Plazma (comments on style would be nice)

[Azmacna]

Chapter 1


There are many stories, none have a beginning and none have an end - they are but a current of overlapping events that are viewed in dislocation, like an ocean of moments, forever churning and on occasion washing something up on our shores. We (the disenfranchised) gaze into that ocean in an attempt to make sense of our part in it, and maybe, just maybe, in a moment of pure luck, when the ripples divide and the privilege of clarity is ours, we realise our potential. It is here that we draw our fingers through the waters in the hope that it will cleanse our pasts, and we will see our futures. Therefore, it is here we begin, in the centre of things:

* * *

The door burst open. Two men entered. Suspended between them a blindfolded captive – stripped of everything but his boxer shorts – struggled for freedom, his legs kicking as if trying to propel him backwards off an imaginary wall. He tugged frantically against the hands that gripped him beneath his armpits, the other two hands, tight around his frail wrists. However, it was fruitless endeavour; he was nothing compared to their strength - just a rag doll of a man hauled towards an empty chair where Vern awaited. The henchmen forced their prisoner into the chair and, taking twine from Vern, began to lash it around their captive’s torso and arms. It bit into his flesh bringing grimaces to his face and groans from his blooded lips. Still he fought for freedom, body twisting and raging against the restraints, chest heaving, skin flushed from adrenaline. The henchmen forced down on his shoulders, faces impassive.

“Mr Johnson,” Vern said and smiling, rested his weight on Johnson’s tethered hands. “Nice to meet you at last.” His voice resonated off the whitewashed walls.

Vern was wearing a black suit, which had been pressed to perfection, the indigo shirt beneath sporting a thin, white tie. The suit was spotless, as if it had been taken fresh from the rack. His features, however, were in complete contrast: furrowed and dry, creasing and deepening with every syllable.

“I see my colleagues have already introduced themselves.” He grasped Johnson by the jaw, inspecting his mauled and beaten face and then glanced up at the two men flanking him. “Bad, bad boys,” he said, his voice calm and even, “Look at the state of our guest. Hardly the welcome one would expect, eh Mr Johnson?” Vern paused for a moment to remove the blindfold. “Please forgive Vern and Forrester, Mr Johnson, they are a little … how should I say … too enthusiastic.” Having said that, he swung a fist into Johnson’s face.

Johnson - who had until now managed a mere whimper - suddenly found strength enough to bawl like a child. “Please … please don’t … Stop, I beg you.” The words bubbled in his throat, blood streaming down his chin from his nose and a gash below his left eye.

Vern dragged another chair up and spun it on its front leg to face Johnson, who flinched. Apart from a table behind Vern and a filing cabinet in a far corner, the room was empty. A bulb set directly above spilled light on the two and threw shadows beneath them.

“I think you’ve guessed what’s about to happen, Mr Johnson.” Vern whispered into his ear. Once again he examined his wounds. “That looks really sore.”

“I know nothing …” Johnson said, tears welling in his swollen eyes. “I have a wife … a son … please, I’m begging you ... If I knew anything I would tell you.”

“Would you?” Vern stood and turned away from Johnson, rubbing his chin. Then he turned back looking at his two men. “Or perhaps you are a very clever man—” He leant on Johnson’s hands again, “and a very brave one.” His two colleagues sniggered. “You could be the devil himself.”

“No … I’m just an ordinary man ...”

“I think your going to be very difficult to break,” Vern continued. “It’s going to take a lot of effort on my part and a lot of pain on yours.”

Johnson’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared as he began another futile struggle.

“Now, now,” Vern said, pouting his lips a little, “don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself.” He signalled the other two men to leave and rounded the chair on which Johnson was tied, playing with Johnson’s hair. As the door clicked shut, Vern took a handful and pulled back Johnson’s head.

“Please … please don’t hurt me … take all my money.” Johnson squinted as light stabbed his eyes. “I’ll take you to the bank … you can have it.”

“I don’t want your money,” Vern said and laughed. “I want information. What can you tell me about Brian Wetherhall?”

“Nothing,” Johnson said, “I told your men … I don’t know Brian Wetherhall … I’m telling you the truth … please, you have to believe me.”

“Okay, okay,” Vern said softly, “I do believe your telling me the truth. But to be honest, I just feel like having some fun today. It‘s been a tiresome wait.”

Johnson drew a deep breath and shouted at the top of is lungs.

“Its so peaceful out here. Feel free to shout Mr Johnson, no one can hear you, and besides, you’ve just pissed … me … off!” He took the blindfold and made it a gag, tying it tightly between Johnson’s teeth. Muted sounds were coming from behind the gag. Sounds a son should never hear his father make: mules, wails, terror.

“One thing you have to understand, Mr Johnson …” He spat his name distastefully (this was a maggot and he was the hook), “there are no more negotiations from this point, just the whim of a savage man.” Clearly enjoying his own words, he sat on the table and crossed his ankles and looked directly into the light. Johnson followed his gaze but the light was too bright for him. “The world is full of possibilities.” He gazed at the door now as if he were expecting someone to enter.

Johnson tried to skew his eyes towards the door, twisting a frail neck to see who may enter, but nobody came.

“You say you have a son?” Vern asked. Johnson nodded obediently. “It might surprise you to know that I also had a son … but he’s gone now …” For a moment he was somewhere else, running through memories of younger, happier days when the town had no time for him; when its dirty fingers could not catch his ankles as he ran through the streets.

“I could burn you … perhaps. I could take a knife to that soft, lily-white skin – a nick here, a nick there. You’d take a while to die. But then again, I might just let you go …” He let that thought hang in the air for a while. “You see, it’s a game I like to play, the object of which is to make you suffer. I love suffering, it’s so amusing. But whatever you do, don’t piss or shit. I hate it when they do that … all that mess for my men to clean up, and besides it will make me drag the whole thing out even longer.” He looked at his watch and tapped it. “We’ve got plenty of time for it … Or maybe I could just let you go.“

Johnson nodded frantically.

“Do you really think that I would let you go when I can have so much fun?” Johnson was shivering, air hissing sporadically from behind the gag. “I’ve decided your going to die anyway. I know you wouldn‘t say anything, your much too cowardly to risk being caught again. No doubt you‘d be able to carry on with your life much as usual. But cowardice and torture are my favourite combination. Only one more thing to decide: gag or no gag. Hearing a grown man mewl and beg has its rewards - they can utter the most enlightening things - but then again it can be equally as enriching to witness a mute trying to beseech with only the eloquence of expression, an honesty seldom seen. You do know Brian Wetherhall don‘t

you?…”

Johnson nodded nervously, his eyes closed.

“No you don’t, Mr Johnson, don’t be silly, you’re just saying that in the hope that I will let you go.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll leave the gag on I think. I don’t like lies. Oh well, time to begin.”

He walked over to the cabinet and slid it open. “This is going to be really painful, so you better hope you pass out within the hour, Mr Johnson. Oh, and don’t take it personally, I’ve done this many times.” He took a box from the cabinet and clipped it open. “The eyes are very pain intensive. Not as delicate as you would believe.” He held up a needle, and wetting the end of a length of black cotton with his lips, threaded it through the eye. “First of all, though, I have to make sure you keep them open.

* * *

Jacobs looked out of his window on the 14th floor of the apartment building, at a world he detested. Blind and insignificant, the ants down there scurried about their daily business, unaware of the bigger picture. Fools, he thought. Little people with tiny lives … questions, questions that’s all you know.

A strip light flickering above illuminated a flat in the advanced stages of dereliction. Empty beer cans and packets were strewn throughout the room, filthy testimony to a solitary existence. Pornography was heaped everywhere, all well thumbed and as grubby as their content. A rancid odour pervaded the room, creating the perfect environment for the many flies that flitted from one discarded lunch to the next.

Jacobs pushed his face against the windowpane, unsteady on his feet. “I know you all …,” he slurred, his nostrils frosting the glass. He stepped back and drew a ‘J’ in the condensation …, “every single one of you.”

He thought about taking judgement back down there on the streets, but he feared the consequences. They had many eyes and see from many places. They were the very reason that Jacobs had chosen isolation. In one way though, it had clarified his views. “You so called caring, loving people, don’t know love. You know sentimentality, yes.” He pulled a face and moved it from side to side in a derisive, childlike manner, before the thunder rolled back beneath his eyes. “None of you know love at all. You don’t know what its like to have it all and then nothing. If you had a zip from toe to chin I’d open you up and step right in. That’s love … that’s love …”

He left the window and tipped a chair by the table to sit on. The three magazines that were upon it fell to the floor and were summarily kicked aside. He cradled his head with his hands and breathed out deeply... In that moment, when his body was slack and his mind was free from thoughts of breathing, he imagined himself dead. Who would come to say farewell? How many forgotten faces would stare down upon his coffin? Each would have a handful of dirt, no doubt. Then he thought with melancholy, she wouldn’t be there though. He refilled a small glass, besmirched with fingerprints and spilt whiskey, and tipped it down his throat. Then with spirits glistening on his chin, he slid his arm over to his left. His hand stopped at a stack of pornography. “Hello, my friends,” he said, his voice oozing from one word to the next, “would you like to come to bed with me?” he caught a whiff of his own body odour, “No shower tonight I’m afraid though my loves. You’ll have to put up with the stench of self pity.” This observation cheered him. “Maybe I’ll bring some other friends too.”

He walked over to a display cabinet, which was unused, save a small, worn photograph in a brass picture frame of a young woman - and opened the sliding door at its base. It was here he kept his toys: vibrators, beads, rings and a plethora of other similar things. He drew his fingers through them like a child at a pick and mix, eventually opting for a vibrating cock ring.

“Ah … just the thing,” he said, checking it to see if there was any life left in the batteries. The buzz brought a smile to his lips.

“Come on darling, time for bed.”

He returned to the table and took the magazine, kissing the nude on the cover as he flicked the light off and entered his bedroom, backing the door too until it clicked closed. The bed sheets where in disarray, twisted and stained. He placed his bed friends reverently down on a bedside cabinet and began the task of unravelling last night’s nightmares. Once done, he slipped between the sheets and pulled them tight to his unshaven chin. There was enough light coming in through the windows from the neon signs across the road for Jacobs to read, and so he lay there, washed in blue and red.

“Right, my sweets,” he said, reaching for his toys and then slipping them beneath the bedclothes. A ruddy hue lit the pages of the pornographic magazine, which had automatically fallen open onto the most lurid picture therein. He closed his eyes to the image and lifted it from the page with his mind. She sat beside him on the bed, those breasts inches from his cheek, those legs enticing. She slid her hand beneath the sheets to join his own busy hand and turned so that Jacobs could rest his head on her breasts. Slowly and blissfully, he drifted into seamless fantasy; that moment when the author forgets he is creating and the words begin to live. He directed many lurid scenes; each one seemed an eternity squeezed into to a single moment; each one more depraved than the last. That was the way he would orchestrate his journey, building gradually to its pinnacle and his ultimate sin.

A creek outside the door.

Startled, Jacobs sat up, his fantasy discarded like a used durex. “Hello …” he said, easing his legs from beneath the bed sheets; slipping into his slippers. He took a dressing gown from a hanger in the wardrobe and closed the door as quietly as he had opened it, teeth locked, eyes tremulous. “Who’s there?” He swallowed, vexed at the weakness of his own voice. He reached beneath the bed searching for the baseball bat he kept there, his eyes piercing the darkness, looking, searching. Where the hell is it? he thought, sweat beginning to trickle down his temple. “I’d get moving if I were you … I’m armed.” At last, his hand stumbled upon the bat. “I’m coming out, I hope your not there.” He flicked the switch on his bedside lamp and cursed under his breath when nothing happened. He took a lung full of air and held it for a while, expelling it evenly in an attempt to bring his heartbeat under control. “Coming, ready or not,” he said and started for the door.

His hand was poised, fingers flexing, ready to turn the handle and step over the threshold into endless possibly. A mind that had only seconds before been employed to conjure bizarre sexual fantasy, now tortured him with the vivid possibilities of what horror lay in waiting beyond the door. He shoved. Unhindered by carpet, the door swung open and crashed into the display cabinet against the wall, sending its ornament crashing to the floor. The sudden din forced him to take a step backwards and brought his heartbeat back up to pace.

“You better get the fuck out of there.”

His eyes probed the murkiness of the living room. Gradually, unmistakeable shapes emerged out from the gloom, comforting, familiar and thankfully mundane: television, table, settee and chairs. Although the neon lights were directly opposite his bedroom, some illumination found its way in through the living room window, but the angle was so sharp that it did not penetrate the room, instead it merely coloured his grey curtains red. He had left the window open a fraction, just enough to cleanse the stench of neglect for the morning. However, judging by the way the curtains ebbed and billowed with the twilight winds, that gap had widened. Was it wide enough for a person? He speculated.

“I’ll tell you one more time,” he said, gripping hard onto the handle of the baseball bat as if he was about to make a home run. “You’d better get out or I’ll take your fucking face off.”

His foot crunched on the glass of the photograph as he took the first tentative step forward. He paused for a moment, his heart making a mockery of his bravado. A trickle of sweat ran down through his brow and into his left eye, which he wiped away with the cuff of his dressing gown and then quickly refocused.

“Gone, eh? Scared of old Jacobs?”

Silence.

He was beginning to wonder whether this whole episode had been courtesy of the all night off license. It would not have been the first time. He had spent a glorious fifteen minutes once discussing life and all its implications with a man who had chosen his balcony to jump from, only to find that he had been conversing with his own shadow. He lifted the picture frame gently from the floor and after shaking the remains of the glass from it, set it back on the cabinet. Although he could not see the young woman in the photograph, he smiled. He conjured her from the gloom – this saviour, this rare beauty that had done so much for him, this Miss Nightingale that had taken his heart and made it whole.

Obviously, whoever had broken in - if indeed that was the case - had left swiftly and out through the same way he had entered. And so, confident now that the danger had passed, he approached the window, holding the flapping curtain as he slid the window closed and secured it with the latch.

“That’s one determined burglar,” he mused and laughed at the sheer audacity of the climb from first floor. “Goodbye Spiderman,” he continued realizing the implausibility of his suspicion.

There was an unanswered question though: the lack of power. He walked over to the living room light switch and flicked it. Nothing ... Probably the fuse had blown, he thought. No, obviously the fuse had blown. He made for the electric box, which was beside the front door. Thankfully, he had left the key in the box so it was a simple matter from here on, except, how could he see. He had a box of matches in the drawer of the cabinet by his bed, and so he made his way - skirting the glass fragments carefully - back to his bedroom. “See you in a minute, my loves,” he said to the toys. On returning, he knelt and struck a match, holding it close to the fuses and squinting through the flame. The switch was on off. His heart began to drum again.

Suddenly someone was upon him. They were so remorseless that he buckled, his slovenly legs no match for the intruder’s insistence. An arm slid around his throat and held him tightly. Then he felt a sharp pain in his neck as if something had been inserted there. He could feel a cool liquid filling the area of penetration that chilled and numbed him to the bone. Shakes followed as the liquid coursed through his veins and that same numbness that he had felt at his neck now invaded his whole body. He was no longer afraid though. His mind had passed by that impostor, fear, and all he could offer was a slack lopsided smile before the world turned black.

* * *

The year was 2023. Police forces have been stretched to breaking point and small pockets of vigilante groups had emerged to plug the hole left by under investment. Regardless of tough legislation pushed through parliament to curb the use of fossil fuels, pollution had reached an all time high. Man’s obsession with the car had proven unrelenting and car manufacturers, with the help of large oil corporations, had out manoeuvred any attempts to replace their industry with electric driven vehicles. Cities and towns periodically experienced blackouts, to such an extent that most businesses invested in generators and were using them to illuminate signs and mobile adverts in an attempt to entice customers in. Shops and stalls sprung up everywhere. With jobs at a premium, the populace turned to trading as a means for survival - legal or otherwise. Drugs were now so commonplace that the police forces had all but given up on prosecuting dealers, instead concentrating all their resources on murders and burglary…

As was usual, the service in the ‘Coffee Shop’ was impeccable. Mr and Mrs Linn, the Chinese owners, were regularly back and forth with cloths and mops, making sure that the seats and tables were spotless. Some patrons found it disconcerting, but Nathanial Crowther found comfort in their attentiveness. The cups were never chipped; the cutlery was never dirty. The display cabinets were replete with confectionaries and savoury snacks - all placed there with immaculate care. He imagined that this quality was mirrored beyond the two white swing doors where the kitchen was located, and that also comforted him. Today, however, had not been a good day for Nathanial. Terry Johnson, who excelled in cooking the books, was late for an appointment with him, and he was desperate for his expertise. Once again, he glanced at his watch: 5.45. In a full ten months of dealing with Mr Johnson, he had always been punctual. His mobi lay upon the table, its tiny blue light blinked to indicate active.

‘Come on, come on,’ he was thinking, willing it to trill. He took the last sip of his decaffeinated coffee and spun the mobi on the table with his finger and thumb. He had rung him several times in the last half an hour but could only get Johnson’s voice mail.

“Anything else, sir?” It was the waitress again, pen and pad poised, ready for her orders.

“No thanks, Abigail” Nathanial answered. “If I have anymore coffee, I won’t be able to shut my eyes for a week.” The waitress smiled. “Mind you,” Nathanial continued, “if the view was always as nice as this, I wouldn’t want to.”

Abigail reciprocated with an arc of perfect teeth, her face flushed for a moment. He looked into her pale blue eyes and smiled himself. Her hair was the colour of corn and shone as it played about her exposed shoulders, the frill of her waitresses dress showing a little cleavage. He had noticed this many times before, the first time was when he read her employee name badge, the last, when she had bent to take his empty cup.

“How long have you worked here now?” said Nathanial, aware of her slight embarrassment.

“Six months come this weekend,” Abigail answered dutifully, standing to attention.

“And how old did you say you were?”

“I never,” Abigail said, “and isn’t it considered rude to ask a lady her age?”

“Sorry,” Nathanial said, hiding the interrogator, “tell me it's none of my business. It’s been a long day and I’m just talking for the sake of it I think.”

“Eighteen.” she said. “Now would you like another coffee, sir?”

“Ye’ that would be nice thank you.”

“Are you sure?” Abigail said, “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for keeping you awake all night.” Then she turned away and walked to the kitchen. “Coming right up.”

‘Was she flirting with him?’ He thought. He wondered what it would be like to lose himself in those pools of pure blue, to free him of the rock he had clung to for so long and throw caution to the wind. However, he was forty-one and she was eighteen. It had been nearly five years since he last made love and he was nervous at the prospect. He worried that he would be rushed and rusty; a dispassionate fool, fumbling with his insecurities. Nathanial had been a private man since his wife, Marie had died. She had taken a lot of who he was with her and left him a mere shell of his former self. Yes, he could muster enough good will to convince others of his confidence; even smile on cue, but at his core, he was a lonely individual struggling to come to terms with a world that - in his opinion - had changed irredeemably.

“Your coffee, sir.” Abigail said, cup in hand. He got the impression that she had not only just arrived.

“Sorry, I was miles away,” Nathanial said, this time finding himself flushed.

“Do you apologise for everything?” Abigail said and slid his cup across the table to his waiting hand. “What’s your name, by the way?” she continued, “seeing as we’re on speaking terms now.”

“We’ve spoken before,” Nathanial said defensively.

“Ye…hello sir, how are you? Did you enjoy your coffee, sir? Had a good day, sir? Not exactly what you’d call sparkling conversation.”

“Well, I suppose I didn’t think…well you know…me being…”

“Are you going to tell me your name?” she said and put her fists on her hips.

“Nathanial.”

“Well, Nathanial, I’ve got a fifteen minute break in a mo. Fancy a chat?”

“About what?” Nathanial said, finding it impossible to take his eyes from hers.

“Anything you want,” she said and raised her eyebrows, “give me five minutes and I’m all yours.”

He watched her as she disappeared into the kitchen, only averting his gaze once the doors had stopped swinging. Resigned now to the fact that his finances would have to wait until another day, he concentrated on the matters at hand. Although he considered himself too old for Abigail, a part of him wished for the impossible. Could this beautiful girl be truly interested in an ordinary, middle-aged man, who - judging by his reflection in the shop window - had seen better days? It was something he had always found difficult to assess: whether someone was attracted to him or just wanted to be friendly. When he was younger, many of his friends had jumped in headfirst only to find the water was freezing, and this had coloured his own approach. The doors opened, but it was not Abigail that entered it was Mr Linn.

“Everything okay, Mr Crowther?” he said as he folded a cloth and began cleaning the spilt sugar off the table at which Nathanial was sitting.

“Oh…certainly,” Nathanial answered and lifted his cup and menu.

“She’s nice isn’t she,” Linn said, “she’s been like daughter to us.”

Immediately Nathanial felt nervous. Mr Linn had obviously caught wind of their imminent rendezvous and felt it his duty to warn him of retribution if he did anything untoward. An employer was one thing but a father another. Nathanial couldn’t take offence at Linn though, he was only doing what he would want an employee to do if he had a daughter working there, and besides, wasn’t he having doubts about it himself? Nathanial placed the cup and menu carefully back on the table.

Nathanial felt obligated to say something: “Don’t worry Mr Linn, we‘re only having a chat.”

“Good,” Mr Linn said pointedly, “Let’s hope it stays that way.” With that, Mr Linn shifted his attention to the table opposite Nathanial’s.

“Hello again.” It was Abigail with a drink of her own and a plate of sandwiches. She sat down across from Nathanial and smiled. Her eyes skewed towards Mr Linn a moment and then returned to Nathanial. “Did you enjoy your coffee?” she asked. “I prefer tea, myself.”

“Yes, it was nice thank you,” he answered and shifted nervously in the seat. “I’ve always drunk coffee. What sort of sandwiches are they?”

“Spicy chicken,” she said. “Can’t get enough of it. Mmm tasty. Would you like a slice?”

“No thanks,” he said, “I’ll have something to eat when I get home”

Both fell quiet for a moment, both sipping at their drinks. Mr Linn had finished the table now and had moved to another directly behind Nathanial.

“I think I’ll just kick my feet up and relax in front of the TV when I get home,” Abigail said.

“What sort of films do you…”

Nathanial did not have time finish the sentence. He had been distracted by Mrs Linn who had appeared from the kitchen and was beckoning her husband over with her hand. When he did not immediately respond, she said a few words in Chinese that, although Nathanial could not understand, he knew carried gravity, because Mr Linn after nodding curtly to Abigail, left looking humiliated.

“Pornography,” Abigail said and laughed.

Nathanial laughed with her and mimed wiping his brow.

“He’s just looking after my interest, bless him,” Abigail said. “He means no harm.”

“He’s a good man,” Nathanial observed.

“Yes he is,” Abigail agreed, “and so are you.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Nathanial said with dishonourable thoughts swimming in his head once again, threatening to drown any good sense remaining.

“Anyway,” he continued, “you shouldn’t be trusting strangers just like that.”

“Would you trust me?”

“Yes I would actually.”

“Well there you go then,” she said emphatically.

“That’s different though. I’m…well I’m older.”

“And wiser?” she suggested. “Oh, I see, an eighteen year old woman can’t be.”

“Now you’re putting words in my mouth,” he said, discomforted by her observations.

“I know how men are you know,” Abigail said. “I’ve got three brothers, two of which I‘ve visited in prison on several occasions for one thing or another… and that’s not something I intend to do again. It‘s one of the reasons I‘m going to college. Thought an education could help me put my past behind me and get a better life.” She faltered for a second and swallowed before continuing. “Met half a dozen male chauvinists and my father was less than faithful to my mother, so you see I’m not naïve.” She looked at Nathanial squarely. “Look, I finish at 7.00, if you fancy popping back to mine I’ve got a cupboard full of coffee and you’ll find me the perfect host.”

Nathanial could not believe his luck. His appraisal of Abigail had been correct. She did find him attractive - well that was the way it looked to him. Perhaps a little fishing was in order:

“You don’t want an ugly old man taking up your sofa space, now do you?”

She sighed. “Age has got nothing to do with anything… and you’re quite cute actually.”

“Cute?” He laughed. He had never been described in that way before.

“Well, what do you say?”

He thought about what Mr Linn had said to him and how it would look; about how he had said it was only a chat; about how he would feel coming back here for a coffee the following day and have to face the father; but most of all, he thought about his insecurities.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, anxious to find a compromise without losing an opportunity, “we’ll do it another night, eh? I’m a bit tired.”

“Perhaps tomorrow night?”

“We’ll see…” He did not want her to think he found her unattractive. “You know, you’re a very pretty young lady and I’m so flattered that you invited me. Thank you.”

“No,” Abigail said, smiling once again, “thank you for being thoughtful.”

He felt an impostor; she had seen the angel in him but the devil had been overlooked.

* * *

The police had cordoned off the alleyway with tape and barriers. Three police cars had been parked to form an extension to the restricted area, their flashing lights throwing orange and red across the faces of two officers who manned the main entrance, halting any unofficial visitors. They were busy ushering sightseers away; physically move on the more persistent onlookers.

Two powerful spotlights were converged on the naked corpse of Terry Johnson, who had been positioned deliberately between two wheelie bins. His trousers were folded neatly and placed at his right foot. A Rolex watch, mobile phone and a wallet sat on top of the trousers. Johnson’s head lolled back and to one side as if the vertebrae in his neck had liquefied; his knees, which were bruised and grazed, were raised up and splayed open to expose the gaping wound that had once been his manhood. His right hand, minus its fingers, were placed alongside the castration, the other had been smashed and twisted behind his back. The stitched eyes stared blindly up at a murky sky that threatened rain.

“We’d better get the canopy up,” inspector Cortney suggested, following Johnson’s gaze at the thick, grey clouds that filled the late evening sky, “or we’ll be losing valuable evidence.”

Cortney drew close up to the corpse, inspecting the eyes. The right eye had been burned with what was assumed a cigarette and the left had three needles protruding from the iris, but it was the deep lacerations to throat and torso that were presumed to be the cause of death. Cortney could not imagine the level of suffering that Johnson would have had to endure. The very thought made him shudder to the core.

“Fucking sick bastards,” he said under his breath.

He had seen it all in the thirty years he had trailed these godforsaken streets, searching for justice, and in the process, he had lost his soul. ’Did it ever exist?’ he thought. How many more phone calls would he have to make that began with, "I’m afraid its bad news?" How many more grieving daughters and sons, fathers and mothers would he have to bear? Each with questions unanswered; each with recriminations.

Forensics had arrived on the scene and was busy slipping on their rubber gloves, while two other police officers began the task of erecting the tent around the scene. Cortney took a pencil from the breast pocket of his suit, and much to the chagrin of the two forensics officers, threaded it through the Rolex watch. “Who ever did this clearly have money,” Cortney pointed out and held it for Bunce’s inspection. “This has got to be worth a few euros.”

“500 to 600 perhaps,” Bunce suggested.

“I’ll take that, thanks,” one of the forensics team, said, opening a small plastic bag for Cortney to drop the watch inside. The second picked up the wallet and flipped it open describing the contents into a Dictaphone.

“So what in hell are we looking at here?” Cortney said, “All this… for what? Whoever did this took great pleasure in killing this poor Guy.” He looked again at Bunce. “You say that Johnson had no connection with anything illegal; not even bent in the slightest… doesn’t figure.” his second in command shook his head and shrugged. “What could it be? What did you do?” Cortney was addressing the corpse now, staring at its twisted, bloody lips as if answers could pass between them.

“Or who did he know?” Bunce offered.

“I want everything you can find out about this guy, yesterday. Where he spends his evenings; what colour he likes; when he takes a dump… everything. We need this prick off the streets and quick. The last thing we want is some fucking mad man stirring things up. We’ll have every goddamn vigilante out there on the streets with their own brand of justice.”

Cortney crouched by the body once again. “We’ll get this bastard, Mr Johnson, I promise you that.” then he stood and began walking back to his car. “I want every name on that phone listed and investigated and in the hands of my colleague here asp,” he said over his shoulder to forensics and gestured to inspector Bunce.

While driving home, Cortney attempted to but aside any cynicism. However, as much as he tried he could not stop seeing that, every face, every alleyway held potential crime - it was a side effect of his daily routine. It had become increasingly impossible to put his trust in anyone or anything. There had been too many late nights, too many early mornings and too much of his faith broken. Everything was corruptible. Relationships were no different.

He parked his car in the garage and paused, trying his hardest to slough the trappings of a day the same as any other. He wanted to present his wife with at least some semblance of the man she had fallen in love with, and not this embittered carcase that he faced with increasing distaste in the mirror every morning. She would see, he knew that, and she deserved sweetness even though he had grown bitter inside. He closed the door quietly behind him and looked up the stairs, before entering the kitchen and putting the kettle on. Two cups were placed upside down on the draining board, which he turned over and put a tea bag in each.

“Is that you, dear?” a feint voice shouted from upstairs. “Are you making us a cuppa?”

“Doing it now, Denise,” he shouted, “Just making sure it’s perfect.”

He stared at the kettle, willing it to boil, so that he could make his wife smile again. From time to time, she would smile like an angel, but most of the time it seemed out of courtesy. The kettle boiled and he poured the water into the cups, squeezing the teabags against the inside of the cups with a spoon and then adding a spoon full of sugar to each. Carefully he put the milk in, looking for the right hue and smiled when he knew it was perfect.

“Here it comes my little butterfly,” he said as he began climbing the stairs, “just as you like it.”

There was weak laughter, followed by a sequence of tiny coughs.

“Here you go,” he said and backed the bedroom door open. “You been watching TV then? Hope you haven’t been watching any of those porn channels.”

She laughed again, a little spittle coming from her drooping lip.

“Let’s make you comfortable,” he said and placing the cups on the bedside cabinet, began to ease her up into a sitting position, pushing the pillows in behind her back. “That better, flower?”

She nodded, sliding her hand across the bed sheets towards him.

He sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand. It was so delicate, so fragile. He looked at it carefully, moving his own fingers so that hers rose and fell in unison with his own. After a short while, he patted the back of her hand gently and picked up her tea.

“Here you go…,” he said, and moved the cup to her lips.

Her eyes met his. Sallow but still filled with want. She craned her neck forward, lips protruding as if it was just out of reach. He looked at her once graceful neck and saw the flimsy flesh that cancer had left her. A mockery of a life filled with energy and excitement.

“Careful now,” he said, finding it difficult to keep his tones even, “We don’t want you scolding yourself, do we”

“Sorry,” she said and looking down at the cup, began to sip.

“That’s it,” he said, “Just how you like it, eh? Not too sweet my butterfly, you’re sweet enough.”

She leant back again, “Have you been busy, dear?” she asked, her breathing shallow and sporadic.

“Just the usual,” he said. “Paperwork and even more paperwork. I’ll start looking like paper if I handle any more paperwork.” He laughed, which pleased him because it brought on one of those rare smiles of hers.

“You think I was born yesterday,” She said, again moving her hand to meet his.

“You’re too sly for inspector Courtney,” he said, playing with her thumb.

“You know,” Denise said, weakly, “the force would be fine without you.”
Cortney just looked at his wife, taking another sip.

* * *

“Good night,” Abigail said as Nathanial opened the door of The Coffee Shop.

“Tomorrow?”

Nathanial smiled at her and nodded, but inadvertently looked down at the floor before leaving, perhaps giving away a little of his insecurities. She may find that attractive, he thought, but immediately censured himself. He had never been a player and so simply considering that made him wince inwardly.

Rain baring clouds had slid across the heavens and begun to spill their own brand of cleansing. The streets were already taking on that glassy sheen and late night shop illuminations seemed to run like spilled paint into the gutters. Signposts and neon displays fizzled and steamed, some flickered, threatening to short but never quite giving up the ghost. It was a clash of colour that never failed to please him, even though he knew that behind this stage were phantoms with sharp teeth and greedy hands. He looked back at The Coffee Shop’s own display. There were no teeth there. He would return there tomorrow.

Dozens of disgruntled shoppers (most wearing masks against the polluted air) were hurrying about, their acquisitions in hand, making for their cars, and soon the streets were filled with a cacophony of hooters as each fought to make their way home before the rain soaked them through. Nathanial himself picked up his pace now, jostling pedestrians and dodging cars as they veered to find the nearest exit.

“Can you spare me a couple of euros mate?” it was a pale man slumped in the doorway of a shop, hand outstretched. He was slovenly with ripped jeans and his trench coat clung to the damp floor about him. His eyes beseeched Nathanial from their grimy, bearded home; two glistening moons for a night less than friendly. “Just a couple will do… or even one” his voice had a softness about it. Not the softness of purity but the softness that humility owns.

Nathanial reached into his pocket and took what change he had from it. “That’s all I’ve got in change I’m afraid,” he said, placing the coins into the open hand and closing the fingers around it. He knew that it would probably be spent on another fix or a bottle, but who was he to judge? People were people; journeys were journeys and this man had experienced many by the look of him - none of them idyllic it would seem. He wondered what had brought him here: choice or fate (that infamous impostor).

“Cheers, mate… good luck,” the man said and shoving the change into his trench coat pocket began the awkward process of standing.

“You make sure you buy some food with that, eh?” Nathanial said as he moved on. “Go to The Coffee Shop down the street there. Tell them Nathanial sent you and they’ll see you alright.”

Drugs had become a major problem since their legalization in 2011. Many designer drugs had emerged onto the market, each promising the ultimate escape. He had done a few E’s and smoked the occasional spliff in his twenties but now in his early forties only whisky passed for recreation.

The streets had all but emptied of chaos, except for those hungry for last minute bargains and respite from a soulless home. Perhaps he was no different. ‘Home is where you make it,’ he thought and considered the man in the doorway. When Nathanial finally got home, he would sit back in his chair, flick on the television and lose himself to its fantasy. A world depicted as less than perfect, but always consistent. There was comfort in that. Soaps with devastating stories that never seemed to have long term effects on the characters, except those of course that had to leave the show because of scandal or contractual obligations. However, that simply reminded you of the fantasy and as such had its own integrity. Then there were the Adverts showing what was purported to be an average family, their children happy and well dressed, their homes sparklingly clean, devoid of misadventure. Yet all the while emptiness sat in the room along side him, turning him to the bottle. For most part, he fought it, only succumbing occasionally, but the fact was that he was succumbing more often than he would want to admit.

“Paper, please.” Nathanial had stopped at a newspaper stall, the owner of which nodded in recognition of a regular patron. After he had paid, he sped off again, paper tucked under his arm. Only a couple more blocks now. He took his keys from his back pocket and held them ready for a quick exit from this world. The streets were empty here, only shadows and alleyways company for the final push. His footfalls echoed as he strode along the path, his heart quickened by a cruel imagination. Finally, he arrived home fumbling to insert the key, all the while checking around him for any signs of movement. Once inside he locked the door and bolted it.

If there was one place that reminded Nathanial of his solitude, it was here, within the confines of his flat, although at least it offered him sanctuary. To the casual observer, all was well. He had the perfunctory requisites of modern living: flat screen LCD high definition television with built in multimedia capabilities for the internet, games, films, music and such; lights that responded to verbal commands; leather suite and reclining chair to match with speakers inset into either side of the backrest. The décor reflected Nathanial’s minimalism with the barest amount of pictures or ornamentation.

He draped his leather jacket over the chair and sat. The date on the paper read 24.08.2023. He flicked the crease from the centre and read the headline: ‘Time to say no!’ It was a quote from a conservative minister who advocated the re-incarceration of aliens after a spate of poisonings. No-one had any idea where they had come from, only that they were not human. They were discovered deep in the Brazilian rain forests in 2004, by an explorer called Thomas E Forbes, who to this day argued that they are indigenous to this planet and as such should be given the same rights. It was because of pressure from Forbes that eventually the discovery was shown to the world in 2016. Up until that point, they had been housed in military facilities under top security for fear of mass hysteria. It was not until 2021 that they eventually were released under a freedoms and civil rights law. However, the relationship between humans and aliens had grown tenuous after it was discovered that they had a gland in the wrist of both hands that could inject lethal doses of poison. This, Forbes argued, was there only protection and way of survival in the wild and there was no proof that they had ever turned on a human. Until now that is.

Nathanial placed the paper on the arm of his chair and made for the kitchen, where he produced from the refrigerator a half-drunk bottle of whisky. He spun the top off and took a glass from a cupboard. After he downed the drink in one, he dry washed his face with the palms of his hands, noting the stubble from two days of neglect. He would get a shave tomorrow, he thought.

For a while, he gazed out of the window at his garden. High bushes and well-placed trees had turned it into a haven where he could genuinely find peace of mind. There he would listen to the birds and watch the branches sway in the breeze. Sometimes he would lie on his back out there in the middle of his lawn and contemplate God’s existence or just simply look at the stars. It was off limits today however, the rain had seen to that. The phone rang:

“Hello,” a male voice intoned. It was calm yet held authority. “Is that Nathanial

Crowther I’m speaking to?”

“Yes it is. And who am I speaking to?”

“Inspector Bunce. I understand you are an associate of one Terry Johnson?”

“Yes, he does my accounts from time to time.”

“We need to speak with you. Be at the station for 12.30”

“What’s this about?” Nathanial asked, perturbed by the curtness of the voice.

“All in good time, Mr Crowther. See you tomorrow.”

He pondered on what the police may want and hoped that old wounds had not been reopened. That had all been put behind him now. Although he could never forget or forgive himself, at least the pain had eased and the nightmares had lessened. He had considered the relentless mulling over of memory, pointless conjecture and despite the gravity of those past events; his mind had found peace at last, even if his heart had not. He took his wallet from his pocket and opened it to view the picture of his late wife, Maria. She smiled up at him from the photo, eyes full of optimism, lips red and wanting. Her blonde hair had curled about her face in a gentle breeze just as the photo was snapped and there she was, caught in a moment, just like Nathanial. “Hello my love,” he said and stroked the photograph, “I miss you so much.”

[Q Wands]

This is fairly longish, so I'll read and comment in bits, adding to this post as I go.

Niggles:

“I see my colleagues have already introduced themselves.” He grasped Johnson by the jaw, inspecting his mauled and beaten face and then glanced up at the two men flanking him. “Bad, bad boys,” he said, his voice calm and even, “Look at the state of our guest. Hardly the welcome one would expect, eh Mr Johnson?” Vern paused for a moment to remove the blindfold. “Please forgive Vern and Forrester, Mr Johnson, they are a little … how should I say … too enthusiastic.” Having said that, he swung a fist into Johnson’s face.

Vern is the man in the suit, but he calls a henchman by that name.

“Its so peaceful out here. Feel free to shout Mr Johnson, no one can hear you, and besides, you’ve just pissed … me … off!” He took the blindfold and made it a gag, tying it tightly between Johnson’s teeth. Muted sounds were coming from behind the gag. Sounds a son should never hear his father make: mules, wails, terror.

Shouldn't mules be mewls? Also, unless the son is somewhere listening in, that bit of description seems out of place.


I'm liking this so far, more for the skilful writing than the content. Without an emotional connection to any character, it's hard to feel involved in what is happening. I'm a voyeur, a bystander - but maybe that's what you want?

Will pick up from Jacobs shortly.

Meant to say that I did like the opening. Very well done.

[calligraphy]

Originally Posted by Azmacna

Chapter 1


There are many stories, none have a beginning and none have an end - they are but a current of overlapping events that are viewed in dislocation, like an ocean of moments, forever churning and on occasion washing something up on our shores. We (the disenfranchised) gaze into that ocean in an attempt to make sense of our part in it, and maybe, just maybe, in a moment of pure luck, when the ripples divide and the privilege of clarity is ours, we realise our potential. It is here that we draw our fingers through the waters in the hope that it will cleanse our pasts, and we will see our futures. Therefore, it is here we begin, in the centre of things:

* * *

The door burst open. Two men entered. Suspended between them a blindfolded captive – stripped of everything but his boxer shorts – struggled for freedom, his legs kicking as if trying to propel him backwards off an imaginary wall. He tugged frantically against the hands that gripped him beneath his armpits, the other two hands, tight around his frail wrists. However, it was fruitless endeavour; he was nothing compared to their strength - just a rag doll of a man hauled towards an empty chair where Vern awaited. The henchmen forced their prisoner into the chair and, taking twine from Vern, began to lash it around their captive’s torso and arms. It bit into his flesh bringing grimaces to his face and groans from his blooded lips. Still he fought for freedom, body twisting and raging against the restraints, chest heaving, skin flushed from adrenaline. The henchmen forced down on his shoulders, faces impassive.

“Mr Johnson,” Vern said and smiling, rested his weight on Johnson’s tethered hands. “Nice to meet you at last.” His voice resonated off the whitewashed walls.

Vern was wearing a black suit, which had been pressed to perfection, the indigo shirt beneath sporting a thin, white tie. The suit was spotless, as if it had been taken fresh from the rack. His features, however, were in complete contrast: furrowed and dry, creasing and deepening with every syllable.

“I see my colleagues have already introduced themselves.” He grasped Johnson by the jaw, inspecting his mauled and beaten face and then glanced up at the two men flanking him. “Bad, bad boys,” he said, his voice calm and even, “Look at the state of our guest. Hardly the welcome one would expect, eh Mr Johnson?” Vern paused for a moment to remove the blindfold. “Please forgive Vern and Forrester, Mr Johnson, they are a little … how should I say … too enthusiastic.” Having said that, he swung a fist into Johnson’s face.

Johnson - who had until now managed a mere whimper - suddenly found strength enough to bawl like a child. “Please … please don’t … Stop, I beg you.” The words bubbled in his throat, blood streaming down his chin from his nose and a gash below his left eye.

Vern dragged another chair up and spun it on its front leg to face Johnson, who flinched. Apart from a table behind Vern and a filing cabinet in a far corner, the room was empty. A bulb set directly above spilled light on the two and threw shadows beneath them.

“I think you’ve guessed what’s about to happen, Mr Johnson.” Vern whispered into his ear. Once again he examined his wounds. “That looks really sore.”

“I know nothing …” Johnson said, tears welling in his swollen eyes. “I have a wife … a son … please, I’m begging you ... If I knew anything I would tell you.”

“Would you?” Vern stood and turned away from Johnson, rubbing his chin. Then he turned back looking at his two men. “Or perhaps you are a very clever man—” He leant on Johnson’s hands again, “and a very brave one.” His two colleagues sniggered. “You could be the devil himself.”

“No … I’m just an ordinary man ...”

“I think your going to be very difficult to break,” Vern continued. “It’s going to take a lot of effort on my part and a lot of pain on yours.”

Johnson’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared as he began another futile struggle.

“Now, now,” Vern said, pouting his lips a little, “don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself.” He signalled the other two men to leave and rounded the chair on which Johnson was tied, playing with Johnson’s hair. As the door clicked shut, Vern took a handful and pulled back Johnson’s head.

“Please … please don’t hurt me … take all my money.” Johnson squinted as light stabbed his eyes. “I’ll take you to the bank … you can have it.”

“I don’t want your money,” Vern said and laughed. “I want information. What can you tell me about Brian Wetherhall?”

“Nothing,” Johnson said, “I told your men … I don’t know Brian Wetherhall … I’m telling you the truth … please, you have to believe me.”

“Okay, okay,” Vern said softly, “I do believe your telling me the truth. But to be honest, I just feel like having some fun today. It‘s been a tiresome wait.”

Johnson drew a deep breath and shouted at the top of is lungs.

“Its so peaceful out here. Feel free to shout Mr Johnson, no one can hear you, and besides, you’ve just pissed … me … off!” He took the blindfold and made it a gag, tying it tightly between Johnson’s teeth. Muted sounds were coming from behind the gag. Sounds a son should never hear his father make: mules, wails, terror.

“One thing you have to understand, Mr Johnson …” He spat his name distastefully (this was a maggot and he was the hook), “there are no more negotiations from this point, just the whim of a savage man.” Clearly enjoying his own words, he sat on the table and crossed his ankles and looked directly into the light. Johnson followed his gaze but the light was too bright for him. “The world is full of possibilities.” He gazed at the door now as if he were expecting someone to enter.

Johnson tried to skew his eyes towards the door, twisting a frail neck to see who may enter, but nobody came.

“You say you have a son?” Vern asked. Johnson nodded obediently. “It might surprise you to know that I also had a son … but he’s gone now …” For a moment he was somewhere else, running through memories of younger, happier days when the town had no time for him; when its dirty fingers could not catch his ankles as he ran through the streets.

“I could burn you … perhaps. I could take a knife to that soft, lily-white skin – a nick here, a nick there. You’d take a while to die. But then again, I might just let you go …” He let that thought hang in the air for a while. “You see, it’s a game I like to play, the object of which is to make you suffer. I love suffering, it’s so amusing. But whatever you do, don’t piss or shit. I hate it when they do that … all that mess for my men to clean up, and besides it will make me drag the whole thing out even longer.” He looked at his watch and tapped it. “We’ve got plenty of time for it … Or maybe I could just let you go.“

Johnson nodded frantically.

“Do you really think that I would let you go when I can have so much fun?” Johnson was shivering, air hissing sporadically from behind the gag. “I’ve decided your going to die anyway. I know you wouldn‘t say anything, your much too cowardly to risk being caught again. No doubt you‘d be able to carry on with your life much as usual. But cowardice and torture are my favourite combination. Only one more thing to decide: gag or no gag. Hearing a grown man mewl and beg has its rewards - they can utter the most enlightening things - but then again it can be equally as enriching to witness a mute trying to beseech with only the eloquence of expression, an honesty seldom seen. You do know Brian Wetherhall don‘t

you?…”

Johnson nodded nervously, his eyes closed.

“No you don’t, Mr Johnson, don’t be silly, you’re just saying that in the hope that I will let you go.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll leave the gag on I think. I don’t like lies. Oh well, time to begin.”

He walked over to the cabinet and slid it open. “This is going to be really painful, so you better hope you pass out within the hour, Mr Johnson. Oh, and don’t take it personally, I’ve done this many times.” He took a box from the cabinet and clipped it open. “The eyes are very pain intensive. Not as delicate as you would believe.” He held up a needle, and wetting the end of a length of black cotton with his lips, threaded it through the eye. “First of all, though, I have to make sure you keep them open.

* * *

Jacobs looked out of his window on the 14th floor of the apartment building, at a world he detested. Blind and insignificant, the ants down there scurried about their daily business, unaware of the bigger picture. Fools, he thought. Little people with tiny lives … questions, questions that’s all you know.

A strip light flickering above illuminated a flat in the advanced stages of dereliction. Empty beer cans and packets were strewn throughout the room, filthy testimony to a solitary existence. Pornography was heaped everywhere, all well thumbed and as grubby as their content. A rancid odour pervaded the room, creating the perfect environment for the many flies that flitted from one discarded lunch to the next.

Jacobs pushed his face against the windowpane, unsteady on his feet. “I know you all …,” he slurred, his nostrils frosting the glass. He stepped back and drew a ‘J’ in the condensation …, “every single one of you.”

He thought about taking judgement back down there on the streets, but he feared the consequences. They had many eyes and see from many places. They were the very reason that Jacobs had chosen isolation. In one way though, it had clarified his views. “You so called caring, loving people, don’t know love. You know sentimentality, yes.” He pulled a face and moved it from side to side in a derisive, childlike manner, before the thunder rolled back beneath his eyes. “None of you know love at all. You don’t know what its like to have it all and then nothing. If you had a zip from toe to chin I’d open you up and step right in. That’s love … that’s love …”

He left the window and tipped a chair by the table to sit on. The three magazines that were upon it fell to the floor and were summarily kicked aside. He cradled his head with his hands and breathed out deeply... In that moment, when his body was slack and his mind was free from thoughts of breathing, he imagined himself dead. Who would come to say farewell? How many forgotten faces would stare down upon his coffin? Each would have a handful of dirt, no doubt. Then he thought with melancholy, she wouldn’t be there though. He refilled a small glass, besmirched with fingerprints and spilt whiskey, and tipped it down his throat. Then with spirits glistening on his chin, he slid his arm over to his left. His hand stopped at a stack of pornography. “Hello, my friends,” he said, his voice oozing from one word to the next, “would you like to come to bed with me?” he caught a whiff of his own body odour, “No shower tonight I’m afraid though my loves. You’ll have to put up with the stench of self pity.” This observation cheered him. “Maybe I’ll bring some other friends too.”

He walked over to a display cabinet, which was unused, save a small, worn photograph in a brass picture frame of a young woman - and opened the sliding door at its base. It was here he kept his toys: vibrators, beads, rings and a plethora of other similar things. He drew his fingers through them like a child at a pick and mix, eventually opting for a vibrating cock ring.

“Ah … just the thing,” he said, checking it to see if there was any life left in the batteries. The buzz brought a smile to his lips.

“Come on darling, time for bed.”

He returned to the table and took the magazine, kissing the nude on the cover as he flicked the light off and entered his bedroom, backing the door too until it clicked closed. The bed sheets where in disarray, twisted and stained. He placed his bed friends reverently down on a bedside cabinet and began the task of unravelling last night’s nightmares. Once done, he slipped between the sheets and pulled them tight to his unshaven chin. There was enough light coming in through the windows from the neon signs across the road for Jacobs to read, and so he lay there, washed in blue and red.

“Right, my sweets,” he said, reaching for his toys and then slipping them beneath the bedclothes. A ruddy hue lit the pages of the pornographic magazine, which had automatically fallen open onto the most lurid picture therein. He closed his eyes to the image and lifted it from the page with his mind. She sat beside him on the bed, those breasts inches from his cheek, those legs enticing. She slid her hand beneath the sheets to join his own busy hand and turned so that Jacobs could rest his head on her breasts. Slowly and blissfully, he drifted into seamless fantasy; that moment when the author forgets he is creating and the words begin to live. He directed many lurid scenes; each one seemed an eternity squeezed into to a single moment; each one more depraved than the last. That was the way he would orchestrate his journey, building gradually to its pinnacle and his ultimate sin.

A creek outside the door.

Startled, Jacobs sat up, his fantasy discarded like a used durex. “Hello …” he said, easing his legs from beneath the bed sheets; slipping into his slippers. He took a dressing gown from a hanger in the wardrobe and closed the door as quietly as he had opened it, teeth locked, eyes tremulous. “Who’s there?” He swallowed, vexed at the weakness of his own voice. He reached beneath the bed searching for the baseball bat he kept there, his eyes piercing the darkness, looking, searching. Where the hell is it? he thought, sweat beginning to trickle down his temple. “I’d get moving if I were you … I’m armed.” At last, his hand stumbled upon the bat. “I’m coming out, I hope your not there.” He flicked the switch on his bedside lamp and cursed under his breath when nothing happened. He took a lung full of air and held it for a while, expelling it evenly in an attempt to bring his heartbeat under control. “Coming, ready or not,” he said and started for the door.

His hand was poised, fingers flexing, ready to turn the handle and step over the threshold into endless possibly. A mind that had only seconds before been employed to conjure bizarre sexual fantasy, now tortured him with the vivid possibilities of what horror lay in waiting beyond the door. He shoved. Unhindered by carpet, the door swung open and crashed into the display cabinet against the wall, sending its ornament crashing to the floor. The sudden din forced him to take a step backwards and brought his heartbeat back up to pace.

“You better get the fuck out of there.”

His eyes probed the murkiness of the living room. Gradually, unmistakeable shapes emerged out from the gloom, comforting, familiar and thankfully mundane: television, table, settee and chairs. Although the neon lights were directly opposite his bedroom, some illumination found its way in through the living room window, but the angle was so sharp that it did not penetrate the room, instead it merely coloured his grey curtains red. He had left the window open a fraction, just enough to cleanse the stench of neglect for the morning. However, judging by the way the curtains ebbed and billowed with the twilight winds, that gap had widened. Was it wide enough for a person? He speculated.

“I’ll tell you one more time,” he said, gripping hard onto the handle of the baseball bat as if he was about to make a home run. “You’d better get out or I’ll take your fucking face off.”

His foot crunched on the glass of the photograph as he took the first tentative step forward. He paused for a moment, his heart making a mockery of his bravado. A trickle of sweat ran down through his brow and into his left eye, which he wiped away with the cuff of his dressing gown and then quickly refocused.

“Gone, eh? Scared of old Jacobs?”

Silence.

He was beginning to wonder whether this whole episode had been courtesy of the all night off license. It would not have been the first time. He had spent a glorious fifteen minutes once discussing life and all its implications with a man who had chosen his balcony to jump from, only to find that he had been conversing with his own shadow. He lifted the picture frame gently from the floor and after shaking the remains of the glass from it, set it back on the cabinet. Although he could not see the young woman in the photograph, he smiled. He conjured her from the gloom – this saviour, this rare beauty that had done so much for him, this Miss Nightingale that had taken his heart and made it whole.

Obviously, whoever had broken in - if indeed that was the case - had left swiftly and out through the same way he had entered. And so, confident now that the danger had passed, he approached the window, holding the flapping curtain as he slid the window closed and secured it with the latch.

“That’s one determined burglar,” he mused and laughed at the sheer audacity of the climb from first floor. “Goodbye Spiderman,” he continued realizing the implausibility of his suspicion.

There was an unanswered question though: the lack of power. He walked over to the living room light switch and flicked it. Nothing ... Probably the fuse had blown, he thought. No, obviously the fuse had blown. He made for the electric box, which was beside the front door. Thankfully, he had left the key in the box so it was a simple matter from here on, except, how could he see. He had a box of matches in the drawer of the cabinet by his bed, and so he made his way - skirting the glass fragments carefully - back to his bedroom. “See you in a minute, my loves,” he said to the toys. On returning, he knelt and struck a match, holding it close to the fuses and squinting through the flame. The switch was on off. His heart began to drum again.

Suddenly someone was upon him. They were so remorseless that he buckled, his slovenly legs no match for the intruder’s insistence. An arm slid around his throat and held him tightly. Then he felt a sharp pain in his neck as if something had been inserted there. He could feel a cool liquid filling the area of penetration that chilled and numbed him to the bone. Shakes followed as the liquid coursed through his veins and that same numbness that he had felt at his neck now invaded his whole body. He was no longer afraid though. His mind had passed by that impostor, fear, and all he could offer was a slack lopsided smile before the world turned black.

I got to here so far. All I can say is WOW

Im in shock

This style, its um, so different than the other pieces, how do you do that?

Id almost say you were ripping someone off lmao if it wernt for the fact that somone could look it up easily enough so that not the case

I like this style best, its so natural and just wow, gripping

[Cryptopsy]

This is really well written. I wish I could say more, but it's hard to criticize something that blows your own writing out of the water :P

I personally liked the content. I had no problem with there being no sort of emotional connection to any characters. I actually really liked the character Vern. He just seems like my kind of character - cruel, cunning, and merciless. He reminds me a lot of the character Edward Vernon in my stories, which I think is kind of funny, given the name.

Well, that's really all I can say. Very, very good job.

Only problem, like someone said, is that it's sort of long, which seems to be intimidating to some people.

[calligraphy]

Ok just finished this


I wouldnt post anymore if I were you, this is something that should be published, no really

[Q Wands]

You could always ask a staffer to move it to the MOF, if you do want to continue posting but protect from searches (and protect your first electronic publishing rights).

[Azmacna]

Vern and forrester? how did i let that slip me by? mules? LOLOLOL... yep it should be mewls. i'm not posting lots of this up because i'm looking for style comments more than anything else, so there is no need to move it to MOF.

thanks Call, once it is finished, i will be looking for a publisher.

this first chapter is an introduction to the first three main characters: Vern/Jacobs/Nathanial. did anyone get a clear picture of Abigail by the way? it's a very convoluted story. there are four interconecting stories which converge eventually and not only that but Nathanial Crowther isn't his real name and in a huge flashback, i have to deal with a name change for him. there are Mohaab characters too (these are the aliens), one of which also gets a flash back. it just got way too much for me and i stopped. when i return to it, there will be so much to sort out.

anyway thanks for the kind words and i'm going to post chapter 2 up if people want to scan that through too.

[DavidGil]

Going to be busy over the next few days here, Az. Kinda neglected my writing for the month, which I need to do. I'll try to get through this over the next few days though. (Unless there's something else you prefer comments on?) For now, I'll just give my thoughts on what I've read for now.

I'm guessing you don't want the usual kind of critique I give out with mentioning the style. So, I'll try to refrain from making technical comments and such. Hopefully, due to not being accustomed to the type of critique you want, it'll be of help.

Before moving on, I remember this from years ago. Well, not the characters or the story, but the title. I would say though that I'd still consider moving it to the members only forum with wanting to publish it. Reminds me to ask for one or two pieces of mine to be deleted from here.

By the way, I've only referenced one typo below because I'd already commented on the section. Apart from that, I've not touched anything else. (I did notice several to do with 'your' though, which I'd have pointed out but you wanted comments on style.)

Right, so let's tackle what I've read so far:

Originally Posted by Azmacna

Chapter 1


There are many stories, none have a beginning and none have an end - they are but a current of overlapping events that are viewed in dislocation, like an ocean of moments, forever churning and on occasion washing something up on our shores. We (the disenfranchised) gaze into that ocean in an attempt to make sense of our part in it, and maybe, just maybe, in a moment of pure luck, when the ripples divide and the privilege of clarity is ours, we realise our potential. It is here that we draw our fingers through the waters in the hope that it will cleanse our pasts, and we will see our futures. Therefore, it is here we begin, in the centre of things:

Okay, I really love the first paragraph. I can tell it's one where you flexed your writing muscles in terms of the language used. Read very nicely.

* * *

The door burst open. Two men entered. Suspended between them a blindfolded captive – stripped of everything but his boxer shorts – struggled for freedom, his legs kicking as if trying to propel him backwards off an imaginary wall. He tugged frantically against the hands that gripped him beneath his armpits, the other two hands, tight around his frail wrists. However, it was fruitless endeavour; he was nothing compared to their strength - just a rag doll of a man hauled towards an empty chair where Vern awaited. The henchmen forced their prisoner into the chair and, taking twine from Vern, began to lash it around their captive’s torso and arms. It bit into his flesh bringing grimaces to his face and groans from his blooded lips. Still he fought for freedom, body twisting and raging against the restraints, chest heaving, skin flushed from adrenaline. The henchmen forced down on his shoulders, faces impassive.

From a nicely written opening paragraph, we move onto a new section/scene that opens with a bang. A man being tortured, so that'll naturally pique the reader's curiosity. So far, so good. I'd perhaps consider taking another look at the last sentence though. By the way, with the story starting out with someone being tortured, it also tells the reader what sort of story it's going to be in my mind. So again, so far so good.

“Mr Johnson,” Vern said and smiling, rested his weight on Johnson’s tethered hands. “Nice to meet you at last.” His voice resonated off the whitewashed walls.

Vern was wearing a black suit, which had been pressed to perfection, the indigo shirt beneath sporting a thin, white tie. The suit was spotless, as if it had been taken fresh from the rack. His features, however, were in complete contrast: furrowed and dry, creasing and deepening with every syllable.

A nice description. Due to the black suit, I immediately start wondering if he's part of the mafia and if not that, some wealthy crime lord.

“I see my colleagues have already introduced themselves.” He grasped Johnson by the jaw, inspecting his mauled and beaten face and then glanced up at the two men flanking him. “Bad, bad boys,” he said, his voice calm and even, “Look at the state of our guest. Hardly the welcome one would expect, eh Mr Johnson?” Vern paused for a moment to remove the blindfold. “Please forgive Vern and Forrester, Mr Johnson, they are a little … how should I say … too enthusiastic.” Having said that, he swung a fist into Johnson’s face.

Apart from the part Q referenced, it again reads nicely.

Johnson - who had until now managed a mere whimper - suddenly found strength enough to bawl like a child. “Please … please don’t … Stop, I beg you.” The words bubbled in his throat, blood streaming down his chin from his nose and a gash below his left eye.

Vern dragged another chair up and spun it on its front leg to face Johnson, who flinched. Apart from a table behind Vern and a filing cabinet in a far corner, the room was empty. A bulb set directly above spilled light on the two and threw shadows beneath them.

“I think you’ve guessed what’s about to happen, Mr Johnson.” Vern whispered into his ear. Once again he examined his wounds. “That looks really sore.”

“I know nothing …” Johnson said, tears welling in his swollen eyes. “I have a wife … a son … please, I’m begging you ... If I knew anything I would tell you.”

“Would you?” Vern stood and turned away from Johnson, rubbing his chin. Then he turned back looking at his two men. “Or perhaps you are a very clever man—” He leant on Johnson’s hands again, “and a very brave one.” His two colleagues sniggered. “You could be the devil himself.”

Funny Vern musing whether Johnson is the devil or not, considering he's the one doing the torturing or responsible for it.

“No … I’m just an ordinary man ...”

“I think your going to be very difficult to break,” Vern continued. “It’s going to take a lot of effort on my part and a lot of pain on yours.”

Johnson’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared as he began another futile struggle.

“Now, now,” Vern said, pouting his lips a little, “don’t do that, you’ll hurt yourself.” He signalled the other two men to leave and rounded the chair on which Johnson was tied, playing with Johnson’s hair. As the door clicked shut, Vern took a handful and pulled back Johnson’s head.

“Please … please don’t hurt me … take all my money.” Johnson squinted as light stabbed his eyes. “I’ll take you to the bank … you can have it.”

“I don’t want your money,” Vern said and laughed. “I want information. What can you tell me about Brian Wetherhall?”

“Nothing,” Johnson said, “I told your men … I don’t know Brian Wetherhall … I’m telling you the truth … please, you have to believe me.”

“Okay, okay,” Vern said softly, “I do believe your telling me the truth. But to be honest, I just feel like having some fun today. It‘s been a tiresome wait.”

Johnson drew a deep breath and shouted at the top of is lungs.

“Its so peaceful out here. Feel free to shout Mr Johnson, no one can hear you, and besides, you’ve just pissed … me … off!” He took the blindfold and made it a gag, tying it tightly between Johnson’s teeth. Muted sounds were coming from behind the gag. Sounds a son should never hear his father make: mules, wails, terror.

So far, I've not made comments because everything's read well. The pausing after 'pissed' doesn't feel natural to me personally though. I'd just have him yell without the pauses.

“One thing you have to understand, Mr Johnson …” He spat his name distastefully (this was a maggot and he was the hook), “there are no more negotiations from this point, just the whim of a savage man.” Clearly enjoying his own words, he sat on the table and crossed his ankles and looked directly into the light. Johnson followed his gaze but the light was too bright for him. “The world is full of possibilities.” He gazed at the door now as if he were expecting someone to enter.

Johnson tried to skew his eyes towards the door, twisting a frail neck to see who may enter, but nobody came.

“You say you have a son?” Vern asked. Johnson nodded obediently. “It might surprise you to know that I also had a son … but he’s gone now …” For a moment he was somewhere else, running through memories of younger, happier days when the town had no time for him; when its dirty fingers could not catch his ankles as he ran through the streets.

“I could burn you … perhaps. I could take a knife to that soft, lily-white skin – a nick here, a nick there. You’d take a while to die. But then again, I might just let you go …” He let that thought hang in the air for a while. “You see, it’s a game I like to play, the object of which is to make you suffer. I love suffering, it’s so amusing. But whatever you do, don’t piss or shit. I hate it when they do that … all that mess for my men to clean up, and besides it will make me drag the whole thing out even longer.” He looked at his watch and tapped it. “We’ve got plenty of time for it … Or maybe I could just let you go.“

A nice insight into the character, the above paragraph.

Johnson nodded frantically.

“Do you really think that I would let you go when I can have so much fun?” Johnson was shivering, air hissing sporadically from behind the gag. “I’ve decided your going to die anyway. I know you wouldn‘t say anything, your much too cowardly to risk being caught again. No doubt you‘d be able to carry on with your life much as usual. But cowardice and torture are my favourite combination. Only one more thing to decide: gag or no gag. Hearing a grown man mewl and beg has its rewards - they can utter the most enlightening things - but then again it can be equally as enriching to witness a mute trying to beseech with only the eloquence of expression, an honesty seldom seen. You do know Brian Wetherhall don‘t

you?…”

Johnson nodded nervously, his eyes closed.

“No you don’t, Mr Johnson, don’t be silly, you’re just saying that in the hope that I will let you go.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll leave the gag on I think. I don’t like lies. Oh well, time to begin.”

He walked over to the cabinet and slid it open. “This is going to be really painful, so you better hope you pass out within the hour, Mr Johnson. Oh, and don’t take it personally, I’ve done this many times.” He took a box from the cabinet and clipped it open. “The eyes are very pain intensive. Not as delicate as you would believe.” He held up a needle, and wetting the end of a length of black cotton with his lips, threaded it through the eye. “First of all, though, I have to make sure you keep them open.

* * *

Okay, like Q, I'll try to get to the rest of scenes when I can. As this isn't the usual type of critique I give out, let me know if it's helpful or not. I'm always more interested in the mechanics so... *shrugs*

From the first proper scene though, you give off a good feel as to what the rest of the story will be like, so the reader is primed for what might lie ahead. It's dark, brutal and obviously not for kids. I think you got the style and also the character of Vern nailed nicely, so I can only say well done.

One last thing I'd like to mention is that it doesn't feel as though you're going to be holding back with the story in terms of representing the torture and violence faithfully, even though you did end the first scene where you did. That to me is necessary for stories like this to pack as much impact as possible, so the reader can fully imagine what's going on even if it's not... too easy to read.

So basically, I'm just trying to say that I get the impression that you're not going to hold back anything and it's best that way in my view. (If you do hold back though, at least the story still seems to promise that we'll getting good representations of disturbed characters.)

While it may not be like this, I wonder if you've watch Wire in the Blood with Robson Green? It tackles what makes killers tick and why they do what they do, things like that. It's one program I like to watch to help with presenting characters that are disturbed (though yeah I know, reading is best perhaps.) Anyways, I'd recommend trying to catch it if you've not done so.

[Azmacna]

thanks David. i deliberately ended the torture scene there. in a later scene, when the police find him, i describe what he had done to him. this is a double hit on the scene. when the reader reads the first torture scene, they may imagine what Vern was going to do... stitching open his eyes the clue there. then when we see what has been done to him it makes us go back to the scene with Vern in our heads and see it again.

[Q Wands]

Right, finally got around to finishing this. There is some excellent writing here, but a few places fall flat. The flatness doesn't arise from the content, so much as awkward or clumsy construction. A bit of re-wording will sort that out.

The content itself is fine. Plenty of depth and atmosphere. The characters are well drawn and believable. The scene with Nathaniel is well placed as a breather after the previous two, and before the description that follows in the next. Pacing good too.

Since you've asked for comments on style, and not specifically for a detailed crit, I shall refrain from scribbling all over your text for now, but let me know if you'd like me to point out the bits I think are off. You might already have been making changes for all I know and, being it is such a large chunk, I'd rather not plough in unless it's required.

[Azmacna]

thank - Q (see what i did there )

it would be pointless in going through it more thoroughly because it's going to be a while before this sees the light of day again. i jus wanted to know if people thought the style was ok. there are lots of things i will change myself. some overwriting, slumps in movement, conflicting tones, wrongly chosen words etc... so i'll leave all of that til i've finished Azmacna and have sent it off

[Q Wands]

Well, I'll leave it then. You'll probably catch it all anyway. But definitely one worth pursuing. It has real merit.

(And, yes, I saw what you did, clever clogs. )