I am currently putting BWH on hold while some mental processes sort themselves out in relation to that storyline.

In its stead, I am investigating a steampunk ‘universe’ where the histories diverged around the time of the Unification of Italy / American Civil War (or war between the states, depending on your preference). The timeline has broadly moved on to roughly the 1930’s. It is a time of social divides and financial unrest (who knew that our futures markets were based on efforts by a bankrupt confederacy to sell cotton not yet grown to raise funds for the war?), and into the middle of this, down streets made dark by soot, walks our hero.

Coal fired noir….

I slept in the next morning, not opening my eyes until eight, which is something I rarely do. I felt, to my surprise, quite refreshed despite only a few hours sleep. I had written character notes and chapter outlines and even a few scenes in a desperate flurry of energy, and with a little work around the edges they would flesh out a huge chunk of my novel’s first draft. Even after I had dragged myself away from the keyboard and slid between the cardboard sheets, voices of characters still murmured in my ears, promising and begging and demanding that I continue typing until finally sleep silenced them.

I staggered into the tiny bathroom, then ablutions completed got ready for a big day by strolling down to a small cafe that I had passed on my way home from eavesdropping at the pub yesterday. I don’t know about other people, but the aroma of espresso coffee mingling with the heady scent of freshly baked bread is an intensely appealing breakfast combination for me.

Even better, it turned out, the bread was perfectly crusty. Bliss.

While I ate I mentally ticked off the things I had to do. First, take a run out to the farm that Johnson had grown up on. Local colour, maybe speak to some neighbours who knew either Johnson or his uncle in those far off days. People in the bush don’t shift houses that much, so it was possible, and promised to be some pretty interesting stuff.

An hour later I stared in mild confusion at the GPS. It said I was at the correct place, outside the Johnson farm. Problem being, if this was a farm then all politicians are truthful.

A high chain link fence ran nearly the full length of the road frontage, with tall grass, shrubs and the occasional tree carefully woven into it to make a hedge, through which only the faintest glimpses of what lay beyond could be stolen. This barrier was punctured by a sturdy steel gate flanked by beige-rendered stone pillars topped in turn by bronze coloured lions. I had no way of telling if they were just concrete painted bronze, or if they were proper castings, but given the wealth and attention to detail of the fence, I decided to go with real metal.

The roadway on which my faithful little hire car squatted was hardly farm access quality either. Fully covered with bitumen with deep concrete storm-water drains at the sides, this was the kind of road I would expect to see in wealthy outer suburbia, no twenty clicks up a goat track into the hills in dairy country.

And another thing – no lot numbers showed on the gates, even though I had passed several access paths with them on my way here, the last in fact just back around the corner. Obviously, if you were coming here you knew where you wanted to be, and nobody else was welcome.

It was a little un-nerving, like suddenly stumbling across a mansion in the middle of a slum.

There was a sharp rapping on the passenger side window. There had been no pedestrians visible in the long straight stretch of road when I drove down it just moments ago, but if they had been hiding in the wild unkempt scramble of trees opposite the gate, I probably would never have spotted them. I wrenched my gaze from the imposing fence to look at the rapper.

Tall, broad shouldered, short cropped blonde hair. Navy pants, and a light blue shirt with short black sleeves and shoulder straps. Almost a uniform, except for the lack of logos or insignia.

The electric window glided down at my touch on the control, and before I could say anything, he spoke.

“You look lost.” Not an unpleasant voice, one used to making easy conversation.

“Sort of.” I actually found myself answering almost without thinking. “I’m looking for the old Johnson farm.”

If you’ve never had one, I strongly recommend you try a counter-meal in a pub. When your day has been crap, grease’n'gravy washed down with a beer is an excellent curative. A slab of roast lamb, almost floating in mint sauce, with baked potato and cauliflower – with white sauce of course – can make the day recede. Of course, it may be fading away in the face of heartburn, but it still helps you to forget.

The TV over the pool tables was tuned to the news, which suited me better than it showing loops of dance video-clips. A constant low buzz of conversation could be heard from various tables occupied by the lunch crowd.

“Bloody muzzies..” came from a table behind me, religion an epithet.

“Nah mate, it’ll just be the bank looking for a reason to put up their fees again.” Also behind me.

“What the…?” First voice again. “Are you kidding?”

I couldn’t see the speakers, but I could draw a mental image. Two middle aged men, faces weathered the colour of dry pine, checked shirts rolled up past the elbows. That was the image I got every time I heard a conspiracy theory being discussed. Don’t get me wrong, I like a good conspiracy theory as much as the next bloke, and I tried to focus on their conversation while chewing on my slab of roast.

“I mean mate, just look at the crap building they were in. I reckon they blew the bloody thing up just to get around the heritage listing laws, and even better they can build the replacement on insurance.” Second speaker again.

“You’re both full of it.” A new voice, female, harsh. “That place wasn’t heritage listed, it was only built in the sixties.”

“What would you know about it anyway?” It was the conspiracist, he sounded annoyed at having his theory challenged.

“I work for the council…” female again “…and I know which places are on the heritage conservation list, and you can sleep soundly tonight knowing that wasn’t one of them.”

“Yeah, right. So I’ll go back to what I said the first time. They’ll get a full insurance payout, then charge higher fees for the sheer bastardry of it.”

A bomb threat as a cover for an insurance fraud arson. Not a bad conspiracy theory, as they go. Not as good as “Hitler didn’t die in the bunker” or “The government is really run by little green space aliens with an anal probe fetish”, but still not too bad.

I twisted a little in my chair to see if I could confirm my suspicions about the speakers appearance, but I couldn’t get around far enough without appearing too obvious. I looked up at the bar – unlike a western, there was no mirror, and the big glass doors of the bottle fridge were back lit to display the wares, so no reflections there either. Nothing else for it, I tilted the screen of my mobile phone and used that as a makeshift mirror. And once again, even with a bit of a twist and turn, I still couldn’t see them. Maybe if I just moved a little to my left…

Then a though blossomed full blown in my mind. What the hell was I thinking? These guys were just some ordinary locals in their pub having a quiet beer, and I was trying to spy on them. So what if one of them probably wore tinfoil under his hat to keep the government spy rays out of his brain? It wasn’t like he was doing any real harm. For sure, I couldn’t use a conspiracy theory in my story, they’ve all been done before and are pretty much as clichéd as a rakishly tilted fedora walking the mean streets.

Leaving my spy theories to wither and die, I turn back to chasing the last of the gravy and white sauce around the plate with the sole remaining mouthful of lamb. then headed back to my room to plan tomorrow. It was going to be a busy day.

I have a notebook with another two or three blog-posts worth of ‘Begin Writing Here’ in it, and I am going to edit/transcribe those today for my ten faithful readers to get their fix… but I just had a way cool idea pop into what passes for my brain.

Steampunk detective fiction

Coal-fired noir!

Has it been done? What should I read? I am already a huge fan of “Girl Genius” so anything else along those lines would be great research.

 Een herfst zonder Boekenbeurs (BB) kan ik me niet voorstellen. De Boekenbeurs zonder blogs al evenmin, sinds ze twee jaar geleden resoluut multimediaal ging. 

[Terzijde: tot nu zijn enkel Roderik Six en Tine Mortier al wakker genoeg om over de vooropening van de BB te bloggen. Je had van een feestje met 5 000 man kunnen verwachten dat het iets werd in de trant van Roderiks verslag:

Dan toch liever dit feestje waarop iedereen zonder onderscheiding met een vedett in de hand rondzwalpt en elkaar halfzat aanklampt.

Op de stand van Creatief Schrijven is het kissability troef. Hun liefdeselixir lost de tongen en we proppen ons vol gummylippen. (Meer op Boekenbeurs.be)]

Een nieuw boek zonder blog is ook een rariteit geworden. Ik zie steeds meer boekblogs, mét uitnodigende word fan van het boek op Facebook. Andersom kan natuurlijk ook: blog met de b van boek of blook, een blogboek of bloek. 

Tja, boek-en-beurzen zetten gewoon boeken in de markt. Marketing, alles is marketing, nietwaar. Ah, over geld gesproken: wat hoor ik? Aankomende schrijver …: geen geldzorg, cultuurminister Joke Schauvliege komt je met een trajectbeurs redden! Neen, de Boekenbeurs werd op haar eerste dag niet overrompeld, stelde Geert Joris vanmorgen nuchter vast. Dit jaar worden 170 000 bezoekers verwacht. Geen paniek, aldus Joris, de Beurs trekt gewoonlijk langzaam aan. … Op dit eigenste moment rolt al beter boekenbeursnieuws aan: vandaag 11 000 bezoekers met David Grossman als grote publiekstrekker.

Op het web viert de BB hoogtij, joh. Boekenbeurskanalen zoals dat van De Standaard zien we ijverig wedijveren met Boekenburen van Knack dat in zee gaat met CJP dat jongeren meer ‘goesting’ wil doen krijgen in cultuur en ook in literatuur (al jarenlang één van de missies van onderhavige blog, jah, zonder pretenties). Ik heb een lichte voorkeur voor de MSNChannel van Standaard Uitgeverij/Manteau o.w.v. zijn hogere flash-gehalte. Werd er ooit zoveel promotie gevoerd voor boeken? En dan spreek ik niet eens van de aangroei van literatuur- en auteursblogs, boek-, uitgevers-, recensenten-, literairetijdschriften- en literaireprijzensites. Ja, er is ook de nieuwe e-boeksite van boekenbeursorganisator Boek.be: deze laatste ook live te ontdekken op de Boekenbeurs, echt waar.

Print vs. digital? Het digitale boek in opmars? Pieter Aspe (800 km verkochte thrillers!) ziet ’het’ nog niet zitten, gewend als hij is aan papieren boeken. Tom Lanoye is er blij mee: na lectuur op je e-lezer wil je toch gegarandeerd de papieren versie van zo’n digitaal exemplaar in je boekenkast!? Neen, toch: the future of coexistence is al langer bezig, niet? Maar boekenmarketing zonder digital, dat kan ik me niet echt meer voorstellen. U/jij wel? 

Uit de boekenberg van de dag heb ik zomaar drie boeken gekozen die bij mijn posttitel passen: vers verkrijgbaar op de BB, jawel.

Boekenbeurs met de b’s van boek en blog

Dit jaar blogt op Boekenbeurs.be ook de Debuutprijs die naar jaarlijkse traditie op de plechtige opening van de BB werd uitgereikt: Simone Lenaerts! Haar dikke roman Zeewater is zout, zeggen ze is prachtig, zegt Rik Torfs. Een boek dat iedereen zou moeten lezen. Ja, laat het u eens door één van de Grootste Intellectuelen uit Vlaanderen gezegd zijn. Op Klara.be staat er een fragment uit Simone Lenaerts’ winnende debuut en op haar site het juryrapport van de Debuutprijs. Ondertussen is ook haar nieuwste uit: Spinnenverdriet. 

(Tussen twee ronde haken: ja, hoor, Rik Torfs heeft zelf ook een nieuw boek uit! Zou het anders hebben gekund? Wie schrijft er vandaag de dag GEEN?! Vraag het maar aan Goedele of Piet (je kunt hem op de BB elke dag winnen!) of Rocco of Jeroen of zo. Of kok of kerkjurist of zanger of seksuoloog of of : allen aaibaar aanwezig op de Boekenbeurs.)  

Boek met de b van blog 

Imke Dielen! De wereld (en ik per gelukkig toeval ook) zal het al een tijdje geweten hebben: het boek Imke Dielen van de uiterst succesrijke WP-blog Imke Dielen, geschreven en geblogd door Helena Van Eykeren (°1983), is sinds september uit. Een boek van een blogger (blogster), zeg maar gerust een rasechte girl geek met een enorm online netwerk, een jonge vrouw met twee handen met een chronisch-schrijf-syndroom, daar zag uitgever Ludion wel brood in. Een kunsteditie. Tot groot geluk en vermaak van Imke Dielen herself, natuurlijk. Alles over Imke Dielen, de girl geek, de blogger, de auteur, het boek: door en bij Imke Dielen, uit eerste hand dus. Blog en bloek met de b van beautiful!

Blog met de b van boek 

Zin in open, explorerend leren? Dat is de naam van de blog-bij-het-nieuwe-boek, de boekblog,van Dirk Gombeir, Luk Bosman en Chico Detrez. Die naam verschilt van de wervende titel van het boek van deze drie opleiders, coaches: Smart Kids in Wonderland, Een eigentijdse kijk op leren. Educatieve uitgever Plantyn wil met Smart Kids scoren op de Boekenbeurs. De presentatie van het boek dat zich op secundair en hoger onderwijs richt, is al lang volzet. De tijd dringt, nietwaar. En de schrijvers wachten ongeduldig op lezers en hun reacties: op de Boekenbeurs én hun blog. De tijd dringt … Dat dachten mijn klassen (secundair 3e graad, bovenbouw) en ik ook, in januari 2007: nu of nooit! Die thalys naar de toekomst, die wilden we niet missen, droomden we beetje luidop. Daarom gooiden we ons voor het vak Nederlands met zijn allen op het web. We openden blogs en een wiki … ‘open en explorerend’ wilden we leren. Aha. Samen online. Gewoon doèn. Een experiment. Hoe het begon en groeide, het work-in-progress week na week, dat is gewoon de beginstory van deze Sausage Machine: jong talent met de wereld verbonden in één klik. Zo’n beetje als in die nieuwe titel: smart kids in Wonderland ... , stel ik me  in alle bescheidenheid voor.

What to do? Of all the bizarre things, traffic was choked. Little or no point going out to the various properties today. I had the taut shoulders and frown of the trapped motorist, and somewhere behind my eyes a vein was beginning to throb.

I flicked on the television and headed for the shower to soak away the crap of the trip. Just as the heat and pressure of the water was finally taking effect, there was a news break that told me just what had caused all the hassles. I could just hear the announcer over the running water – luckily, I wasn’t singing or I would have missed it.

“And in news just in, a claim of responsibility has been made for today’s explosion in the central business district of Gympie. An email has been received by this station stating that this explosion was a warning to all banks to give farmers a ‘fair go’ or there would be another blast, this time without warning.“

I missed the next bit as I shoved the shower door open roughly then desperately tried not to slip over with my wet feet on the tiled floor. Swearing and hobbling from slamming my toe into the sink pedestal, I made it into the room just in time for normal brain-into-porridge mid-afternoon programming to resume.

Damn.

Hobbling back to the cubicle, I found myself in conflict with my old job. Just last year, I would have been in the thick of the police response, but now I found a despicable journalistic attitude welling up. How could I use this in my story?

I turned the spray back on, luxuriated again for a couple of more minutes, then revelled in the stiff, kitchen cloth thin towel that had been provided for my personal sandpapering.

Have you ever noticed that once in a while life throws up one of the really big questions? Today, it was ‘why is it not possible to set motel-room aircon at anything warmer than bloody freezing?’.

The chill air on my skin, still damp from what the towel had refused to soak away, raised waves of goose-bumps while I flicked through the tourist guide to see if there was decent coffee within walking distance.

More news rolled around while I was deciding, this time including an interview with an earnest young woman in no-nonsense spectacles and a suit top that was too warm to be outside in.

“Our branch received a message at a little before ten o’clock this morning that there was a bomb inside. Our professional staff immediately instituted the emergency plan, evacuating everyone and contacting emergence services…“

Along the bottom of the screen her name appeared. Amanda Fraight, branch manager. Or should that have been Branch Manager? Someone at the TV news compilation desk had screwed up again.

The talking heads continued, the voiceover this time, “Police also cleared two neighbouring businesses, and within a few minutes the bank just… disintegrated, the historic building collapsing in on itself as flames roared out through the iron roof.“

A slow motion shot of the explosion followed, grabbed by a bystanders mobile phone video, the iron roof lifting to belch flame, followed by all the windows of the plate glass frontage splintering across the roadway, then the upper floor collapsing onto the lower. All very reminiscent of old documentary newsreel of the Blitz in London.

The fire fighters had not even attempted to enter the wreckage, they had contained the blaze until the roof fell in and allowed them to attack the seat of the blaze proper. Wet stuff on hot stuff, is how they do it.

More talking heads followed, people who knew nothing interviewing other people who knew nothing about why nobody would tell them anything. I knew – it was because at this point, the police knew nothing either. Some professorial terror expert blamed Islamic fundamentalists, which I thought in my no so humble opinion to be pretty unlikely, and if he had ever been to Gympie he would know why. Another journalist suggested that one of the local anti-everything-they-didn’t-understand groups that proliferate in poor economic times might have something to do with it, which I thought to be much more likely.

Finally my rumbling stomach got the better of me, and unable to actually face bar-fridge biscuits and motel room coffee, I plunged out into the heat to find sustenance.

There was no chance I was going to be able to concentrate on reading ancient history in the form of the letters now. Black hair and a voice like rubbed silk had seen to that. I thought for a moment, then dialled Alexander Johnson’s secretary.

“I was rather expecting you to have called before this.” Her voice was sharp, but maybe I could hear the hint of a smile.

“Busy day.” Simple reply that didn’t go anywhere near explaining a complex series of events. “Mr Johnson suggested I visit the family farm and his father’s property.”

“Yes, he left instructions that a car was to be made available to you. We have an account with a rental company.”

“And accommodation?” Not grammatically correct, but who’s checking?

“Keep your receipts. We’ll cover three nights as reasonable, and longer if convince me you need it.”

“Oh? And how do I convince you of that, ask you to come with me?” Cheeky of me, but then getting some flirt never hurt anyone.

“While that might be nice, I have to refuse. I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

There wouldn’t be a lot of business done to mix with the pleasure, I said to myself. Out loud I said “A shame. Can you give me the addresses? At least, what they are now. I know what they used to be called from the letters.”

A little frantic scribbling later and it was time to book a car for the next morning. I hit the ‘net and downloaded maps for my GPS then lost myself in making a salad for the evening meal.

Oh don’t put that face on as you read the word salad. At least it wasn’t a quiche!

XXX

7am on the nail my car turned up out the front. Not many places do home drop-offs any more, but given the feeling of old fashioned business manners that Johnston exuded, it didn’t surprise me that his account was with old fashioned service.

The drive to Gympie was going to take a little under three hours, I knew from travelling the road dozens of times. I had decided to try something new to pass the time, and dictate my notes. I had my digital voice recorder in my shirt pocket – in case you hadn’t realised I’m not a t-shirt kind of guy – and once I had cleared the morning traffic that was building in the greater metropolitan area, there would be plenty of time to make character notes, plot twists and pithy observations that I could use to slam my way through a seventy thousand word typing marathon.

XXX

Five hours later to the minute I stopped at the drive through registration window of my motel. It was old but tidy, not exactly Michelin Guide Five Star, but neither would I have to beat the fleas out of my blankets.

I dragged myself wearily into my room and let my bag fall wherever it wanted on the floor. The trip had been great until half an hour out of town, when all the traffic had inexplicably come to a standstill. Two and a half hours of starting and stopping, a car length at a time. Just a bloody nightmare.

They smiled. Over a drink, or dinner, it might have been a nice smile. Here, it seemed far less inviting. Something struck me.

“Hang on, you were onto this way too fast.”

“Way too fast? What do you mean?” That was Kitt, all big eyes and innocent smile.

“I’m assuming you did your homework. I only got out of the job earlier this year, and in twenty years the only time I ever heard of an internal investigation getting off the ground so quickly was when there was already a major investigation underway.”

Halliday looked sidelong at her partner. These glances were getting more common than come-ons in a singles bar. She took another sip at her coffee and peered at me through magically long lashes.

“If there was an investigation,” she said “then you’d understand that we wouldn’t be able to say anything about it anyway.”
I digested this for a moment then decided that it was code for “yes there is an investigation”. Which meant it was decision time.

“Right.” I spat “I’ve got two paying jobs on the boil, I owe the bank money and I have a deadline you wouldn’t believe. I don’t want to help a bent copper, but I do have things to do. What do you really want?”

This time Kitt spoke. “For now, just a couple of things.”

“Like what?”

“Like telling us when you first met Leung?”

“Easy. Today at the police station.”

There was a pause. It wasn’t really pregnant, more kind of the pause you get when you find out you aren’t pregnant.

“When did you first speak to Leung?”

Now that was a curious choice of phrase. Obviously she didn’t mean in person.

“I rang him this morning after Ellena told me he had called around early today.”

“He came around in person? He didn’t phone?” Kitt was quick. Eager. Her namesake with a mouse.

“I’ve got no idea. You’ll have to ask Ellena. And besides, where would he get the number? We’re both unlisted.”

Another of ‘those’ looks passed between them, varied this time by a cocked eyebrow and an imperceptible nod. Enough was enough.

“He is a target isn’t he? You two with your high school theatrics, thinking you’re so clever. I was bloody well teaching how to do this when you hadn’t even started at the academy! The only way you would be asking if he had phoned before he came around would be if you already knew that he had, and the only way you could know that in just a few hours is if you monitored his phones.”

“We could have read his call log on his handset.”

“Did you?”

“Well, no.”

Finally, truthfulness at last.

“What else?” I turned away and began to tidy up the coffee cups, happily letting them clatter and chime. Such casualness puts people on edge, and people on edge make mistakes. A teaspoon slipped and fell to the tiles with a bell like chime. I ignored it.

Halliday this time. “Was the Irishman alive when you left him?”

“Yes.” I placed the crockery in the sink, no point letting them get chipped. “I told Leung. I’m telling you. He was sitting up swearing when we left.”

“Ok. That’ll do for now.” They stood and pushed in their chairs.

“That’s it?”

“For now.”

Kitt pulled out a phone from her bag and stabbed at the keys with her thumb. Moments later my phone rang.

“That’s my number. You think of anything, call me.”

So much for unlisted numbers.

Bloody toecutters.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Said it before, saying it again. I wrote this. Copyright is mine. I’m happy to share by link, digg, blink, semaphore, heliograph, hard copy, word of mouth etc, but if it is for profit, you need my permission.

Andrew Girle

I clutched my cup of coffee with both hands as he spoke.

“Storm, I have to show you something.”  He reached into the pocket of his jacket, and from it pulled a small, black, velvet box.  He placed it on the table and held it much like I held my coffee.  He looked down at the box for a moment.  Finally, Rob opened the box and showed its contents to me.

“Do you think she’ll like it?”

He placed it on my side of the table and I picked up the silver silk-lined box.  The delicate gold band inside was intricately engraved with small diamonds all around it.  A large clear stone protruded from the top.

“Yeah, I’m sure she’ll love it.”  I gave my most sincere smile as I closed the box and pushed it back across the table.  “You really think Caroline is the one?”

He nodded. “I’m pretty sure.”  Rob traced the box with his finger.  And then half-heartedly, “I love her.”

“So… when are you going to pop the question?”

“Tonight.” It was 4:37.  “I’m taking her out to dinner.”

I pushed my hair behind my ear.  “You don’t sound as if you’re completely into this.”

Rob clutched the box until his knuckles turned white. “I’m just nervous, okay?  This isn’t some minor thing I’m talking about. This is the rest of my life at stake.  You don’t know what I’m going through.”

“Why are you wound up all of a sudden?  Do you think she’s going to turn you down?  Anyone who sees her with you… It’s undeniable that she’s madly in love, Rob.”

“I know that, Storm.  It’s just a lot to have to think about.”  He released the box.  We both looked at the little hinged container sitting between us.  I reached out and touched it.

“Look, Storm.  I really need to go and get ready now.”  He snatched the box away from me and stuffed it into the pocket from whence it came and started to stand up.

“Wait.” He sat back down.

“What?!”

I took a deep breath.  “Just… Good luck.”

Rob gave me a curt nod and got up to leave the small café.  I stared at the wall as I heard his footsteps move away from me, toward his future.  I heard him stop and pull open the front door handle.  A car passed outside as he paused with it open.  He stepped outside and began to make his way down the sidewalk as the door gently swung shut again.

To be continued…

There was a knocking at the front door. Firm but courteous. Dragging myself up off the bar stool I crossed the room, swung open the internal door and peered through the artificial gloom of the flyscreen mesh at my caller. Better make that two callers. Both women, a brunette in slacks and blouse, and a blonde in jeans and a denim jacket. Cops.

“Good afternoon. Detective Senior Constable Halliday and Detective Kitt.”

Two badges appeared with expert sleight of hand and were pressed against the mesh.

“We’d like to have a chat about where you were last night.”

That was odd. My neck started to prickle.

“But I’ve just got back from giving a statement about last night. What more do you want to know?”

The detectives looked at one another then back at me.

“Please, can we come in and have a chat about it?”

I hesitated long enough to take a couple of quick breaths. They didn’t help to clear my confusion, so I spun the key in the lock.

“Come in. Can I get you a coffee? I was just making one.”

“Just water for me.” That was Kitt. She was solidly built and bottle blonde, her jeans were too tight over her hips and her denim jacket draped awkwardly over her gun. Don’t they tell these guys how to get the stuff tailored for plain clothes work any more?

“Coffee for me. Strong and black and two sugars please.” In the confines of the kitchen Halliday’s voice was silky smooth, a cat’s purr. A boyish cut framed her elfin face, and frankly I was instantly in lust.

I dialled up two long blacks on my machine, just about the only thing I had managed to get as a luxury out of the sales of my last book, then walked a clean glass to the fridge and poured some cold water into it. Formalities attended to, I leaned up against the bench and folded my arms across my chest.

“Now then. Just what is there to talk about? I’ve just blown a couple of hours clean out of the water, telling Leung everything I remember about last night.” Well, not quite true, but pretty close.

Kitt took the lead. “Well, that is one of the reasons we’re here. This isn’t actually Leung’s case, and we want to work out just what his involvement actually is.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re the police, you tell me.”

Behind me the espresso machine stopped its happy gurgling and I interrupted proceedings until coffee cups had been ferried to the bench with spoons, sugar and a bowl to put the dirty spoons into, so no stains got left on the benchtop.

Kitt – I couldn’t help but think of her as Blondie – spoke again. “I was asking what you knew about Leung’s involvement is.”

“And I was saying that I don’t know anything more than the fact he took a statement from me.”

“That would be at Annerley Station, yes?”

“Yes. Which reminds me, which station did you say you were from again?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well?” I raised an eyebrow.

“Well what?” She played the dumb blonde pretty well. Far too well, in fact.

“Well what station are you from?”

There was a pause while Kitt sipped her water and Halliday tinkled her spoon against the side of her cup.

“Ethical Standards.” It was Halliday that spoke.

“What? You two are toe-cutters?”

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

I wrote this. Copyright belongs to me. If you wish to link, share, print out and give to the guy beside you on the bus, you have full permission. If you want to try and make money from doing this, you need my permission to do so.

Andrew Girle

The house was empty. I considered another shot of coffee, but that might be too many in a day even for me, and it would be difficult to read with my eyeballs throbbing.

The day was more than half done, but I had done nowhere near a half day’s work, and neither the Johnson commission or the novel were about to write themselves. Feeling old fashioned, I picked up my heavy-leaded clutch pencil and began making more notes. Particularly ones about the Johnson commission.

Why had he sought me out to prove his father’s death was a murder? Not that I was complaining too hard, big handfuls of cash were coming my way which is never a bad thing, and this was subsidising the research for my novel.

Why did Johnson think that the proof would be in the letters? He must have had ample time to go through them. What more could I offer?

Shrugging at the strange ideas of some people, I pulled the box of letters across the table to me, flipped off the water-stained old cardboard lid and began to voyeuristically travel back in time, as seen through others eyes.

For what seemed like around an hour I followed the real life soap opera of correspondence, eventually surfacing to make that coffee I had decided against. The daylight was fading and I realised with a start that the day was almost gone. Time had not slipped away, it had galloped off with a broken halter. I had done this kind of thing before, reading through people’s private thoughts and messages, and I never stopped getting the feeling that I was some kind of pervert, peeping through partially closed curtains into the inner sanctum of a life.

There were fifty or sixty letters in the shoebox, the earliest dated late 1967 and the last in 1969. There were, it would appear, only three people in Alexander Johnson’s mothers life that she cared enough about to keep the correspondence. There was her brother, Bruce. His best mate Michael – also her boyfriend, and it would appear from the early letters, her secretly engaged fiancé. Last of all was her school friend and confidante, Joy.

Sorting the letters by date caused them to fall into two groups. Up to July 1968 they were irregular. Once a month or so there were long multi-page newsy missives back and forth to Joy, hinting at a romance with Michael. At the end of July, the number of letters jumped dramatically. Letters from Michael. Letters from Bruce. Letters back and forth to Joy.

It would seem that Joy, who had acted so long as a guardian of these letters across the years, had put every letter she had received into the box with all the others.

Looking at the letters by sender, those from Michael initially spoke of being called up to do his National Service training, the feelings of mixed fear and elation to discover his unit was going to be deploying to South Vietnam, the amazement and disdain at the actions of a few companions who desperately tried to transfer out prior to embarkation. Then the happiness that his best mate Bruce was transferring in and even better, that he was going to be Michael’s platoon sergeant.

Over the same time, sketchy letters from Bruce arrived outlining his early promotion and his asking for a transfer to a unit bound for active service – the best way in a peace time army to get on the fast track for future promotion.

Then there was a six week break in the letters from the two young soldiers. Michael explained that they had been busy picking up and displacing to the ANZAC Brigade area ‘in country’ and then getting established in the undeclared theatre of war.

When Michael’s letters began again, this time it was the tedium and fear of men at war. Savagely joyful reminiscences of surviving first contact with the enemy, not panicking under fire and getting stuck in to do the job he was trained for, as best he knew how. Several times a month he would write, although there were two, month long breaks between letters that I guessed were caused by going out on extended patrols away from the base area. Fighting patrols under unfriendly eyes would not be ideal writing conditions.

Then noticeably the tone of the letters changed. Michael was no longer telling tales of escapades with Bruce on day-passes, of the dusty beauty of the country on the plains. He was planning, dreaming, scheming a life with Emma in which they would raise a child.

I re-read that part. ‘A’ child, singular. Not a hope filled dream about children in the future. He now knew she was pregnant. A check of the back of the envelopes confirmed it – the return address had changed, she wasn’t living in Gympie any more, she had moved – or been sent away – to Brisbane. I scribbled the address into my notepad, then compared the dates. Everything changed about four months after he had embarked. Right about the time she would have no longer been able to hide the fact that she was pregnant from her family.

How times change.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Copyright in this resides in me. I am happy for it to be shared, turned into a reader-format, linked to, quoted, cited or whatever, as long as it is for free. Anything resembling a profit making element requires my agreement!

Andrew Girle

Apologies for the late post. I actually misplaced my notebook and missed the last posting while I tried to find it!

XXXXXXXXXX

When in doubt, find somewhere quiet and have a nice cuppa. Better make mine a double shot long black.

I scribbled some character notes while the deliciously curvy barista fussed over her voodoo altar to the espresso god. The characters were coming thick and fast out of last night’s haze, competing for my attention with the bitterly aromatic smell of the churning coffee maker.

A hardboiled ex-cop turned debt collector – all steel cap boots and hammers for fists.

The apprentice tough guy, his nose made cavernous by hoovering up too many powders, all smart mouth and no idea.

Mister clever dick detective, who either worked as a labourer in his off-duty time or trained in one of the hard style Asian martial arts.

What about names? I’m bloody terrible at names. Might be time to go to the phone book and randomly pick and match.

So… my story had it’s hard man, it’s detective, and an evil genius – I scribbled a note in the margin to make sure he was not to like Bruce Johnson, I can’t afford a libel case – a corrupt sect of religious fruitcakes, and a murder in the family to kick it all along. Definitely a skeleton in the closet, that one.

Thinking of murders in the family, as pleasant as it might seem to have coffee in a half empty shop while scribbling notes, this was not going to get my profitable venture completed. There were all those letters to go through – Alexander Johnson seemed to think they would have some bearing on the investigation. I drained the cup and reluctantly headed home.

Chapter 6 of Begin Writing Here – once again, for-profit use of this work requires my consent, however feel free to link to here, tell your friends about it, encourage them to read it or print it out and scribble moustaches on it.

Andrew Girle.

XXXXXXX

I drove sedately to the police station for my appointment, where the young constable on the front desk looked at me incuriously with her shop-attendant eyes.

I introduced myself and asked for Leung. She reached for the phone with one hand and indicated the row of chairs in the waiting area with the other.

“Take a seat, I’ll let him know you’re here.”

A few minutes later the security door to the interior of the station swung open to reveal the exact opposite of what I had been mentally expecting from Elena’s description of a nice young detective with a Chinese accent. Tall and heavily built, heavily enough in fact to qualify as a Sumo wrestler, he cut an imposing figure. He shoved a hand the size of a hoof at me and as it clamped around my knuckles I could feel heavy callusing. Definitely not the hand of an office worker.

He walked me through the station to an interview room. I would have been suspicious except that there was a laptop humming quietly to itself on the L-shaped table, the soft noise soaking into the grey carpet-panelled walls. A small digital tape recorder was produced and placed onto the desktop.

“I’m going to record this instead of writing everything down, if that’s ok. Then I will type it up and get you to read it, then you can sign it.”

All of which meant he was going to take the statement in the new fashioned way.

“I understand you were involved in a fight at the Mussel Bar last night. What can you tell me about that?”

Outline the reason, invite a free narrative. Terrific way of loosening up a witness, mainly because the statement-taker wasn’t frantically scribbling notes or hunting and pecking at a keyboard and distracting the witness from their story.

“Actually, I was involved in two fights last night. Which one are you talking about?” Telling the truth throws some cops. I’ve seen it happen.

“Two fights?”

“Yeah. I was having a quiet drink with a bloke I’ve known for years. He had a young guy along with him and as they were getting ready to leave this young bloke, he had a go at me.”

“He had a go at you? In what way?” Oh dear, mister clever detective was interrupting my free narrative. He was definitely not supposed to do that – he’s telling me what he is most interested in hearing. At this rate, he’ll never find out about the brawl with Ugly Betty.

“Shoved his fist under my nose, made some threats. School playground bullshit. Then he grabbed my shirt and I gave him a shove. Told him to stay down, but he came off the ground swinging his arms like helicopter blades so I punched him. He stayed down that time.”

Cold eyes stared at me.

“You only hit him once?”

“You have an interesting way of taking my statement. Aren’t you going to caution me – police procedures and all that?”

He steepled his fingers under his chin and relaxed back in his chair. “I don’t think so. Nothing you’ve said so far would make me want to arrest you.”

I waited. When he didn’t continue, I said “You missed saying the word ‘yet’ there detective.”

Leung smiled, a hard smile with no fun in it. “Let me get this straight. You were having a quiet drink and you got attacked. You asked your attacker to leave you alone, then when he laid hands on you, you pushed him away. He then attempted to assault you further and you hit him once.”

I held out my right hand palm down. The flesh coloured square of plaster on the back was plain to see, stretched over my first two knuckles. “I hit him in the mouth, split my knuckle to the bone on his tooth. I damn near thought he had left half a tooth inside the way it swelled up last night.”

His eyes wrinkled slightly in a wince, the way only someone who has shared that particular pain can wince, then went on. “What happened next?”

“My mate and I went to leave the place and he bumped into this chick. And she took offence to being bumped into. And to make it weird, she was a he. She – he – went off like a frog in a sock. There was a bit of a rumble then we left.”

“Did you say anything during this, ah, rumble?”

“Not really. Lots of shouting, but then there always is in a punchup.”

“Do you remember anyone saying something like ‘pay up you bastard’?”

“Sort of.” Actually, those exact words had been used during the *ahem* business negotiations, but I think the less said about that the better.

“Sort of?”

“Well, the giant transvestite grabbed my mate by the balls and squeezed. I thought his eyes were going to pop out his ears. Then my mate yelled something like ‘you’ll pay for that you bastard’ and belted him three or four times around the ear-holes.”

The cliché ‘inscrutable Chinaman’ was invented for this guy. He watched me carefully with a suddenly neutral face.

“So both the Irishman, and the – to use your words – giant transvestite, were both alive when you left them?”

“The kid was sitting on his arse trying to act tough and calling me names I’ve heard a dozen times before, and the other guy was being helped to her feet by a couple of the people from behind the bar.”

I left out the bit about the two enormous bouncers who mysteriously appeared from nowhere and cut us off from the crowd, then ushered us firmly out the door. At the time I had thought I was about to get slapped into the middle of last week, but then the both gave Pete a slight nod when we reached the entrance. I realised then that he had paid them off earlier. This really had been well planned.

A thought struck me. “The news mentioned CCTV. Surely you should be able to see everything that happened on that?”

“The footage for that time is unavailable. It seems that…” His inscrutable facade wavered slightly, then he regained control. “Just take it from me that there isn’t any footage.”

Like I said. Pete had the whole thing very well planned, all but his psycho side kick.

“I think I have nearly everything I need to write up your statement.” Leung’s eyes glittered again. “Tell me, just how well do you know Peter?”

“Pete? I knew him when he was in the police. We bumped into each other a few times after he left – social functions and friends of friends, that sort of thing.”

“So you weren’t close?”

“Not really. If I hadn’t needed a character for my book I would never have been out with him last night.”

“Hmm. Well, I’ll type this up and email it to you for checking. When you’re happy with it, we can catch up and I’ll get you to sign it. Sometime in the next few days be OK?”

And then I was back on the street, wondering what to do next.

This is the next chapter in a serial crime fiction blook. I assert ownership of the work, but I am happy for free distribution / linking to / etc to occur. Anything that may involve a profit, meagre as it may be, requires my consent.

Chapter 5. Morning after the night before

Surprisingly, when Elena the hard hearted bitch flung open the curtains in my room to let the glory of morning wash over me, I did not feel hung over. A little tired perhaps, but none of the regular signs were there.

Cat crapped in my mouth? Nope.

Small evil fairy hitting my head with a hammer? Nope.

A desperate desire to void my stomach contents while trying to find god… oh god, any god? Nyet.

I thought about last night. One drink, then another with Pete – which I didn’t actually finish, for a couple of reasons. Then another pint at a different pub. Then home. Even though I had slurped down the best part of three pints in a little under an hour, I had been in bed by ten. Amazing what a good night’s sleep can do.

“Coffee pot is on, there’s bacon frying and a nice young detective just called for you about half an hour ago.”

Glory of morning be buggered, that last bit got my full attention. I swung my feet onto the floor and discovered that the hangover had in fact been lurking, waiting to ambush me.

“What did he want?” I asked through the veil of nausea.

“He wanted to speak to you about some kind of assault last night. I told him you had already left for work.”

“Him? He was on his own?” That was promising. Usually coppers work in packs when they planned to arrest someone.

“Yes. And a little difficult to understand, he had a strong Chinese accent.”

“Oh?” That was interesting. Not that long ago, I could have counted the number of first or second generation Asian immigrants that wore a suit of blue on both hands. It wasn’t like we didn’t try to recruit them, it was more like they didn’t want us. Their families often had terrible memories of what had passed for police in their home countries and put intense pressure on their children not to join. I met one guy who had not spoken to his mother in twelve years.

“You sure it was Chinese?”

“Might have been Cantonese.”

“You can tell?”

“I speak Mandarin. I invited him inside in Mandarin for a cup of tea…” she ignored my wince at the thought “…and he declined like a Cantonese speaker would.”

“You speak Mandarin.” Flat statement, not a question.

“Yep.” We had made it to the kitchen by now and she pointed at my double walled stainless steel coffee mug, then went back to the stove.

“Since when?”

She turned and smiled at me. It was a lovely sight.

“Since I grew up in Singapore.”

“You never mentioned that!”

“Should I have?”

Point taken. Butt out, nosey.

“So… he didn’t come in, he just left? Did he leave a card or a name?”

“On the counter top there. Said he would call back tonight if you didn’t call him first. Said he would bring Warren.”

“Warren? Do you mean a warrant?” That didn’t sound good.

“Maybe. Like I said, his accent made him hard to understand.”

I munched a toast and bacon sandwich in silence. He had come alone, but then threatened a warrant. It was like he was really keen to talk to me but thought he needed leverage. I wondered what was so important anyway. Neither the stupid Irishman or ‘Betty’ were likely to complain to the police about a smack in the mouth. And it wasn’t like I had assaulted anyone else.

It turned out the friendly policeman was named Laurence Leung. At least, that was what his card read. Presumably he wasn’t the same as the stand up comic of the same name.

“Leung speaking.” She had been right about the accent.

“G’day. You came past my place this morning looking for me. Sorry I missed you.” Little white lie.

“Ahah. Thank you for calling me.”

“I figured it was better than you coming back with a search warrant. Not that I can work out why you would need one.”

“I sorry. Who said anything about warrant?”

“You did. To Elena. Said you would be back with a warrant.”

He smiled. “I say I be back with Warren. My partner. He start shift at two.”

Oh for… all that panic on my part for nothing. Bugger.

“Now that’s funny. So, how may I be of assistance?”

“There was an assault last night. A Mr Reilly was beaten quite badly.”

So it was Tony, at a guess. It was an Irish name.

“Should I bring a lawyer?”

“Have you done something wrong?”

“You tell me.”

“I don’t think that is how it works. I ask the questions.”

Smart prick.

“But anyway, I just need to get a statement from you.”

“I’ll see you in an hour.”

I dropped the handset on the bench, puzzled.

“You finished on the phone? I was just about to turn the TV on.”

“Sure. Can I borrow your car for a couple of hours?”

The small key ring arced through the air towards me in silent answer. I only just barely managed to catch them.

And in breaking news, police appealed for leads in the bashing death of a man in a Fortitude Valley nightclub last night… The TV newsreader droned on in that almost-excited tone that never actually varies between stories, only to be chopped short by a channel flick.

“Wait. Go back.”

Click. Just in time for

…police are reviewing CCTV of the incident. And in further news…

Damn.

Begin Writing Here, Chapter 4

I had my hand plunged deep into a bowl full of water, ice cubes and the contents of a packet of frozen peas that I had torn open with my teeth, when Elena walked into the small kitchen.

She blinked the startled-koala blink of the unexpectedly awake, then peered sleepily at my faced screwed up in pain and at my hand in the ice bath.

“Have you been fighting?”

I was just was just sober enough to consider the question from a philosophical point of view. I have to say that on the balance of probabilities, I don’t like to fight. Fighting implies a bi-directional exchange of violence. I much prefer the term hitting. More, as Lenin said, a who and whom thing.

“I punched an Irishman in the mouth.”

She folded her arms across her chest and glared at me.

“Why?”

“He stood back up after I knocked him over.”

She seemed to consider this, then shook her head, chasing the sleep away.

“And why did you knock him down the first time?”

“He deserved it.”

She rolled her eyes at the ceiling before gently lifting my fingers from the water, ignoring the drips they left on the bench and pristine white tiled floor. The drips were pink. My middle knuckle was swollen and the skin was split like a burst grape. Gingerly extending each finger one by one, she asked

“Do you think it’s broken?”

I flexed each finger myself. “Maybe. Probably not. I’ll know in the morning when it starts to hurt.”

When the kid had hit the floor, Pete had looked at me and said “Well done dickhead. Now it’s you who’ll be giving me a helping hand with my business negotiation.”

I couldn’t really turn him down – he knows where I live.

The negotiation had been tense. Big Bert, or Betty to his friends, had objected in a fairly strenuous way to being manhandled. I had taken a damn solid clip under the ear from his first slap before Pete had managed to kick his legs out from under, and I busted his nose with my elbow. I think I got teeth marks in my forearm as his head snapped back. There had been a brief and vocal exchange of philosophical views on Pete’s part, I’m sure you know the kind of thing. Don’t renege on payments. Don’t change address without telling your bookie. Etcetera etcetera. And then we had left. The stupid kid Tony was still slumped on the floor swearing, and neither of us had given him a backward glance.

I reached into the top pocket of my shirt and pulled out the thin fold of fifty dollar notes that Pete had given me. They were supposed to be the kid’s fee, but he had tucked them into my shirt and told me it was a good lesson to the kid in not being so stupid.

“Is that makeup on the sleeve of your shirt?” Elena brought me back to the real world, peering at the elbow of my shirt.

I was glad I had a long sleeve shirt on, otherwise she might see the teeth marks near my elbow. Instead of answering I waved the notes around.

“It’s one way to earn the rent money.”

XXXXXXXX

ps copyright resides in me, Andrew Girle. I am more than happy for this work to be linked to, emailed around, spread by word of mouth or whatever, as long as it is for free. Any for-profit requires my permission (gee that sounds conceited…)

Sorry this was a tad delayed, faithful reader (I use the singular advisedly…).

ps if you enjoy it, sign up to my blog…. or use the RSS feed to get it too!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The pub was subtly but definitely a gay bar. The prints on the walls of hairless bare-chested young men with the muscle development of Olympic swimmers was kind of a giveaway. In fact, one of the prints may actually have been an Olympic swimmer, but it was hard to tell. This was the first time I had been in what a bigot might describe as “a place like this”.

I’ve always been a keen people watcher, and it was fascinating that none of the patrons in the mostly empty room fitted the television sit-com portrayal of homosexuals. Instead of being nattily dressed, physically fit and vaguely effeminate, they were on the whole dressed as badly as a used car salesman’s convention, and were all shapes and sizes. Leaving the bartender with a surprisingly large amount of my hard earned cash, I found a booth with hard red vinyl seats where I could have a meaningful relationship with a pint of beer while I surveyed the room.

Halfway down the glass I glanced at the face of my phone – Pete was late. I was just considering a reminder call when he walked into the place flanked by a tall younger guy. Remember those scenes where the heroes walk through a crowd in slow motion, their jackets billowing in digitally enhanced perfection? Well, that was how they walked. Heads lowered bull like, peering out from beetled brows, arms swinging loose and limber from the shoulders, the sparse crowd parted before their bow-wave of palpable menace.

Slouching back in my seat and hoisting my drink caught their eye and like a pair of patrolling fighter planes they changed direction towards me with no apparent communication between them. They closed in, sharks homing on blood in the water, and sat opposite me in the booth. I glanced over their heads at the barman and raised my nearly empty beer with a fifty dollar note poking out between my knuckles. I motioned at the table with my other hand and held up three fingers. The barman glared at me, not happy about providing table service, then tapped a young glassie on the shoulder and began drawing the beers.

“So mate, you want to meet one of my boys eh?” His mouth barely moved. His face was heavily scarred by teenage acne, so bad in fact that it looked pebble-dashed. He had been a good cop a long time ago, but a lot of water had been passed since then. His face matched the new him much better than it had when he was still in the job.

“Yeah.”

“This is Tony. He handles my more hardened defaulters.”

Tony smiled thin lipped and nodded an acknowledgement. I nodded back.

I had thought about what I was going to say next, and had decided that the truth was the best option. “I’m looking for someone to give me an idea for a character in my next book.”

“What are you writing, something like Underbelly?” Tony’s voice was tinged with an Irish lilt. His ‘t’s were ballistic, and his vowels rounded under the words, not over them. There were diphthongs present where I wasn’t used to hearing them.

“No, not really. A murder mystery.”

“Ah. Would I be the killer then?” Shameless glory hound.

“I don’t think so. Maybe at some point. And it wouldn’t really be you anyway. I just wanted to meet someone like you, get some ideas of stuff to put into the character.”

“Gonna be a movie out of this? Or TV?” He said ‘gonna’ as ‘goonnah’.

“I can only wish, Tony, I can only wish.”

His face fell.

“Tell you what though. If there is, and if I get any say in it which I probably won’t, I’ll tell them to come see you about at least advising on the part. How does that sound?”

Happy again. He was a kid whose parents had taken his favourite toy away, only to realise they were just changing the batteries.

He stared at me.

“So what do yer need to know?”

“I want a feel for how you do what you do. How you intimidate people. What makes you want to do that for money.”

Pete smiled at me. “What makes him want to do that for money? It’s because it is bloody good money, it’s mostly legal, and when you got thrown out of most schools for being a psycho there aren’t really a lot of options left.”

“That right?” I lifted an eyebrow in question.

“Yeah. Pretty much.” He opened his eyes wide to show the whites all round. “It also helps that I like hurtin’ people.”

So much for a tough guy. He was a complete amateur. I shook my head sadly and eyeballed Pete.

“I wanted to meet a tough guy and this is the best you can do?”

“Whut?”

“Yeah, sorry mate. I know he’s still got his training wheels on but we’re working on it.”

“Hey! Oim sitting right here, you pair of pricks.”

Oh well. I had wanted a pencil sketch for a minor character bad guy, instead I got Pete puppy-walking his new kid on the block.

“Anyway,  how could you tell? What gave him away?” The tide was almost out in Pete’s glass. A full pint of beer in just a couple of minutes. He would bankrupt me at this rate.

“You’re kidding right? That face he just pulled. I’ve seen angrier faces on pre-menstrual teenage girls.”

The kid slumped in his chair in a funk, his arms folded sulkily over his chest.

“Yeah, sorry about that. But I thought I would kill two birds and all that. I do have business here, and you were buying a couple of rounds, so I figured why not.”

So much for the reliable kindness of old friends.

“Speaking of business, she just walked in the door.” He lifted his chin towards the strapping beauty walking through the door.

Some people can be described by what is not there. She could be described by what was there. Tall, broad shoulders, enormous breasts supported by some kind of push-up bra designed by an architectural genius, long black hair below her shoulders. The thing that really stood out was… her Adams apple. Have a close look at the women in your life. Can you think of any with a prominent Adams apple? And take it from me, if they stick out there, they stick out in other places too.

Pete glared at his watch. “Dammit, she’s early. I was hoping to get another round of drinks. But she’s worth a couple of grand in the hand, so I have to cut this short.”

He dropped his chunky hand on his apprentice gorilla’s shoulder, and they stood up.

Just as they were stepping away, the kid decided he had something to prove, and he rounded on me, shoving his fist with index finger raised right under my nose.

“Ah was fookin’ serious when I said I like to hurt people. And if I see you again, you’ll be people.”

Chapter 2

No time like the present. I sat in front of my computer and fired up every researcher’s best friend, and began googling Bruce David Johnson. The uncle. To my surprise there was quite a bit available online. A kind of potted bio already existed at wikipedia. Across the various snippets I skimmed the highlights – a skill I had learned back when I did intelligence in the police. Skim the highlights, look for the shadows.

Uncle Bruce was an interesting man. Sixty five last birthday. Service in Vietnam as a regular soldier, not a national service conscript. Promoted to platoon sergeant while he was there. Mentioned in Dispatches once, and a Military Medal. No information on the citations, but I could hit the Australian War Memorial site later to find them. Discharged from the army a changed man. Became a member of an anti-war group.

So far I could easily be reading about Forrest Gump.

Sometime in the mid 70’s he got religion. There were references to him getting involved in a charity for helping Vietnamese refugees fleeing the communist regime that triumphed at war’s end. Sometime after that he really took his religion seriously and founded the Church of the Saviours Way.

Blah blah blah. No mention anywhere of a court martial. Everything I was reading so far painted the picture of a dead-set war-hero who had decided to take a strong anti-war moral position. And after all, when you wash the slimy veneer of marketing off a moral, really it’s just a way of describing where you stand. Then again, remember to look at the shadows. Charities and churches need money and lots of it. Where had that come from? The cynic in me searched for the church and added the term ’scandal’. More hits, local news and gossip mags. Minor celebrities joining, not many but some interesting names. Names normally commonly linked to drug scandals. And after they join, nothing. Not that there were no scandals, it was that the celebrities just didn’t rate a mention anywhere. Odd.

“What are you working on?” The voice was gravel-feminine. Think burnt out hard rocking screamer trying to make polite conversation in a funeral parlour.

“Don’t you ever knock?” I stretched and stood up from the office chair, then turned to face my conscience. Well actually, my agent.

“Don’t answer a question with a question, it means you’re hiding something.” She smiled a grim smile from under bangs and a beret. “And I can’t afford for you to be hiding anything.”

“Ah YOU can’t afford for ME to be hiding anything? Sounds like I should be renegotiating my royalties on the next book.”

She bustled over to the kitchen bench and turned on the espresso maker. For a thirty-something who dressed like a reject from a beatnik revival coffee house, she sure knew how to bustle.

I had been lucky to find Elena as an agent, or so I kept telling myself. She had been a friend of a girl I met in a bar once. At that time she worked as a manuscript buyer for an indie publishing house, but then two of the books she recommended got passed over and instantly went to film rights at the next publisher down the street. Figuring she had the knowledge and contacts to make it as an agent, she quit, phoned some of her moderately successful prior purchases and somehow convinced them to sign with her. Then I met her, and she took a risk with my book. It worked out OK. In the Australian publishing scene, that pretty much means I earned out my advance. Word of mouth among ten thousand coppers in Queensland alone had helped with that.

Turning to face me, her butt leaning against the hard edge of the bench, she said “That’s pretty funny. You actually would have to have a next book to be able to renegotiate the contract.”

“Laugh it up. I’ve taken a private commission to do a family history, and I have the feeling that it is going to flesh out a plot idea I have been nursing for ages.”

“Truly?” Her eyes widened, nostrils flared, the corners of her mouth went up with a twitch and her crow’s feet crinkled. If I had to edit the word count downwards, I would say her face lit up.

“Anything I can take to The Greek as a teaser?”

The Greek was my publisher. He’d bought the right of first refusal on my next book and was getting impatient. In fact it would be accurate to say more impatient. He was short, fat and loud. If you stretched a tape around his waist, it would be a good bet that it would be equal to his height. Think Danny DeVito with a ferret stapled to his head.

“Well, maybe not enough yet.” I admitted sheepishly.

“What DO you have?”

“A murder revealed in letters home from a war zone. A fundamentalist church. An illegitimate son seeking revenge.”

“That’s enough for me. I’m calling him if only so he gets a bone to chew on for a while.”

“But…”

“When can you deliver?”

“I’ve only just begun! And I have the commission job too.” I tried to keep the pleading note out of my voice.

“Yeah yeah. Whine whine.” She picked up her mobile. “You’ve got two months to deliver the first draft, and that includes time you spend on your commission work.” The mobile phone disappeared under a bang and she walked out of the room. Even straining I could only barely hear one side of the laconic conversation.

Shit, two months. A hundred thousand words or so in a first draft in two months. I can type maybe forty or fifty words a minute. Half that if I have to think about what I’m doing. Say, five thousand minutes work. A short pause while I try mental arithmetic under pressure, which delivers a result of somewhere between eighty and ninety hours work in the typing alone. And I still don’t really have a proper plot. Or any proper characters, and even worse no character voices chattering away inside my head begging to be pinned to the page. But they might turn up as I go along, I suppose.

Eighty plus hours is two weeks slave labour, add another two for the character sketches and leave the plot to throw itself at me out of the Johnson bio. And yet… and yet… I really didn’t have a secondary villain. Maybe someone from the loony cult. A young man. Not as tough or smart as he thinks he is. But he tries. I need to pencil this guy, and fast. That will be one fewer of my dramatis personae to worry about.

Time to start cheating.

The keys on the handset beeped softly as I made a call.

“Pete? How’s things? Shit eh? No kidding?”

Kids, wife, taxes, grumble, moan.

“Mate, I’m looking for a character in my next book. No, not you. Young bloke, fancies himself as a hard man, but a bit thick. You know anyone fits the bill?”

Of course he does. He runs a debt collection agency.

“Bring him along to a pub tonight. Your choice. I’m buying the first couple of rounds.”

Happy. Suggests a pub.

“Hey what? Piss off, that’s a gay bar isn’t it? Oh, you have business there. I see. Well, as long as it’s after I’ve had a chat with your man.”

I have serial-blooked before, and am going to try the same thing again, this time with the sequel to No Working Title.

The writer is back, baby!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A couple of years ago I wrote a book. Then I lost my job. The shrinks said I was a stress case, apparently because I punched the boss to the ground and managed to sink a couple of bloody good kicks into him before I got dragged away. I suppose it could have been the way I was screaming incoherently and frothing at the mouth. Anyway, work paid me a reasonable sum to not come back, and this was just enough to clear the mortgage and settle my divorce. My wife didn’t like ‘who I had become’ or some bullshit like that.

Now all I had to worry about were day to day bills, which is why I was standing on the footpath looking at a river-frontage mansion in the old-green suburb of Chelmer in the city’s inner west. There was something about the polished sandstone gateposts and the way they framed the wrought iron gate. They dared me to enter and walk my cheap leather shoes along the manicured path to a varnished hardwood door with leadlight inserts. Somehow, that made me want to rub my toecaps to a higher sheen on the back of my trousers.

It’s funny but you do get careful about little things like that when you call on millions of dollars.

I smiled wryly. That would be a great line if Raymond Chandler hadn’t already used it. Oh well. Maybe I would be lucky and there would be beautiful daughters with morals in danger, like Chandler provided for Phil Marlowe. I snorted – fat chance.

Leaning towards the intercom I buzzed then waited. Eventually a soft voice came back, maybe feminine but overlaid with electric distortion.

“Wastfgl?”

Typical. Spend millions of dollars on the place and then go with the cheap electrics. In a loud clear voice I introduced myself.

“I’m here to see Mr Johnson about the writing commission.” I added, trying to sound helpful and authoritative at the same time. Author-itative. Crap. I’ve been trying to stop with the bad puns, and that just came from nowhere.

The gate clicked and swung noiselessly open at my slightest push. I slid inside and considered the carefully trimmed roses that bordered the path. The groundsman needed a hearty pat on the back, they were magnificent.

The leadlight framed door opened to reveal a lady of indeterminate age. She may have been in her thirties, or she might have been fifty with artful makeup. She was carefully dressed in ‘private personal assistant’ style. You know what I mean. Tight charcoal skirt, silk blouse and a business jacket that will survive fashion trends.

“Hello.” She smiled. “You’re right on time. Mr Johnson will be with you in a moment, he’s just taking a call from Hanoi. Please have a seat.” She indicated a room to the right of the entrance populated with several chairs and a coffee table. Unbelievable, an honest to god waiting room for the visiting help. Rich, polite and old fashioned.

“Tea? We have a wide selection.”

“No thanks. Coffee please.”

“I hope instant will do. I’m afraid we don’t have any coffee drinkers on the staff.”

Frankly, under normal circumstances I would rather chew a desiccated dog turd than drink instant coffee, but these weren’t normal circumstances.

“That’s fine. Three sugars and generous with the milk if you don’t mind.” I might manage to disguise the taste.

“Three sugars?” Her neatly shaped eyebrow lifted, raising wrinkles on her forehead. No botox there.

“I’m not sweet enough.”

“If you’re anything like your character in your last book, that doesn’t surprise me.”

“What makes you think that character was me?”

“My first husband was a police officer. I know the symptoms. And besides, isn’t every writer’s first novel about themselves?”

“Yeah, I heard that.”

She strolled out. Maybe it was just that the gentle flirting had piqued my interest, but I think there was a definite extra hint of roll to the hips.

One over sweetened, vaguely coffee flavoured cup of warm milk later, Alexander Johnson appeared in the doorway. I recognised him instantly from his photographs on the ‘net. Tall, slightly stooped but not slim. Greying hair not silver still dark at the temples. Wearing a suit strained across broad shoulders in the middle of the day in his own home. No spectacles.

“You’re the writer? Pleased to meet you.” He reached out with a shovel sized hand and grasped mine with a perfect handshake. None of the alpha male dominance squeezing crap, or trying to dive bomb into the grip like a media spin merchant, just a plain firm handshake. I guess when you’ve already made it you have nothing to prove to anyone.

“Likewise.”

“Come through to my office, it will be more comfortable.”

The house was clearly delineated. From the waiting room we crossed an open space large enough to qualify as a dance floor in a nightclub, with a mirrored bar and drinks cabinet to one side, passing two double doors that were firmly closed. Presumably the ‘living’ area lay beyond. The office itself had floor to ceiling windows that looked over a swimming pool to the peacefully murky reaches of the Brisbane River. Currently they were wide open, allowing the spring breeze to ruffle papers on the desk that ran the full length of the wall. Not a computer in sight.

“Have a seat.” He vaguely motioned towards the black Italian leather four seater. Mildly surprisingly it was neither plush soft or over stuffed hard, but moulded to me like a lovers hand.

“I hear you’re working on a new novel.”

“Yes. Still collecting material, but my agent is applying some pressure.”

“Hmm. Do you think you can still manage my commission?”

“To be honest, at the moment I’m not even sure what you want done. I sent that email expression of interest in reply to your advertisement for a writer in the Writers Association magazine, but other than the fact that it involved some research, that is pretty much all I know.”

He sprawled in his office chair, legs splayed and fingers laced behind his head, staring out the window.

“I want someone to do some research into my family history.”

I leaned forward in the chair, ready to stand up. “Look, I’m not a genealogist. I think you have the wrong man.”

“You were a cop?”

“Yes.” It wasn’t exactly privileged information. My agent had pushed the fact heavily in promoting my credibility.

“And I hear you can keep your mouth shut.” Now that might verge on privileged information, depending on how much he knew of my record.

“Of course.” Non-committal.

“I’ll pay ten thousand plus all expenses for you to write a biography of my uncle.”

I looked owlishly at him. That wasn’t bad money, when you had bills needing paid. I sensed a trap, but the term ‘all expenses’ got my attention.

“What kind of expenses are you talking about?”

“My uncle saw service in Vietnam. I’m guessing you will need to go to Canberra to the records at the War Memorial there. Also, he was born in Gympie, and I’d like you to visit the family farm to get a feel for him.”

“I haven’t done this biography thing before, I suppose I will need some authorisation from the family for the military records?”

“Of course. And the transcript of his trial should definitely be available.”

Trial?

“What trial?”

“He was court martialled for murder.”

“Wait a minute. You want me to do a biography of the black sheep of the family?”

“Something like that. Perhaps better put as expose the flaws in his trial.”

“What penalty did he get?”

His eyes crinkled in amusement.

“I think you misunderstand me. He was found not guilty.”

Now it was my turn to put on an amused face.

“Look, it’s been my experience that this sort of thing is usually the other way around. Families want prove other family members innocent, to remove the stain on the family name.”

“Until recently, I thought my uncle was merely a footnote in the family history. But three months ago my mother died, and an old family friend gave me these.”

He picked up a shoebox, slipped off the lid and handed it to me. Inside were dozens and dozens of envelopes.

“Old letters. So?”

“Some were from my uncle to my mother. Others, and there are a lot of them, are from my mother’s lover. They were going to be married when he got home from Vietnam and got out of the army.”

Lovely story, very romantic. I wondered when he going to tell me about the Dear John letter.

“And this relates to the biography precisely how?”

Alexander Johnson hunched forwards in his chair, his feet gathered tensely beneath him and leaned his weight through his elbows onto his knees.

“I was born while my mother’s lover was overseas. He is the man my uncle was tried for killing.”

He took a deep breath.

“I want you to prove that my uncle murdered my father.”

From tomorrow, a couple of times a week, I am going to start putting up chapters from the sequel to “No Working Title” (available in free pdf from my stories page).

This new title is tentatively “Begin Writing Here”.

I raise my hand, and the buses begin to slow down. Feet cease their gait inches above the ground, their bodies leant at the feather edge of balance. I step forward, delicately, testing the ground. It doesn’t yield an inch.

I can still feel the cave, dank and chilly, somewhere off at the edge of vision, and somewhere in the last vapor at the end of a breath. I shake my head, trying to clear away the fog. Hallucinations. But the vision has such vividness, I can almost believe I’ve fallen back in time. And cannot get out.

As I step into the road, I can feel the grit on the ground pressing painfully into the new flesh on my soles. The buses, painted white and turned gray by grime, ran on liquid gas and compressed air. And then a second thought: they painted the roads white too, at first, and then paved over the asphalt with concrete. Because, I remember, it reflected the heat better. Following the thread, I peer into the Mops’ little truck. Yes. Cans of paint, their lips splattered white. And their long-handled brushes, the bristles caked solid. They had to bang them against the wall to loosen them up, the paint flaking off like dandruff. And then what? The next memory peeks over the edge, but doesn’t come out. I strain, and the harder I strain the further away it recedes, and so I give up. I heave out a sigh instead, filling my lungs with damp cave air.

My head does not work. Healthy memory, unbroken memory, deltas into tributaries. Carrying fertile deposits from the past, it gently deposits them them on treacherous sandbanks and swamps, awaiting the unwary. Boating along without a care, suddenly you may founder. Encountering the most innocuous object, the waters carry you back to another decade, to another person. He may have your face and your name. But only parts of him seem familiar to you, and the contact does settle you. Love mixes with revulsion, passion with anxiety. From lover’s breast, swept back to mother’s tit. And then you forget it, cast it aside, and push on. You map your way through the hazards, and emerge out, only slightly muddied, in a new land. The river flows on, and you flow with it.

But my scrambled brain, having lost the map to its branches and byways, has to take it all at once, in great big slices that fall, rumbling and booming and grinding and stenching, in unalterable sequence. Grounded, moving at the speed of sand. One grain at a time. I have to live it all again, in short, and this doesn’t exactly fill me with joy. I’ve got a job to do. I’ve got a killer to find. If I could but remember more than one moment at a time, I could pop what I need out like a troublesome buried thorn. First the head, and then the body, and then a little bit of blood to finish.

Broadly, I know what I can expect: this world suffers a disaster. I play a role. It destroys me. In seven days, I die. But beyond that cliffhanger, little remains. Flashes, hints, echoes whispering up from far below. I have to let go, go freely with the tide, and let come rushing up whatever the hell may.

Fine, then. My prey runs ahead of me, and I follow its trail. I turn back, and regard the four children with dissatisfaction. My younger self has gotten his mask off, and bleeds from a bit of a head wound. His lips drawn back from his teeth, he expresses simian outrage. All four share this look. Confronting each other, content as the cocksure centers of their world, far away in the past.

I reach out and touch him, my fingers spreading and sliding over his surface, disturbing not even the beads of sweat. He trembles as if on the edge of flight, each part poised perfectly to tense and then burst away, the moment that I smash him free from the imprisoning amber.

“Kid,” I say to him. “Look at you, playing games in your little plastic romper suit. Can’t you do better than this?” I pause, caught up in recollection, and echoes from below. “I think I loved you once. And then later, I despised you. Or did it?” I shake my hand, losing the feeling. “Well, now I couldn’t care less about you. If we could talk, I might tell you of the great destiny that awaits you, of the perfect world you must have a hand in building. But I doubt you can understand such things. All this ridiculous drudgery. Fighting over territory, I mean, seriously, kid! To think, I ever stooped so low. No, but you get your redemption. You get your part in my task. My tool. I only require your beady little eyes.” I peer into his dead gaze, staring right through me. “You’ve seen him, haven’t you? Or a woman, maybe? Who could hate you? Who could hate you so much as to stick with you all that time? You must have struggled to hurt a fly! But, I must have come here for a reason.” I turn away from him, survey the unmoving marble tableau, in rising frustration. “I can’t waste time! I have people waiting for me, depending on me! People I actually care about! Let’s get this done with.” Slowly, I loosen my grip. Time dribbles in, and the beasts wriggle their mellified limbs, and haul on upstream. The hunchbacked pedestrians, stinking of sweat and sunscreen and fear. The sardine-tin buses, farting their fishy gases into the air. The distant sirens. The posters on the wall covered in alarming red. The sun, baking it all to black little crisp. I breathe in, fill up on the hot chemical air. And suddenly, I have to laugh. “Look! Your world falls down about your ears! Why don’t you do something about it?” They click along their past-destined paths, and I live again. I laugh at them.

I turn back to my vessel. He whirls his arms like a mad boxer, punch drunk and stupid, his jaw masticating gargled curses.

“Come now!” I say to him. “We have work to do.”

And, teeth bared, I sink my claws in.

And Mike says, “Come to our birthday. You are invited.” He grins, his teeth stained red with blood, his eyes shooting bullets.

I shake my head in exasperation.

One time, we saw a man leap off a five storey building and land in the middle of a crowd. Afterwards we said that we had seen him perched at the edge, and then very calmly step off, his face totally blank. He fell with his arms kept neatly to his sides, never once flailing. And who knows? Maybe we did see it. The people on the ground did flail. Nobody could believe that he hadn’t taken someone with him, but he’d landed in an empty spot and crushed only himself. The crowd felt that some kind of miracle had occurred, and they seemed uncertain what to do with it. These survivors wept, moving their hands about like they felt something clinging to their faces. Tears ran down their sweaty cheeks and into their masks, and when they used their hands to wipe them away the talcum from their gloves made white streaks. They buzzed in alarm, occasionally raising their voices in order to more effectively hear themselves.

“Suicide! Or else -?”

“- missed by this -”

“- forbid this kind of -”

“- all of us soon -”

“Ju – udgment! Te – errible fa – ate!” This last from a crazy lady, her hair wild and hands red and scaly from wringing. Nobody looked at her as she wailed, but they did not move away. They listened as she went on about the usual things. “God has hidden his face from us and the de – e – evil! The de – e – evil! The de – e – evil!”

“The fucking devil what?” Mike scratched his ass, making a squeaking sound as his glove rubbed against the suit fabric. “She stuck or something? Someone outta smack the bitch, she broken.”

We squatted across the street, partly hidden in a doorway, observing the situation and trying to work it through. The street clogged with early morning traffic, well-packed buses picking up speed for a foot or two before slowing with scraping metal screeches. The acid stink of chemical engines soaked the humid air, already hot enough to send sweat cascading down the back, to pool squelching around the toes. I looked up at the sky, so horribly blue you could swear the black of space showed right through. A woman passed by, rubbernecking the crowd, and then glanced around at us. I met her eyes. Mine narrowed, hers widened, she hurried on. I wanted to strip down and go after her, naked and grungy.

“I can’t see anything,” I complain. “They’re in the goddamn way. What they gonna do, just stand there all day? I can’t see a fucking thing from here.”

“Fuck this shit. Hey, Dancing,” Mike slaps my back. “Let’s party.”

We grab up our crowbars and dash across the street, grinning like cats behind our masks. Buses crunch to sudden stops to allow our passing, the passengers flung into each other. Pedestrians see us coming and freeze in terror. The crowd hasn’t noticed us, until we open up and shout, “Office of Special Reclamations! Move along! Move along!” They turn around and see us headed at them, two furious running specters in yellow hazard suits and black gas masks. They have no time to think before we pounce on them. “Our authority must not be opposed! Special Office business here! Move along! Clear the street!” The crowd explodes in all directions, leaving only the stink of their terror. In half a minute the entire sidewalk had cleared. They don’t even dare look at us, passing by on the other side staring at their feet and holding in the air in their lungs. Only – can’t believe it! – one guy hovers behind, quivering with some emotion. His suit, threadbare at the elbows, hung off his emaciated body. Between his paper mask and his flopping hat a pair of spectacles with a thick frame overwhelmed his nose and accentuated the wateriness of his drooping eyes. We boogle at him through our mask panes, not quite believing the audacity of this mouse.

“Clear the street, citizen!” I repeated, waving my crossbar under his nose. “Office business, can’t you hear?”

“What -?” he gulps. “What is it, then? Is it the plague? Is it,” he gulps again, and repeats, “the plague?” Mike and I look at each other. He shrugs and makes a gesture with his crossbar, suggesting a hook and tug at the balls. But the guy goes on, his voice growing. “Look, you have to do something. You people, the government, can’t you do anything? Every day people die! Every day!”

I lunge at him, and get my arm around his shoulder before he can shrink away. I turn him away from the body, all companionly. “Look, sir. Can I call you sir?” I leer in close. Our eyes meet, spectacle to mask. “Buddy, friend! Do you want to stick around here? The plague doesn’t usually kill people by making them jump off buildings, does it? That means, this could be – and buddy, I’m just saying it’s a possibility, here – a mutation.” I spell it out for him. “Mew-tay-shun! A horrible new evolution of the unknown terror that stalks us.” I glance over my shoulder at Mike as I say this. He already can’t take it, clutching his belly. “You didn’t hear it from me, brother. Hush hush, now. Dad’s the word, big daddy. Big brother, I mean. You understand, of course, am I right?” I gestured up at the nearest monitoring pole, drawing his attention to its unblinking jet lens, and its little red light. He opened his jaws, but I rolled over it. “The plague! The plague, sir! This mysterious demon, from what hell does it spring? How does it transmit? Why is there no cure? All these things remain unknown to us, even to the best minds of science, who labor even now, even at this very moment, to bring light to this darkness! Sir! Citizen! Comrade! Each fresh victim could provide the answer! We of the Office of Special Reclamations exist to deliver to them these unfortunate souls, the innocents cruelly struck down in the rose – no, sir! The peach! The very fuzz of the peach! The innocent fuzz! Like the first dewy hairs on the vagina of a very young and virginal girl child. As I’m sure you know, sir! In my bag, in this bag on my back, I have many black sacks large enough to hold a dead body. Do you really want to be bothering us in the execution of this duty? Do you want to obstruct justice? Aren’t you a patriot?”

“I -” splutters the goof. Behind us, Mike has started a coughing fit.

“The rich! The poor! Man! Woman! Child! It strikes at all, indiscriminate! Who is next? Is it you?” I lower my voice and breath chemical air on him out of my filter. “Is it you, sir? Could it be you, sir? Could it be you?”

He breaks away from me, his eyes wild. “I should -”

“Are you next? You are, aren’t you? You’re next, aren’t you?” I stalk after him as he backs away, tripping off the curb. “You’re next! You’re next, cocksucker!” He turns and flees, nearly falling under the wheels of a bus. I shout after him, waving my bar in the air. “You’re fucking next! Shithead! Run! Run away, shithead!” The bus jerks on and gets between us. The passengers gawp down at me. I make a rude gesture, and they find other things to look at.

“Aw fuck, Dancing!” Mike gasps. “Fucking hell, I thought I’d fucking die, man! Holy shit!”

“I swear to God, it’s too fucking early for this shit, Mike. Where the fuck do these douches come from? Why don’t they all just blow away? Fuck off!” The bus passes, but I have lost my friend among the shuffling crowd on the other side.

“God, his face, his fucking face. I thought he’d piss himself, his fucking face! I thought I’d piss myself. Holy shit, dude.”

Then we remember our dead guy. All ours now, we bend down and regard him with awe and pleasure. He’d landed on his front, one arm bent beneath the body and the other splaying at an odd angle, reaching for something not there. The pale white skin of his cheeks had cracked like an egg, his whole face squished flat into the concrete. His legs lay neat and straight together, knees locked. Blood trickled from all over the place and rivuleted in the sidewalk cracks. Flies had already arrived, scouts for a maggoty new empire.

I pointed. “See his legs? You go like that when the brain stem pulls out of the brain. I mean out of the skull. It pulls right out, and your limbs lock up right away.”

“Fu – uck! Let’s flip him over,” Mike grinned, hunkering down to get a closer look.

“Shit no! Don’t fucking touch him!” I laughed. “He ain’t our business. Shit.”

“He could be plague. Fucking weirder things happened.”

“He’s plague now that we’re here. No one’ll touch his pasty ass, as long as we got it. I bet he’s got some weepy kids up in the window looking down right now. ‘Oh, daddy daddy!’” The mother hustles them away, herself shaking with terror. Dad doesn’t exist now, kids. Daddy never existed. We killed this man again, with our arrival. Convicted him, executed him, even after he died. Now no one dares even to look at him. His body thrown into a furnace, even his smoke burned to gas, and the gas burned away to atoms. If they could, crush the atoms to heat, and let the heat drift away to vacuum. “The fucker don’t even exist anymore, if we stick around.”

“Yeah, sorry brats. The Rats ate him.” We bump fists like terrorists, and pause there, watching the seepage. “Then fucking tell me, Dance. What the fuck we angling?”

I sighed. “Well, if he got a nice place, I suppose.”

And then we went through his pockets.

“Nothing!” I said, astonished. “The jackass got nothing!”

“You gotta be fucking me.” It astonished Mike too. “All this effort for shit! What the hell are we going to do now? Look at the jew, not even any shoes. Maybe he is plague, the fucking fuck bastard. Shithead. People survive falls like that all the time, you fucking moron. Learn to suicide! Bring some fucking ID so someone gives a shit. Shit ass failure, fucking jewing us!” He stood there, rocking back and forth on his feet. “I want to fucking kick his skull open. I want to see his brains.” He waved his crowbar and made a slurping noise, echoing it weirdly through the mask. “Let’s break him open, fuck it! Brain takes forever to scrape off, when it dries.”

“Yes, that would be thinking.” Suddenly this whole thing seems like a big mistake. What had we thought? We just had to keep quiet for one more week. One week without drawing notice to ourselves. I felt horribly exposed, out there on the street, with a big crowd not looking at us. The monitor pole glared blackly down. Grabbing Mike’s shoulder, I said, “Let’s get the hell out of here, leave him for the Mops or whoever.”

“Fuck.” But he stood up to go. We took up our crowbars, turned around, and saw a flash of white coming at us down the street. Two guys in white suits and white masks, leaning out of their little buggy and waving their arms in fury. The buggy had tanks on the back, and brushes on the sides, and wove in and out of the confused bus traffic as gamely as it could manage.

“Aw, damn! Fuck! Mops.”

Mike laughs. “Bad timing, D. Here come the faggots now!” He hummed, interested again, twirling his crowbar. A maestro, preparing his baton for the performance. We can hear the Mops’ inarticulate howls of rage now, over the burping of the bus engines.

“They’re fucking mad. We’re over the line.”

“I think it’s that ape Teebee, and his buttpal Jerome. We could have a real party here, boy! Real fucking hey!” I see his hand go, almost unconsciously, into his leg pouch. Fingering what he has there. I feel it too, and it races my heart. “Teebee and Jerome,” muses Mike. “They’re fucking nobodies. Nobody’ll give a shit. We go?” His breathe hisses fast through the filter. In and out. He repeats, urgently. “We go?”

“We don’t fucking go.” I say. “We can’t have trouble. Not out here. Not now. Let’s think about it. We got to fucking think about it. We can’t have the vans show up. We’re on their territory, that’s fair. We got to let them hit us. Fucking can’t do shit.”

“Who the fuck are they?” I can hear his bared teeth. “We’re fucking First Team. Fucking little bits of shit. Don’t make me, Dance. Don’t fucking make me, you fucking cunt.”

“We’ll invite them.” He looks at me, sullen. “They’ll be there. They’ll be there.” I promise him with my eyes. The Mops almost have us now. We can hear words now, howled curses, spat fury. Mike had it right. Teebee and Jerome. I once saw Teebee smash a bottle with his hand, and shake the glass out of the skin without flinching. He had a chest like a bulldozer. A brain like pudding. Jerome, his dreadlocks tied up on top of his head, beat a guy bloody at the party with the Pinks last year. Yes, we knew them. Guys you could respect, if you thought about it. We have ethics, after all. I say it all to Mike in a moment, and I see him sag. He sighs, withering. In all this, we hadn’t moved an inch. We stood either side of the dead guy, in forms of forcible nonchalance. We didn’t think about running, I promise you that.

“Ah, fuck it.” Mike drops his crowbar, and takes his hand out of his pocket. “They’re really going to hurt us. Fuck. You owe me.”

“Hey hey!” I drop my own crowbar, dull clanging on the stone. I look at its red tip, and then up. “Hey, how old we gonna be next week?”

Mike laughs. His shoulder relax, squealing the plastic of the suit. “Fuck, I dunno. Nineteen, ain’t it?”

“The fuck we are!” I laugh. We laugh together. The Mops leap off their buggy without stopping it, splitting their legs in the air, and hit the ground at a charge. “Maybe we’ll get some awesome face scars.”

“You fucking Rats!” Teebee screams as he leaps the curb. “You monkey fucking quee – eers!”

“Hey, Teebee!” I raise my hand.

And Teebee runs into me. I fly off my feet and hit the ground, going limp immediately. Teebee hauls in and jabbers at my blank mask.

“I’m-a stick my boot up your pussy gonna cum out your nose! Whoo – oooh!” And then he dances around, kicking his feet in the air and clapping. Behind him, I see Jerome kicking Mike, who tried to keep his head covered up.

I stand there, naked on the street, and watch myself twitching. They cannot see me, and occasionally they pass right through me. The vividness of it all startles me. I feel insubstantial, ghostly. Not them. Not my youthful self, groaning and clutching his head. Teebee straddles my face, grinds his crotch into it. I slap it away, groggy.

I laugh and laugh.

I have returned to the past. Or maybe it’s come to get me.

Breathe in. That old stench. The city, the place of my birth. High summer. So hot you could cook an egg on your forehead. The city, the place of my death.

I have seven days left to live.

]]> http://vwkarve.wordpress.com/2009/04/11/appetite-for-a-stroll-mouthwatering-kolhapuri-memories/ Sat, 11 Apr 2009 16:54:13 +0000 Vikram Karve http://vwkarve.wordpress.com/2009/04/11/appetite-for-a-stroll-mouthwatering-kolhapuri-memories/

A Hearty Meal from the Heart of India

Here is a excerpt from my Sulekha Blogprint Series Foodie book APPETITE FOR A STROLL

http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm

Purepur Kolhapur

Mouthwatering Memories of a Hearty Kolhapuri Meal

by

Vikram Karve

It’s a hot Sunday afternoon in Pune. I am voraciously hungry and am pining for a fulfilling meal. And what can be better than a wholesome authentic Kolhapuri meal to blissfully satiate my pangs of hunger?

So I proceed to my favourite Kolhapuri restaurant called “Purepur Kolhapur” near Peru Gate, the food district, in the heart of Pune City. It’s a Spartan no-nonsense eatery; the only thing conspicuous is the ‘Kolhapur zero-milestone’ outside the entrance which makes it easy to locate.

I saw a similar zero-milestone somewhere in Kothrud the other day and wonder whether a branch of “Purepur Kolhapur” is coming up there too!

There are just three main items on the menu – Mutton Taat (Thali), Chicken Taat, (which cost Rs. 75/- each), and Purepur Special Taat for a princely Rs. 120/- (I am told that the ‘Purepur Special’ contains everything the place has to offer!).

There is a flurry of activity and a large stainless steel taat is placed in front of me almost instantly.

The Purepur Special Thali comprises the following:

· A large bowl of thick chicken curry with four generous pieces of chicken.
· A plate of appetizingly crisp dark brown pieces of fried mutton liberally garnished with almost burnt deep fried onion strips.
· A Kheema Vati (Katori)
· A vati of Tambda Rassa ( Red Gravy)
· A vati of Pandhara Rassa (White Gravy)
· Kuchumber salad made of onions, ginger, coriander, green chillies and curds
· Lemon pieces
· A fresh piping hot chapatti (You can have bhakri if you want, but today I’m in a mood for a crisp hot crunchy chapatti splattered with pure ghee)
· A bowl of jeera rice garnished with crisp brown fried onion strips and cashew nuts.

I sip the pandhara rassa – it’s invigorating.

Next I spoon into my eager mouth a generous portion of mutton fry. It’s not melt-in-the-mouth stuff  (I think it is the inimitable Bolai mutton).

I chew slowly and savor the sweetish taste of the fried onions blended with the lively spiciness of the crisply fried mutton.

I dip a piece of the piping hot chapatti into the tambda rassa allowing it to soak in, place it on my tongue and chew it to a pulp until it practically swallows itself savouring the flavour till the very end. Exquisite!

Now using my right thumb and two fingers, I lovingly pick up a small piece of chicken from the gravy; delicately place it on my tongue and roll it against my palate.

I close my eyes, look inside, and focus on the succulent boneless chicken release it’s zesty juices and disintegrate. Yes, unlike the crispy fried mutton which need a vigorous chew to truly relish its deliciousness, the chicken is soft and tender, almost melt-in-the-mouth.

I sample the Kheema Vati – it’s totally different from the Kheema I’ve tasted at Irani and Mughlai eateries. The Kheema has an unusual taste I can’t exactly describe – a bit sweet and sour– a counterbalancing contrast, perhaps.

Now that I’ve sampled everything in it’s pristine form, I squeeze a bit of lemon on the mutton and chicken and embellish it with kuchumber to give it the right tang, and from time to time I sip the wholesome pandhara rassa.

I thoroughly enjoy the confluence of contrasting tastes. In conclusion I mix everything with the rice and rejoice the riot of zesty flavours.

At the end, as I always do after all hearty spicy meals, I pick up a wedge of lemon and squeeze a bit of lemon juice into my glass of water and sip it down.

Believe me, it improves the aftertaste and lightens the post-meal heaviness sometimes caused by spicy Indian cuisine.

It’s an exciting, invigorating meal which perks me up and the sheer epicurean pleasure I experience makes up for the crowded, hassled ambience and indifferent service. Purepur Kolhapur is worth a visit for the quality and authenticity of its food.

For most of us “Kolhapuri” food has become synonymous with the “chilli-hot” self-styled, purported, ostensible Kolhapuri fare served in both high falutin and run-of-the-mill restaurants whose menus often feature dishes called “Chicken Kolhapuri” or “Vegetable Kolhapuri” which masquerade as Kolhapuri cuisine.

Kolhapuri cuisine is “spicy”, not “chilli-hot”, not “rich” and “fatty” – nothing exotic about it.

A Kolhapuri meal, unique in its simplicity, comprises a variety of lip-smacking, earthy, flavorsome, nourishing dishes and is so complete that it creates within you a inimitable hearty wholesome sense of fulfillment, and is a welcome change from the ubiquitous fatty and greasy-rich Makhanwalla, Masala, Kadhai, Handi, Naan, Biryani, the popular Punjabi and Mughlai fare you eat day in and day out. There is a world of a difference between pseudo- Kolhapuri and authentic-Kolhapuri food.

I do not know where you get genuine Kolhapuri cuisine in Mumbai, Delhi or any of the Metros.

I was disappointed to find not even a single authentic Kolhapuri restaurant listed in various Good Food Guides to Mumbai. If you, dear fellow Foodie, know of an authentic Kolhapuri restaurant in your town or city, will you be so good as to let us all know?

Happy Eating!

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

If you want to learn of such yummy places in Mumbai and Pune and read about some really mouthwatering foodie adventures and lip-smacking recipes why don’t you get a copy of my Foodie Adventures Book  APPETITE FOR A STROLL?

Just click the links below to know morecre:

http://www.indiaplaza.in/finalpage.aspx?storename=books&sku=9788190690096&ct=2

http://www.flipkart.com/appetite-stroll-vikram-karve/8190690094-gw23f9mr2o

http://books.sulekha.com/book/appetite-for-a-stroll/default.htm

Remember – There is no love greater than the love of food.

Happy Eating

Vikram Karve

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com/

http://www.linkedin.com/in/karve

vikramkarve@sify.com