocketed the cell. She gunned the yacht's engine and set the auto-pilot to due south.

"I'm no Sherlock, Janine," I said, "But it sounds like the little gang is falling apart. I'm assuming you righteous officers of the law got together when you saw an opportunity to turn a profit on some cocaine but the boys have been shafting you, possibly in both senses of the phrase."

"First off, Frank darling, the only shafting I've experienced at the hands of either of those faggots is of the financial variety. If you weren't aware of Georgie-boy's proclivities it's time for a reality check. He and Danny have been an item for a long time. Danny is a little more prone to swinging both ways and when he started to show some interest in me George saw the green-eyed hobgoblin. Could explain why your brother has been only too willing to do me out of what is rightfully mine."

"So, Janine, I'm dying to know. What happened after the phone conversation I overheard between you and Danny during the storm?"

"I already had my suspicions about the possibility George and Danny had been skimming the cream off and that they were about to cut me and the others out altogether. We had berthed the yacht and taken a package up to the cabin to show a buyer. The deal wasn't going to go down for another week. Then I get this crazy call from Danny who was in a total panic because George had told him you were having the cabin for a vacation. Danny wouldn't have it from either me or George that you would be none the wiser if left alone.

"I decided to follow Danny. George called me when I landed on the island. I suppose he decided to follow me. Danny had picked up Slick and ensconced him in the cabin down the track to post sentry on the access route. When Slick told me he couldn't let me continue on to George's cabin I knew then that this was because it was a perfect opportunity for the drugs and the money to be made to disappear. I took out Slick and made it look like a professional hit to put the mounties off my scent.

"By the time I got to George's cabin there was no sign of you, Danny or the package of cocaine. George's bank statements confirmed that money had been hidden from me. I knew that Danny must have made for the yacht and the rest of the stock. When I found him on board he tried to lie his way out of it but things turned ugly and you know how it ended up.

"Because of the stupidity of those two losers there is no way I can go back to my job. George's money is the only way that I can get myself set up."

"Where are you heading, Janine? I asked.

"I'm sure you've realised I'm heading south. So long as George does nothing stupid I'll be in the States in a few hours with a healthy bank balance."

I looked away from Janine and out to sea. She had kept me alive so far but only because I was a card she could make use of in the game she was playing with George. Janine had confessed to two murders. She was perfectly capable of disposing of me as well. What were my chances when either the money showed up in her bank account or George made it plain that his sibling sympathies had their limits?

Whatever Janine's decision in relation to me, there was also the bigger picture. It was plain from the words and actions of the Coast Guard visitors to the yacht that there were others involved. Janine had just made herself their target. I could easily become collateral damage in any war she had started.

It was at this point in my musings that I realised I could have made a big mistake by contacting Teddy. My heart sank as it dawned on me it was almost inevitable that, by now, he would have alerted the authorities. What if, inadvertently, he had spoken directly to the guys who were involved or, as the search teams were dispatched, they got wind of what was happening?

Janine had put the yacht into the wind once again so that she could hoist the sails. I was still seated in the cockpit while she went on deck to winch the mainsail into position. There was a lithe confidence and strength to her as she busied herself with the boom and the sheets.

Back in the cockpit Janine released the jib. With the yacht still pointed into the wind both sails just flapped ineffectually. Janine turned the wheel to return to a southerly tack. As the yacht turned on its axis the stiff breeze swiftly filled the sails and the boat heeled over.

For a moment Janine was off balance. As she tried to recover her stance I took my opportunity and lunged at her. My hands were still tied behind my back but I shoulder barged her as hard as I could towards the rail on the downward side of the boat. Janine lost her grip on the wheel and, screaming, she half-cartwheeled out of the cockpit into the water. My momentum carried me on to the console by the side of the wheel. Dragging myself downwards I was able to pull on the throttle with my chest and open the engine up.

Under sail and full revs the yacht quickly pulled away from Janine. She was not wearing a life jacket or dry suit. In these cold northern waters it was unlikely she would last more than a few minutes.

As Janine became little more than a dot bobbing around in the swell I realised I had some answers but there were now new questions to ask. George had a few too many secrets for me to ever trust him again but had he paid Janine's ransom or written me off as a lost asset? Were his corrupt colleagues now in the hunt for me? Should I make a clean breast of it with the authorities and endeavour to get myself off the hook for Janine's death or start a new life by finding a market for the boat and the stash down below? And, oh yes, there was one other very pressing query.

How the hell do you sail an ocean going yacht with your hands tied behind your back?

Wednesday 17 October 2012

A Little R and R, Chapter 4

At the hands of J.F. Juzwik Frank's vacation just keeps getting worse. Chapter 4 of a A LITTLE R AND R is now available on her blog. Click the links below for chapters 1 - 3.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Joyce is a great sport for keeping this going despite being so busy with all her other writing projects. I will try to ensure chapter 5 is posted by 28 October.



Tuesday 16 October 2012

Flash Fiction Friday, Cycle 100

The next "high-falootin, rootin tootin" challenge from Flash Fiction Friday is holed up here. Ride 'em cowboy!





WILD WEST HERO

It was as if Dan had always part-existed in another universe populated by caricatures from the black and white westerns he had watched whenever he could as a boy. He was the first to admit that he lived in a fantasy world of rattlesnakes, six-shooters, gold rush miners, outpost madams, blond haired kids called Dusty who said 'aw shucks' and, of course, sheriffs.

Wish I was, yeah, a wild west hero.

PC Dan Brocklehurst closed his eyes as the first line of his all time favourite ELO track, Wild West Hero, played through the iPhone ear plugs. A cool breeze brushed his cheek. He found himself transported, as was his habit, from the run down housing estate in the small Lancashire town that was his beat to somewhere he saw in broad brush relief as being the 'big country'.

Sometimes I look up high and then I think there might
just be a better life.
Away from all we know, that's where I wanna go,
out on the wild side
and I wish I was, o-oo-o-oh, a wild west hero.


Dan knew his days in the 'job' were now numbered. They had sent him out on patrol this morning because of staff shortages but, deep down, he realised there was no way back. He looked at the text message again. His sergeant wanted him back at the station by 3.00pm to '...meet with the brass.' Suspension pending a disciplinary investigation was the least he could expect. Criminal charges seemed likely.

Ride the range all the day till the first fading light,
be with my western girl round the fire, oh, so bright.
I'd be the Indians' friend, let them live to be free,
ridin' into the sunset, I wish I could be.


It had happened the same day as the meeting with the Neighbourhood Watch management committee. PC Brocklehurst had been required to attend in his role as community liaison officer.

He listened to the complaints that nothing was being done about a gang of teenage drug dealers who were making life hell for everyone on the estate. The committee knew that most of the inhabitants were too frightened to give evidence. They just wanted the police to get tough by any means. Dan knew what the legal limits on action were and tried to share the constraints placed on the police with his audience. The bitter cynicism embodied in the responses was plain to all.

I'd ride the desert sands and through the prairie lands,
try'n to do what's right.
The folks would come to me, they'd say, we need you here.
I'd stay there for the night.
Oh, I wish I was, o-oo-o-oh, a wild west hero.


After the meeting Dan took a walk through the municipal park adjacent to the community centre. It would do no harm to be seen taking an interest by not returning to the station in the comfort of a patrol car.

As it turned out there wasn't a soul in sight until PC Brocklehurst arrived at the children's play area. Dan immediately recognised one of his targets. Shaylon McCalla - 17, mixed race, tall and painfully thin - was surrounded by a small group of younger kids. It was obvious what was going on. McCalla was a known dealer and skunk cannabis would be the drug of choice among this age group.

One of the young kids looked towards Dan and said something. All apart from McCalla ran off. Shaylon stood his ground, a grin spreading from ear to ear.

"Wassup policeman officer Danny-boy?" rapped McCalla as Dan stepped up close and personal to him.

"Wassup, Shaylon? Wassup! Wassup is you dealing drugs to those kids."

"No I ain't and anyways you can't prove nothing. I ain't got nothing on me and those bruvvers ain't goin' to grass. Shit, you're a dick head Brocklehurst. You ain't fuckin' with me on my manor."

What happened next was very quick. A single forearm smash delivered by the police officer to the youth's face and the latter was on his back with his arm bent at a hideous angle having crashed into the seesaw on the way down.

Ride the range all the day till the first fading light,
be with my western girl round the fire, oh, so bright.
I'd be the Indians friend, let them live to be free,
ridin' into the sunset, I wish I could be.


That was it. In an ill-judged flash of temper a career was over. Dan knew the drill. He had infringed Shaylon McCalla's human rights. Dan had assaulted him and caused, as the court would phrase it, grievous bodily harm. The constabulary would not tolerate a loose cannon who could not be trusted to control himself.

Oh, I wish I was, o-oo-o-oh, a wild west hero.
Oh, I wish I was, o-oo-o-oh, a wild west hero.
Oh, I wish I was, o-oo-o-oh, a wild west hero.
Oh, I wish I was, o-oo-o-oh, a wild west hero.
Wish I was, o-o-oo-o-o-o-oo, a wild west hero.


As the music faded the taunts penetrated. Dan looked round to see TJ Simpson, one of Shaylon McCalla's crew, shouting at him from across the street. He was making gun signs with both hands.

"Oi copper, you is goin' down. That's right, goin' down blue. If you don't do time me and my boys is going to plug you anyway."

Dan said nothing. A set of brakes squealed as he sprinted across the road.

---

PC Dan Brocklehurst looked down at the body on the floor. He took in the widening pool of blood that poured from Simpson's gaping head wound. Dan slowly lifted the tip of his ASP tactical baton towards his lips and blew as if smoke was wafting from the end. As he holstered the baton Dan touched the brim of his cap.

"Adios, amigo."




If y'all enjoyed the yarn, why not drop in for a hoedown with the boys from ELO?

Wednesday 10 October 2012

Flash Fiction Friday, Cycle 99

This week's brief can be found here.


THE END

They have made me wait so long for my moment. No matter, I am centre stage now. I will make the most of being in the spotlight at last.

---

From a Staff Reporter

October 10, 2012
Huntsville, Texas

A Texas man convicted of eleven murders, all characterised by sadistic cannibalism, was put to death Wednesday. Yet another prisoner to be executed in America's most active capital punishment state, Tyrone Gardener is said to have modelled himself on fictional serial killer Hannibal Lecter.

As usual, the prison at Huntsville was the scene of protests by anti-death penalty activists in the run up to the 6.00pm execution time. A number of family members of the victims were permitted into the Death House within the so called 'Walls Unit' to witness Gardener being put to death by a single injection of pentobarbital.

Asked by the warden if he wanted to make a statement, Gardener said, "I do not believe in a heaven or a hell. My self-awareness is about to cease but the families of those I have touched will continue to be tortured by memories of the suffering I inflicted. I offer them no comfort about how their delicious loved ones died or false sentiments of regret. I welcome the dark nothingness to come. I am ready."

---

I wake.

The smell of brimstone overpowers. Heat sears my eyes. I cannot close them.

The pain in my stretched eyelids is overwhelming. I have no limbs, no body. I am just a head. It is suspended above a roiling cauldron. The relentless burning melts flesh that is replaced and melts again, over and over in endless agony.

Where is the oblivion I craved before my execution?







Saturday 29 September 2012

A Little R and R, Chapter 3

The experimental collaboration with J.F. Juzwick continues in this post with chapter 3 of A Little R and R. To read chapters 1 and 2 click the links below.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2


A LITTLE R AND R

CHAPTER 3

I could hardly believe that I was more or less back where I started. Alone, isolated and with just George's shot gun for company the cabin did not feel like a great place to be.

On the plus side the storm had passed and George's SUV had made quick work of clearing the fallen tree off the track during the journey back from the scene of Slick's demise. Lifting up the telephone handset and immediately hearing the tone confirmed that service had been resumed. However, my sorry looking drowned cell remained inoperable.

I stood outside the cabin's front door and took in the surroundings. A blustery wind made me shiver as I looked through the break in the trees where the track entered the clearing. In the far distance beyond an expanse of pine forest I could see down to the coast, the straits and the mainland beyond. The ferry, a distant toy boat surrounded by waves capped with white horses, was sailing away from Snug Cove. Beyond the ferry I could see another vessel, perhaps something military, on a different course but it was too far away to make out any meaningful detail.

Although the sky had cleared to reveal a cloudless blue I was in shade and quickly driven back indoors by the cold. I found myself drawn to the utility room off the kitchen. The loose panel in the ceiling looked the same as I had left it. Once again two fingers easily prised it free. This time, however, there was no package taped to the rafter.

I sat down in the swivel chair by George's desk. It wasn't yet midday but I decided not to be precious about whether it was too early to help myself to the Jack Daniels.

Had I imagined the bizarre phone conversation? Did the cocaine really exist? I was beginning to feel like the previous night was all a bad dream. The sequence of events played out in my mind like a film. "Come on Frank, pull yourself together," I said out loud. It was all real and I knew I was in serious danger. Whether George was involved or not someone had killed Slick. Whatever it was the petty thief had known it would be safe to assume the killer would not want to take any chances on me knowing too much as well.

There seemed to be just two logical possibilities in relation to the whereabouts of the coke. Either the killer had made it to the cabin and recovered it while my brother and I were busy with the police or George had sneaked it out in front of me. As I mulled this over I opened a desk drawer. I wasn't looking for anything in particular but it felt like I needed to get to know George a little better. There, in a neat row, was a series of ring binder folders. Identical, they each had the imprint of the Bank of Montreal on the spine. I guessed they contained statements. Why did he keep them at his vacation retreat? If I knew George half as well as I thought I did the most recent would be the furthest to the right. Sure enough, on turning to the last page I found the latest balance in a savings account. It was in excess of a million Canadian dollars. Not bad for a career civil servant. Perhaps I didn't know my brother at all.

On the wall above the desk were a number of photos. They were mostly of yachts. George has a big thing for messing about on the water. Off towards one side at the top was a picture that grabbed my attention. It appeared to be of a hunting party. All told there were a dozen people in the shot. A little separate to the main group three people stood together. The two guys were recognisably George and Danny. The third was a woman. She was about the same age as George and good looking. Could this be Janine? She and Danny were facing the camera. George was staring at her.

Further along the wall there was another small picture. This one had just the three of them together, all smiling at the camera. George and Danny were dressed in their Coastguard gear. The female was in the uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

The desktop was tidy, just as you would expect with George. Lined up at the back were some neatly labelled box files. I opened the one marked 'Maps'. It was immediately apparent George kept a comprehensive selection covering British Columbia. Spreading a topographical chart of Bowen Island on the desk I studied my location. I was grateful to George for marking his own cabin with a highlighter. Using the same pen he had also traced a meandering path down through the woods from the cabin to the coast. It went in more or less the opposite direction to Snug Cove and seemed to terminate at a small inlet about five miles away. The presence of a jetty was marked. I couldn't rationalise why but I felt my PI's radar pointing in that direction.

My thoughts turned back to the killer. If he had made a mistake when hitting Slick he would quickly realise. I knew I was a sitting duck at the cabin. If I had to be a target I preferred to be of the moving variety. Time, I decided, to get some kit together and make another move.

I didn't want to get lost in the woods again. The vehicular access track was the only way back to the ferry terminal. It would be easy for someone to lie in wait in the trees and pick me off somewhere between the cabin and Snug Cove. The only other option was the path to the inlet. I decided to take the gamble that the killer was working alone and would not risk me getting away via the main track because he was covering that path.

Two hours or so later I was at sea level and approaching the inlet. The walk downhill from the cabin had been uneventful. I might even have felt it had been a pleasure but for fretting about George. Inexorably, I was running out of excuses or innocent explanations as to why he had become embroiled in something that was both big and very wrong.

In the lee of the hillside the inlet was sheltered from the bitter wind. As I emerged from the trees the view was initially obscured by a large boat house. As the angle changed I could see the jetty jutting out into the dappled water. There was a yacht moored on the landward side. I'm no expert but I estimated it must have been at least 30 feet long and looked both new and expensive. This was unexpected. Taking the shot gun off my shoulder I approached cautiously.

The boat house was locked up. I looked through a dusty window. From the little light that penetrated it seemed there was no sign of life.

I carried on down the jetty to where the yacht was moored. There was no indication that anyone was aboard. I stepped over the safety wire and on to the deck. Having clambered down into the cockpit I then tried the door to the saloon. It was unlocked. Inside I flipped a light switch. The 12 volts circuit was working. A charged leisure battery meant the yacht had seen recent use but, I surmised, surely not during the storm.

This could be my means to slip away from Bowen Island unseen but first, I decided, I needed to check it out thoroughly. I went to the forward cabin. The two bunks in the bow were covered by a mess of sails. Whoever had berthed the boat had seemingly dropped them down through the deck hatch and not bothered to put them away. I pulled the sails into the saloon and lifted the cushions off one of the bunks. In the stowage underneath there were a dozen football sized packages. The similarity to the one I had found secreted in the cabin was striking. I had no doubt about what they must contain.

There had been no real attempt to conceal the cocaine on the yacht. The person who put them there was not expecting the attention of the authorities. If George was involved with the transportation of cocaine did he see himself as having some kind of immunity from the police or Coastguard when at sea? How could my own brother have access to an expensive boat without me knowing about it? Probably, I thought, for the same reason I was not aware of his millionaire status.

Were there more drugs on board? I searched the storage in the saloon. There was nothing out of the ordinary. I ducked down into the low corridor that passed under the cockpit and made my way into the aft cabin. In the dim natural light entering through two small portholes I could see there was a double bunk with a pile of bedding on it.

I flicked the light on. There was more than just untidy bedding. A body was stretched out diagonally across the large bunk and partially concealed by a duvet. The face wasn't visible because the head was pitched back over the edge furthest from me. With deepening foreboding I moved round the perimeter of the bunk. As the angle changed I could see the chest and abdomen were a complete mess. It looked like both barrels of a shotgun had been discharged at close quarters. I carried on to where I could see the head. My recognition of the face was certain. It was Danny.

Back out on deck I strove to keep it together as I gasped in the fresh air. I thought I was going to be sick and held on to a railing as I looked down at the water. The distinctive thrum of a powerful diesel engine penetrated my consciousness. I turned my head and saw a Coastguard cutter rounding the entrance to the inlet.

My first thought was that George may be on board. I then realised that if he wasn't my situation did not look so great. I was standing on the deck of a yacht containing a large quantity of cocaine and a dead Coast Guard officer. Bearing in mind the nature of Danny's wounds, George's shot gun suddenly felt very heavy.



Thursday 27 September 2012

Flash Fiction Friday, Cycle 97

This week's challenge from Flannery Alden:-



Gray and Gold, by John Rogers Cox

"This week’s prompt is my favorite painting, that you can see at the top. It lives at the Cleveland Museum of Art, tucked off to the side of the modern art section, near the coat racks. Every time I go there, I seek it out and ponder it longer than anything else there. It’s captivating to me and suggests so many possibilities.

I’d like you to use it as an inspiration for a story and I’d like your story to feature this particular crossroads as a setting. Are you meeting someone? The devil, perhaps? Have you been walking aimlessly down a country lane and found yourself here, not sure which way to go?

Take a few moments. Absorb the scene and then decide to go down the write path."


HOMECOMING

As the plane touched down at Cleveland-Hopkins 15 years suddenly felt like a long time to have been away. I had got on with a busy life. Time had passed at a pace I hardly noticed in the hurly-burly but coming back home for the first time after such an interval put things into perspective.

Aunt Clara allowed the tears to flow freely down her cheeks when she smothered me in a huge embrace at the arrivals exit. "Goddammit, I wasn't going to cry," Clara said as she dabbed her eyes. Uncle Josh gave me a firm handshake and looked embarrassed as he shuffled from foot to foot. Perhaps this first meeting of my homecoming was too public for his sensibilities.

My aunt and uncle drove me from the airport to their house. I was seated in the back of the car, just as I had so very often as a boy. We passed familiar landmarks. Aunt Clara filled me in with a steady commentary on the changes to Cleveland I would encounter. Uncle Josh maintained an almost unbroken silence as he drove. Every so often Clara would seek his agreement on some point of geographical interest and he would respond with a firm nod. Josh always had been the silent type.

The first few hours back at the old house passed in a whirl of renewing acquaintances. A constant stream of cousins and neighbours progressed in and out of the front door. I was polite but found I had little to say to any of them. They asked what I was doing with myself these days. Fairly bland, perfunctory answers seemed to keep them happy. Mostly, they just wanted to tell me about their own lives. I realised that I had moved on in more than just the physical sense of the phrase.

That evening I found myself alone in the yard lighting a cigarette. It was good to have some time to myself. After a couple of minutes contemplating the dark I became aware that Uncle Josh was standing by my side. I had no idea how long he had been there before noticing. We were both comfortable with the silence.

"It's great to see you and Aunt Clara looking so well Uncle Josh," I said, stubbing out my cigarette at the same time.

"Oh, you know how it is," Uncle Josh said. He paused then continued, "We keep going but we ain't getting any younger either."

"I know it's a long time but I really have missed you two."

There was no response.

"Looking back now, Uncle Josh, I do appreciate everything you and Aunt Clara did for me. Taking me in like that. With no children of your own it must have been a shock to the system to suddenly have a nine year old kid taking up space."

"There was never any question for us. It was just something we had to do."

"You know I've still no recollection of what happened."

Uncle Josh looked down, turned and started towards the kitchen door. Pausing, he said, "Probably best to just let it go, Sam," and continued indoors.

At no other time did Mom and Dad get mentioned during that first day back in Cleveland. Everyone knew that I came to live with my mother's brother and his wife after the disappearance. I guess, though, nobody wanted to rake over the painful past. It was more comfortable to steer away from the tragedy and concentrate on the trivia of the here and now.

By the second day Aunt Clara could probably sense that I would benefit from a change of scene. Uncle Josh, who was way past a normal retirement age, had gone to work. My aunt suddenly announced that I needed to be re-acquainted with the 'sights' of Cleveland and drove me into the city centre.

After a late morning caffeine fix at Starbucks I expressed a wish to call in at the Case Western Reserve University Bookstore. It was an old haunt that I genuinely wanted to see again. When we came out my aunt said that in all her years living in the city she had never visited the Cleveland Museum of Art. It was close by. I agreed it would be a good idea to go. It would placate Clara and provide a subject of conversation other than meaningless small talk.

I dimly remembered visiting the museum during the course of, perhaps, one school trip. The lay-out was unfamiliar. I was happy to meander in an unplanned way. Eventually we came to the modern art section. There, near the coat hooks, was a painting called Gray and Gold.

The shock caused by what I saw was visceral and instantaneous. I found myself rooted to the spot and utterly transfixed by the picture. Waves of panic started to surge through me and then I was nearly overwhelmed by the urge to vomit. The light in my peripheral vision started to fade. For a moment there was nothing but the intensity of the painting then that, too, dimmed. Eventually, there was only blackness.

When I came to I was aware there was a huddle of people - museum staff and members of the public - standing round me. I was flat on my back in the modern art gallery. I heard Aunt Clara's voice and tried to focus in the direction it came from.

"Oh Lord, Sam, are you alright? What came over you?"

Paramedics gently pushed her aside and tended to me. Full consciousness slowly returned. After a series of tests and questions satisfied them I would be alright Aunt Clara was permitted to take me home.

During the drive back to the house recollection started to surface. I realised that when I had looked at Gray and Gold snatches of memory of what happened the day my parents disappeared were triggered for the first time.

I was standing alone at the cross-roads portrayed in the painting. We had been in a car. Something was wrong with it. We pulled over and we all got out. A light appeared. It seemed to be all around me. Then Mom and Dad were gone. I stood there, shouting at the brooding clouds and calling for them to come back.

“Aunt Clara,” I said, “Uncle Josh was there wasn’t he? The day Mom and Dad disappeared.”

“Yes Sam, he found you. He arrived at the cross-roads in his truck and saw you there alone. It was a squally day and you had your waterproofs on. He said you were screaming at the storm clouds.”

“Why doesn't he talk about it?”

“Oh Sam, it's been so hard for him. He’s a black and white kind of a guy who has had to come to terms with something unexplainable and extraordinary. He lost a sister he was close to in circumstances he can’t fathom. You were the only one left behind and he doesn’t know why.”

The rest of my stay in Cleveland passed without incident or further reference to the loss of my parents. I felt relaxed about realising how deeply I loved my aunt and uncle. The need to get away from Cleveland 15 years ago had been overwhelming. Then I had been confused about my past and haunted by self-doubt brought on by the amnesia. Now I had the beginnings of recollection. I still had no understanding of how or where my parents had been taken but, for the first time in my life, I had the feeling that I was at the beginning of a journey of discovery.

On the day of departure Aunt Clara and Uncle Josh drove me to the airport. They agreed to stop off at the Cleveland Museum of Art on the way. I made my way quickly to the modern art gallery while they waited in the car.

I stood in front of Gray and Gold. There was no physical shock but, once more, I found myself transfixed. This time, however, it was not a flood of memories that induced my reaction. It was the appearance of a small figure in the painting itself. A child in rain gear was standing at the cross-roads staring towards the clouds and surrounded by luminescence.

It came to me then. I was the portal.






Saturday 22 September 2012

A Little R and R, Chapter 2

J.F. Juzwik has paid me the enormous compliment of writing chapter 2 to my tale posted on 12 September, A LITTLE R AND R. Click here to read the continuation. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.



Sunday 16 September 2012

Flash Fiction Friday, Cycle 96

The brief this week:-

"I imagine I’m not the only one who does this, but sometimes when I watch a movie or read a book my mind drifts and I begin to wonder how I would have written the final cut. That could just be a bit of narcissism. Grandiose ideas and whatnot.

So this week’s challenge is simple. Take a classic movie scene and rewrite it."

Apologies, in advance, if you conclude the following is not strictly in the spirit of Ron's challenge but a train of thought was triggered and I decided to follow it through. For reasons that will, hopefully, become apparent there are two movies referred to in my piece - 'Modern Times' and 'One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich'.


ONE DAY IN THE LIFE

Summer 1948, Siberia

My dearest Svetlana,

I have no idea whether this letter will get to you or not.There is a young guard who seems to have a little kindness about him and says he will smuggle it out in return for a day's rations. Maybe I am being very foolish trusting him but I have to explain - have you understand - how our lives could fall apart like this.

I do not know the date today. No-one here does. We have all lost track of time. It seems like it must be summer. The weather is a little kinder than it was during the long months of the march to the camp. That was so hard with many falling by the wayside. It is still very cold but, "Hey-ho," we joke, "the work keeps us warm."

It makes me so angry, the fact that I could not speak to you during either the long weeks of my incarceration and torture in the Lubyanka or that farce of a trial. Every day I prayed that I could just see you and the children one more time. Anyway, I do not know what lies they have told about why I have been torn from our little family. Here is the truth of it my darling Svetlana.

It is as simple as this. I upset Uncle Joe with my grandiose plans to try and entertain him. Our people do not know that Stalin loves foreign films and particularly those by the great Charles Chaplin. Foremost among the films played in the Kremlin night after night is “Modern Times”. My ambitious plan was to have this film re-made in a Soviet setting. I had presented my script to Bolshakov, the People’s Commissar of Cinema, and the next I know I am being plucked by the NKVD from our lovely nest at three in the morning. It seems my proposals for a Russian comedy disturbed Stalin’s sensibilities. Why, I do not know.

I would like to tell you a little about my life here but I fear it will be too upsetting. It is very grim. There is no comfort. None of the tattered clothes issued to us fits and we have to make and mend all the time. I work for 16 hours each day outside in the bitter cold. They only let us stay in if it falls below -41. There are scant rations and what little we have is rotting and has no goodness in it. My teeth are falling out. I sleep on an ancient thin mattress filled with horse hair. The guards fare little better than us prisoners although we are very jealous of the fire they are allowed at night.

This gulag system is brutal. Mostly, the guards are vicious and vengeful towards us. They resent the work they do and take it out on us. We have to keep them happy by meeting our work quotas. They are punished if we do not.

I am in a fine team, the 104th. We are led by a good man called Andrey Prokofyevich Tiurin. He has been here 19 years and knows how to argue for the better jobs. We all have to pull our weight. If one of us slacks the whole team is punished.

They gave me 10 years. It is not unusual for another sentence of the same length to be added on before the first is served. Expecting the worst is better than being disappointed. It will, I know, be many years before I am able to come home. I cannot bear the thought that we will not be together but I have to be strong and tell you it is too long for you to have to wait. Your happiness is everything. I know our good friend, Alexander Solzhenitsyn, has a soft place in his heart for you. Svetlana, my love, you and the children could do a lot worse.

Maybe Alexander will write one of his books about me and my time here. Perhaps they could make a film of it. To describe one day of my life would say so much about the awfulness of what the Soviet system does to its people.

What folly it was to think that I could re-write a masterpiece of the cinema! How foolish I was to incur the wrath of Stalin in this way! I do not know how you can ever bring yourself to forgive me.

Please kiss the children and tell them how precious they are to their father.

All my love forever,

Ivan Denisovich Shukhov





Wednesday 12 September 2012

Flash Fiction Friday, Cycle 95

The brief this time is quite a long one. In summary, the requirement is to imagine being ensconced in a remote cabin for some much needed R & R. There is no cellular coverage and the roads have been cut off due to mud slides during a storm. The brief continued,

"As you sit to remove your wet shoes before preparing some dinner, the phone rings. You pick it up and hear two people discussing something, but they ignore you when you try to interrupt, or perhaps they really didn‘t hear you. All at once, they hang up and the crossed-up connection is broken."

The allowance is up to 1,800 words. No key words for inclusion this time, though.

It would be really interesting to have your thoughts on what the hero says or does next...





A LITTLE R AND R

I pulled off the Sea-to-Sky Highway at Sunset Beach and parked by the marina. The sprawl of Vancouver was 30 minutes behind me. Bowen Island was set across the straits of Howe Sound under a steel sky. I closed my eyes and felt the strengthening cold wind on my face. A deep breath and a moment of relaxation. The first in a long time. I couldn't have cared less about the appalling weather forecast.

That moment on the mainland shore popped into my mind's eye unbidden three hours later as I pushed the cabin door closed. I could hardly believe the sudden ferocity of the storm that arrived soon after the ferry docked in the island's biggest harbour at Snug Cove. The drive to George's hideaway had been both hair raising and exhilarating. It must have been a good mile back down the track where I had been forced to abandon the rental by the fallen tree. As I looked down at the pool of water gathering by my feet the wind continued to howl outside. Though no-one was there to hear me I laughed.

I sat down and started to unlace my saturated shoes. The telephone on the coffee table in front of me rang. I was startled. George told me when he handed over the keys that I could expect nothing less than complete peace and quiet. My life is spent on the phone. George had seen that I was strung out, near to the end of my tether with stress. My elder brother tended to be a man of few words. Letting me have the cabin for the week was George's way of helping.

For a moment I just looked at the insistent instrument. 'It must be George,' I thought and picked up the handset. I was about to say hello when I heard a voice at the other end.

“Danny, there is no way you can get to the cabin at this time of night and in this weather.” I didn't recognise the unmistakably female voice.

“I’ve got to. It's the ideal opportunity. That guy is up there by himself. If he turns out to be a problem I can easily make it look like the storm got him.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to take a chance on him not finding the package and wait until he heads back to the mainland?”

“No we can’t risk it. I’m setting off now. I’ll call again later.”

"Who is this?" I said.

"Shit." This was the female voice. The line went dead.

I listened to the tone for several seconds. Lightening flashed outside. There was a click then complete silence. I put the handset on the cradle and picked it up again. Silence. I stared at it for a few seconds before putting it down once more. Thunder rolled through the cabin.

The conversation replayed in my head. Disbelief was the strongest emotion. I decided that if I could speak to George he would be able to confirm whether it would be a good idea to call the mounties. I lifted the handset one more time. Still dead. The next option was my cell. I retrieved it from the pocket of my dripping coat. As soon as I saw the droplets of moisture on the inside of the perspex screen I knew it wasn't going to work. I was right.

A bottle of Jack Daniels beckoned from the top of an antique dresser on the other side of the room. I poured a generous shot and downed it in one. My next priority was to get into dry clothes. Picking up one of my bags I located the master bedroom and stripped off. Less than ten minutes later I had been warmed by a hot shower and I was dressed again. I wasn't inclined to linger. The activity distracted me but by the time I came back through to the living room I was feeling uneasy.

Questions filled my head. My instincts as a private eye were starting to kick in. What was the package and why was it so important to this seemingly homicidal couple? How did they know I was here alone? Had they been tipped off by someone? Was George involved in some way?

I decided I had a little time to play with. Thinking back to the conversation my feeling was the man and woman were talking on a landline. A crossed line would place them on the island. If correct, they still had to be some distance away. The last building I remembered seeing - another vacation cabin - was five or so miles back down the track, the nearest hamlet another three miles on beyond that at least. Even if the guy had a vehicle he couldn't get closer than a mile away. He would, I reasoned, then take at least half an hour in these conditions to finish on foot.

My first thought was to see if I could find a package. Thankfully, George was a fastidiously tidy person. His Coastguard colleagues joked about him displaying the symptoms of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. A cursory inspection through the cabin's five rooms - living room, bedroom, kitchen diner, bathroom and utility space - revealed nothing obviously out of place.

A package worth killing for would be put away or concealed. I started again and took my time opening all the cupboards, drawers and storage I could find. The utility space was the last area I looked in. Nothing. I pondered what to do next. As I did so I turned to go back through the door into the kitchen. Then I noticed. A hardboard panel in the wooden ceiling was not fully attached in one corner. I managed to hook two fingers into the gap. The panel came away easily as I pulled. There, taped to a rafter, was a plastic wrapped package about the size and shape of an American football.

In the living room I placed the package on the coffee table and started to cut through the layers of plastic with a fruit knife. Four clear plastic bags containing white powder were soon revealed. Similarly sized, each must have weighed about one kilogram. I was a bit rusty on the street value of cocaine but my guess was that, in total, I was looking at about CA$60,000 worth. Definitely enough to kill for.

My next thoughts were about what on earth George had got himself into. Was this a drugs haul related to his Coastguard duties? What was his relationship to the two people on the phone? Was he even aware the drugs were in his cabin? There were no obvious answers here and I was starting to feel distinctly vulnerable.

I decided to put the drugs back where I found them. My assumption was that if they were recovered I might be less of a target. What concerned me about my line of reasoning was that the potential assassin had known someone would be at the cabin. Even if I was long gone he might still be anxious to eliminate any potential witness.

George had a good supply of outdoor gear. I was not too interested in how well any of it fitted me.

As I started to hastily put some food into a rucksack the lights went out. I froze and listened intently. The wind was making too much of a din to be able to distinguish anything else. I quickly realised the sudden power cut could have been man made. I had to get out as soon as possible. The gun cupboard in the living room was securely locked. I didn't feel I had the time to break in. I would have to take my chances unarmed.

Despite the sheltering trees the force of the gale outside almost knocked me off my feet. It was pitch black but I couldn't risk the flash light giving me away. I stumbled across the clearing in front of the cabin and into the woods.

The next few hours passed in something of a blur. I had no proper means of navigation. I just hoped I was headed in the approximate direction of Snug Cove. The terrain was tough. I kept to the trees as much as possible. The steep, treacherous hillside I traversed away from the cabin seemed to go on interminably. The wind and rain showed no sign of abating. Time and time again I generated mini mud slides as I lost footing. Adrenalin drove me on.

It was only as the wan light of the new day started to penetrate the forest that I realised how exhausted I was. Soaked to the skin for the second time in eight hours I was in a dishevelled state with both upper and lower waterproof outer garments ripped as a result of numberless falls.

The trees were thinning out and the ground levelling off. Suddenly, there was the unmistakable whoop of a police siren off to my right. I changed direction and headed towards the sound. Emerging by the road side I recognised the cabin I had passed on the drive in. It made me realise I must have walked in a few circles during the long and arduous night.

I could see there were several police vehicles and an ambulance parked up in the cabin's yard. Looking down the track I then recognised George's Coastguard SUV pulled on to the verge. Near to where I was standing there was another fallen tree. The power cable the tree had brought down with it was still sparking.

As I took in the scene the door of the cabin opened. Two paramedics emerged with a wheeled gurney. A body was completely covered with a blanket. They were followed by police officers. George was talking to one of them. I cannot recall ever feeling such relief.

"Jeez, look at the state of you Frank," said George as I jogged towards him.

"I know, George, I know."

I was about to go on and tell him the whole thing - the phone call, the drugs, my escape from the cabin - when George interrupted me.

"What an awful night. I was so worried about you. It was only yesterday afternoon in the office when the weather forecast came through that I said to Danny it might not be such a good idea for you to go up to the cabin."

George paused when the ambulance door clanged as it closed.

"Janine phoned last night to say that Danny had taken it upon himself to come looking for you. I thought I better follow him. And now this. Single shot to the head. The poor bastard wouldn't have known a thing. Judging by the way the place has been ransacked it must have been a burglar."

"Is there any sign of Danny?" I asked.

"No."

I realised I had to think very carefully about what I was going to say next to my brother.


UPDATE 22/09/12
Please see the exchange of comments between J.F. Juzwik and myself below. Click here to go to the second chapter of this story.

Tuesday 28 August 2012

Flash Fiction Friday, Cycle 94

This week's prompt was: write a 1000 word story about someone who has no self awareness, or, alternatively, someone who has far too much. Include the following words: curve, substitution, relief, sacrifice, strikeout.

I surprised myself when I found Gemma Burton making an early re-appearance!


A Question of Intention

I like baseball. I like DVD's. Jim will not let me have one. Jim is not here. I will have a DVD. There is a DVD about baseball. That is my DVD.

---

"Oh come on, Sarge! You must be kidding."

Detective Constable Burton looked up from the statement made by the arresting officer and fixed the eyes of her bemused supervisor.

"This kid was arrested at 2.00pm yesterday. He's been in the cells for nearly 18 hours. And for what? A DVD of an old movie that was on the 'reduced to clear' stand. What the hell was 'Bull Durham' about anyway?"

Sergeant Smith had composed himself during the short tirade and projected unmoved authority when he responded, "You know the score, Gemma. Shoplifters WILL be prosecuted. It says so all over the shop he was arrested in. Now get down to custody, make him cough and put the job to bed."

Smith felt relief as DC Burton left the office. His eye lingered a little too long on the curve of her posterior as the door swung to.

The young detective felt uneasy as she walked the corridors of the enormous city centre police station heading for the custody suite. The arresting officer had kept his statement to the bare bones of necessity: attendance at the shopping precinct in response to a 'shout' on the radio, the suspect detained in a back office of the media outlet in company with store security men, an unpaid for DVD on the small table in front of him, confirmation of personal details. All very straightforward. It was the matter of fact responses from the suspect recorded by the arresting officer that jarred. Perhaps he had abbreviated what had been said. In her book there was no substitution for being thorough and truthful about what a suspect had to say. "Lazy arse," muttered DC Burton to no-one in particular under her breath.

---

I do not like this room. I do not like these men. Jim is not here. I should not talk to anyone without him. Here is a new man. He is a police man. I can talk to a police man.

"What's your name, son?"

"Martin Johnson."

"Did you take this DVD?"

You are here with me. The DVD is here. You know this so I do not answer.

"Martin Johnson, I am arresting you on suspicion of theft. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

---

Custody was as busy as always. Police officers trying to make progress had to learn to live with the ever present necessity of competing for the attention of the Custody Sergeants. Gemma Burton patiently joined the queue.

"Well good morning, Ms Burton. Jolly nice to have a detective of the plain clothes variety join us uniformed low-life this morning."

Sergeant MacIntyre was old school. He treated Gemma Burton to a big wink.

"Good morning Mac," Gemma said while returning the favour with her brightest smile. "Tell me about young Mr Johnson in C2 please."

"He wasn't seen yesterday," said Mac. "Not enough hands available. I spoke to Johnson this morning when I came on. He wasn't really making any sense so although he's 22 I've got an appropriate adult to have a look at him. I also sent a car round to his address to see if anyone could shed any light. Strikeout - there was no answer."

---

I don't like this room. It is not comfortable and it is too bright. I want Jim.

"Hi Martin. My name is Bill. I'm a volunteer with the appropriate adult service. It's my job to look after your welfare while in custody. Do you know why you're here?"

Martin was sat on a cell mattress. Bill touched Martin on his shoulder and tried in vain to make eye contact. Martin pulled away and, drawing his legs up to his chest, started to rock backwards and forwards.

Bill is not Jim. Bill is not a policeman. I must not speak to him.

---

"Hi, I'm Bill Flitwick, appropriate adult service. Are you the interviewing officer?"

"Yes, I am, DC Gemma Burton. What do you think Bill?"

"To be honest I'm not happy. Martin is very unresponsive. Are you ok for half an hour while I check things out with Social Services?"

"No problem. I'm going back up to the CID office. It's a real sacrifice but I'll get myself another coffee. Give me a call when you're done."

---

Jim was asleep. He was lying on the floor. I wanted to go out. Jim would not wake up. Day and night. Day and night. I wanted a DVD. Jim would not wake up and take me. I had eaten all the jam. I let myself out. I want to go home now.

---

Gemma Burton had finished her coffee. She was trying to read a forensic report in relation to another case. It was hard to focus. She found herself distracted by Martin Johnson. The phone rang and she picked it up straightaway.

"Hi Gemma. It's Bill. I've spoken to Social Services. Martin is known to them. Apparently, he is autistic. He lives with his step-dad, Jim Bradbury. I've tried getting him on the mobile and landline numbers on record but he hasn't picked up."

"Thanks for that, Bill. As far as I know Jim hasn't tried to contact us either. You'd think we would have heard from him by now if he was concerned or, for that matter, able to be concerned about Martin."

Gemma paused for a moment, deep in thought.

"I'm going to send uniformed officers back round to the address. This time we need to take a look inside."

Wednesday 22 August 2012

Flash Fiction Friday, Cycle 93

See the link under Noteworthy Blogs to Flash Fiction Friday. Cycle 93 invites stories using the following words.

Traffic, New Shoes, Calculus, Bus Stop, School, Principal


Trajectory

Detective Constable Burton opened the nearside passenger door of the marked patrol car and let Maureen out by the hospital entrance. The car was parked in an area marked ‘AMBULANCES ONLY’. DC Burton didn’t care.

“What do I call you?” Maureen asked.

“Gemma is fine,” replied the officer.

Ten minutes later DC Burton and her charge were in the waiting room of the pathology department. Maureen was sniffling into the handkerchief offered her by the officer when they first sat down. At least, Gemma thought, she had remembered to pick up a clean one when leaving for work this morning.

A heavy swing door opened. The rubber draught trap attached to the bottom edge caught on the linoleum. It made the same noise as the sliding door effect on Star Trek. Gemma noticed and idly wondered if Maureen got it as well.

A man in a surgical gown approached them. Gemma caught sight of the bodily fluid stains. She hoped Maureen was oblivious. After introducing himself as Richard Tindal, Principal Pathologist, Gemma and Maureen were taken through the door and down a short corridor. It was modern and spotlessly clean. Another heavy door led to a room with nothing other than a gurney situated in the middle. It was clear there was a body under the sheet.

Maureen gasped and gripped Gemma’s hand. Afterwards DC Burton remembered that there had been no hesitation to Maureen’s recognition of Paul, her 14 year old son. The moment was followed by visceral, uncontrolled grief. Gemma did her best to comfort Maureen. Until a couple of hours ago she had never met the woman. Now DC Burton was the person Maureen turned to in a moment of utter torment. Gemma tried hard to be detached and professional. It was tough. The poignancy of Maureen being handed the boy’s clothes and commenting that he had only worn his new shoes once was almost too much.

The drive from the hospital to Maureen’s house was slow going. The rush hour traffic didn’t help. Maureen’s silence was punctuated only by her sobs. Gemma felt guilty for wishing the job could be over and found the prospect of attempting small talk impossible.

"Maureen, I know this is difficult but I need to ask a few questions if you feel up to it," said DC Burton. She had made a cup of tea for the two of them. Maureen sat huddled up on her sofa. There were so many reminders of Paul around her; photos on the mantlepiece, a jacket left carelessly on a chair back, a text book on calculus.

"The accident reconstruction boys will be using that," Gemma said, nodding towards the book.

"What?"

"Calculus, Maureen. It will be possible to work out an approximation of how fast the driver was going when he hit Paul. We know how far he was carried by the collision. His trajectory will tell us a lot about the behaviour of the driver."

"Have you got a registration number?"

"Yes, well, a partial one anyway. With the description of the car it should be enough."

Maureen told DC Burton how Paul had left home that morning, the first of the new school term. From the timing Gemma was able to surmise that he had been at the bus stop 250 metres from his house for about ten minutes before the impact. Witnesses had described how Paul stepped off the kerb as if intending to cross the road and go to a shop on the other side. The green car seemingly appeared from nowhere and hit him. There was no attempt to slow down or stop afterwards.

Gemma knew the Coroner, at the very least, would want family background information. She coaxed Maureen into disclosing that the last few weeks had been difficult but Paul had seemed to cope alright. Mike, Paul's step-father, had eventually left Maureen after a melt down in their relationship. Threats had been made but Maureen blamed herself because of her affair and she put some of the things Mike had said down to the hurt he must have been feeling.

"We will need to speak to him, just to get the complete picture, Maureen."

"Ok."

"Do you have an address or telephone number?"

"No, he's not been in touch and I don't know where he's staying. I tried his mobile but he must have changed it."

"Does he have a car?"

"Yes."

"Do you know the registration number?"

"Not off the top of my head but I've got some old insurance documents in a drawer somewhere."

After a couple of minutes Maureen returned to the living room and handed Gemma a clutch of papers. Gemma looked at the details. The insured car was a green Renault Megane. The VRN - Vehicle Registration Number - was NX09 OJD. That rang a bell. Gemma got her iPhone out. She had been receiving regular emails with updates on enquiries being undertaken by colleagues. There it was. The partial registration number; OJD.

The officer made an excuse and stepped into the kitchen. She hit a number in speed dial.

"Sarge, I've reason to believe the fatal hit and run was deliberate."