Wednesday 10 December 2014

Why? I'll Tell You



We’ve been here around half a million years. Well, that’s the theory and I’m not going to argue the toss. That’s when we became a part of human evolution.

My name? You could argue that I don’t have one, but for convenience I suppose you could call me Richard as I effectively share his brain. I’m a part of his genetic make-up, you see. You don’t? Well, don’t feel stupid – it’s an unusual story and… let me explain.

Back in prehistory, you had some ancestors – Homo heidelbergensis, I believe. For want of a better word, we “merged” with a proportion of them. Now don’t try and pin me down on what we were or where we came from – it doesn’t bear too much scrutiny. Bacterium, virus, alien invasion? I doubt we’ll ever know. You’re in the same boat whatever our origin.

The point is, we became part of their mitrochondrial DNA. As millennia passed, evolution split these ancestors into two subspecies. We were part of those that eventually became Homo sapiens. The others became Homo neanderthalensis.

We developed a shared consciousness over time. Perhaps that gave us Sappies an advantage over the Neanderthals: social interaction, coping with changes in environment, having the edges over them in logic and instinct… Or it could simply have been a genetic resistance to disease.

Anyway, sorry to drone on. You’ll want an answer to your original question.

We become passive as a result of alcohol. And that’s why you think you’re witty when you’ve had a pint.

Another "Scrabble Challenge" exercise. This one was to include the words toss, brain, stupid, story, bear, boat, edges, drone, witty, pint

Monday 24 November 2014

The Dentist

“Fling your coat over there, love,” said Cathy North, “Back of the armchair, that’s right. Now come and give your mum a hug.”

DC Sean North edged past the glass-topped coffee table, avoiding stubbing his toe on the ornate eagle-clawed feet, and wrapped his arms around his mother. He broke away and sat on the sofa, smiling as he did so. He always felt comfortable here, having spent his teen years in its unchanging surroundings. 

“I was in the area and couldn’t leave without calling in,” said Sean.

“Are you involved with the doings down the road? At number twenty-six?”

“For now, yes, but probably not for much longer.”

“What’s it all about?”

Sean hesitated. “You know I shouldn’t talk to you about it, mum.”

“I thought we didn’t have secrets from each other?”

“Well…,” he began, “if it goes no further – and I mean that. Not even dad…”

“You know your father. If it’s not about snooker, the old goat isn’t interested. But you have my word. Whatever you tell me will be strictly between us.”

If Sean had been honest with himself he would have admitted that’s one of the reasons he had called in. Talking things through with his mother always seemed to clarify his thoughts. And events were moving quickly.

“Okay mum, so long as that’s clear.” He cleared his throat. “There’s been a murder.”

“Oh my God. Who? Not Diane?”

“You know her?”

“Not well. I sometimes see her in the corner shop. What happened?”

“They’re still working on the exact cause of death. But they’ve found enough to – and again, I have to stress that this is confidential – found enough to suggest that she’s the latest victim in a series of killings.”

“A serial killer?”

“Yeah. And that’s why they’re bringing in the big guns. One gun is the Serious Crimes Analysis Section from the National Crime Agency. They deal with behavioural analysis and have been involved with the previous killings.”

“What makes them think it’s a serial killer?”

“It’s to do with the teeth. Each victim has had their front two teeth removed – post mortem – and had them replaced with those belonging to the previous victim. Stuck in with super glue.”

“Oh Sean…”

“I know. They’re calling the killer ‘the Dentist’, but are keeping it hush-hush. The Press would undoubtedly pay for this sort of information and you know the greed of some people.”

“Shouldn’t people know?”

“Not my decision. As I say, I’m not likely to be working on this much longer. Scenes Of Crime Officers are moving out, but they’re keeping the house sealed for now. I have to go back to the station to give a final briefing, so I should make tracks.”

Sean stood and moved over to the window, looking towards his car.

“Oh, typical. Someone’s boxed me in.”

“White van?”

“Yeah.”

“It’ll be picking up Denis next door. You won’t have to wait long.”

“Right.” He looked back at his mother. “You say you didn’t know Diane Morris that well?”

“No, love. She didn’t leave her house much. Borderline agoraphobic. I once saw her come home in a taxi after she’d had to go to the town centre. She was in a terrible state.”

Sean frowned. “So it’s not likely she’d travel to London?”

“Oh God, no.”

“That’s odd. I wonder why she had a new Oyster card?”

The Dentist was another "Scrabble challenge" where original narrative had to include specified words - this time: fling, eagle, goat, _un, dentist, greed, tracks, boxed, wait, oyster.

Thursday 30 October 2014

The Collector

Moogie quietly closed the oak panelled doors behind him. He stood in the gloom, watching the eager flames dance in the fireplace at the far side of the drawing room. This provided the only light, throwing a high-backed leather chair into silhouette.

Not only was the room larger than his entire flat, the paintings on the walls were probably more expensive than his entire building. He reflected how easy it had been to gain entry into Edwin Morely’s home.

A cultured voice startled him. “Ah, it’s the other one. Which one are you, Butch or Sundance?” A somewhat feminine laugh followed. “Come forward where I can see you.”

Tentatively, Moogie walked towards the fireplace and, circling the chair he saw, seated there, the owner of the voice. It was an elderly man, his face resembling a deflated balloon, his purple lips drawn back in parody of a smile. He lifted a liver spotted hand and pointed to a small display case beside him on an occasional table.

“I’m a collector,” he said, “as you probably know.” He dropped his hand so that it rested once more on the chair arm. “Your friend knew this, and he paid me a visit too.

“You no doubt thought it was easy to get in here. He did. Well, my security team are well hidden. They will have followed you in.” He gazed at Moogie with unexpectedly clear eyes. “When I was younger, if I wanted to trap an insect I used a jam jar. It could get in, but it would torture itself trying to get out.”

Moogie stared at the old man. “I’m only here to find my friend.”

The smile reappeared. “Ah. He’s no longer here. Well, most of him.”

Moogie slipped his hand into his coat pocket. “What do you mean?”

With obvious effort, Edwin Morely sat forward in his chair. “I told you, I’m a collector. Come see.”

Moogie leaned forward to look into the display case. Pinned there, like a butterfly collection, were a set of what appeared to be dried figs. Two were not dried.

Morely’s smile grew wider. “What do you people say, ‘pin back your lug holes’?”

Moogie didn’t really think it through. He just knew it was time to exact revenge. From his pocket, his hand shot out, holding a combat knife. He plunged it into Morely’s throat.

The old man sank back in the chair, pink froth on his lips. The smile was no longer there.

The Collector was another "Scrabble challenge" where original narrative had to include specified words - this time, gloom, home b_tch, liver, insect, torture, exact, knife, pink, smile.

Waiting for the Man


The gull was back, tearing at the greasy takeaway carton. The incident that had left two bodies crumpled in the alleyway had only been a minor inconvenience to the bird. Truth to tell, it had only been a minor inconvenience to Cain Hartman.

When Mason had told him that the target’s security detail had all undergone something called the Tactical Combat Training System, Hartman had revised his plan. Granted, with his unarmed combat skills he could overcome TCTS techniques, but he was not one to be driven by ego. Besides, bullets to the head were quicker.

Before acting, Hartman had waited until the shorter of the two guards had given the all clear and shut off his phone. Timing was everything. The target was due to arrive any minute.

William Cochrane. A ruthless man with a love of power and a desire to control that was almost a fever. His death would be a gesture of hope to those who had been tortured and sent to jail without trial. His pain would not be prolonged, but it would be a sort of karma, nonetheless.

Hartman could appreciate the difference his actions would make. But he was not an idealist – it was just another job. His escape route was set; the sniper rifle was snuggled into his shoulder.

He heard a car engine and saw the piano-black BMW turn the corner at the end of the street.

Soon. The rifle stock would jar his shoulder and it would all be over.

Waiting for the Man was the result of another Creative Writing exercise, whereby you had to write something including ten "random" Scrabble words, In this case the words were: gull, granted, t_ts, ego, love, fever, gesture, jail, jar and karma.

Saturday 13 September 2014

Liposuction

The following was a writing exercise - a lipogram whereby the letter E is not used anywhere within the narrative. Perhaps this suggested the title of the piece...

Liposuction

Many folk talk about my habit of walking along woodland paths at night. Many say I am out of my mind, saying it is not as if colours will burst out from local flora. A fraction thinks my motivation for this unusual habit has a lot to do with my partiality for shadows. Dark and black. As black as soot in a – black soot bin. Possibly.

I’m also fond of sounds coming from nocturnal animals – owls hooting and so forth, sounds making my arms’ skin so rough that it is similar to that of citrus fruit rind. I find that particularly satisfying. No doubt you think this is slightly odd.  

Truthfully, I go to find victims. My companions and I join up to look for food. To sink our fangs into vagrants, though pickings don’t approach what you would call rich.

Throughout world history, you won’t find many of us about.

Now, Dracula and his ilk may suck blood from a victim’s throat, but my cohorts don’t go for that. I am part of a dying kind. Our compulsion is to suck fat. A stout guy’s stomach would do, but I must admit draining a plump girl’s thigh is gratifying. Why not a buttock with its additional fat, you may ask? It’s an alluring thought but I avoid that path. I don’t want folk to think I’m corrupt. 

A possibility is that, months from now, I will start up a liposuction clinic. My chums and I could work at such a clinic and finish our nightly woodland walks. Mmm, tasty.

Monday 8 September 2014

The Meet

Tom looked across the laden table at Sally. She raised her eyebrows at the feast their host had set before them. It was far too much, but to comment as such could affect negotiations. As it was, they may be compromised by the absence of Derek, the third member of their team. A quiet cough grabbed their attention.

“Please. Eat.” The Councillor indicated the spread with his fork. “We can discuss business later.”

Tom picked up a serving spoon and added a selection of crisp vegetables to his plate, gradually forming an autumnal foliage of colour.

Lifting the gravy boat, Tom started to pour the rich stock over the meat, watching it flow around the irregularly placed vegetables like a chestnut stream. With each inward breath the aromatic steam caressed his nose - his mouth was already watering in anticipation.

There was a slight yield as his fork pierced a burnished carrot. His knife cut it to a mouth-sized piece, and he blew upon it before it passed between his lips. The balance of sweet and savoury, the texture – everything – was just right.

The same went for everything on his plate. Urged to take extra portions, he couldn’t help himself. It was so good.

“Oh my God,” he heard Sally say, “this is absolutely delicious.”

The Councillor smiled in pleasure. “I’m glad you like it.” He paused, and nodded towards the decimated platter in the centre of the table. “And how do you find the Derek?”

Sunday 11 May 2014

A Message from Moriarty

     I wonder continually about Sherlock. He takes it for granted he can bank on me – which he can, of course – but once some new mystery is on his mind, he barges in like a rogue elephant, no thought of anyone else.
    Take this morning, for example. There I am in my underpants and vest, in the middle of getting dressed, and I look up to see him there. I’m getting the impression he doesn’t believe in door bells.
    “Ah, John,” he says, “I’ve been going through the condolence cards from my funeral.”
    I pull on my trousers and make an attempt to quip, “It must be interesting to see what people don’t think about you.”
    He looks up from something in his hand and, amazingly, for once my words seem to have penetrated his single-mindedness. But not for long.
    “Going for the jugular, eh? Well, get over it.” He waves a small card in the air. “There’s a cryptic message from Jim Moriarty.”
     My mouth must have dropped open, for he looks at me with one of those patronising stares. “Yes, I know he shot himself, but he was a man to think ahead. Here. Read this.”
    Taking the card from his outstretched hand I read aloud. It is unsigned.

    “Around, over the width of a circle, Hitler’s bodyguards are separated 
    from a unit of resistance”, the Danish prince would say logically.

    “How does that prove it’s from Moriarty?” I say, and attempting to decrypt it, continue, “Width of a Circle – that’s from the Bowie album The Man Who Sold The World. Is that anything to do with it?”
    Sherlock puffs out his lips in despair, then starts to explain.
    “Take each bit in turn. ‘Width of a Circle’, that’s the diameter. ‘Around’ – that’s the circumference. Divide one by the other, and you get?”
    “Pi.”
    “And Hitler’s bodyguards?”
    “The S.S.”
    “The unit of electrical resistance?”
    “Ohm.”
    “So that’s ‘O’. And Hamlet is the Danish prince. Who is famous for the quote ‘To be…’”
    “’…or not to be’. Yes, I know. Get to the point.”
    “The card says ‘logically’. So if we write the quotation as an expression using Hex numbers –
2B OR NOT 2B – and minimise this using some Boolean logic, what do we get?”
    “Enlighten me.”
    “We get ‘FF’.”
    “So?”
    “Put them all together, and that’s why I know it’s from Jim Moriarty – PI. SS. O. FF.”

Sunday 27 April 2014

The Unwilling Guest

My first post is a copy of a submission I made in response to a Creative Writing exercise. We were given ten particular words to use within a piece of short fiction. I won't bother listing the words, although you may be able to guess a couple. The piece is here because I had fun writing it.

The Unwilling Guest

I dropped the cruet in the punch bowl and the conversation around the table stopped.

Maureen, my wife, apologised on my behalf, claiming that I was suffering from Carpal Tunnel Syndrome – the annoying tingle of pins and needles that can result in numbness and pain in one’s hands. There was a collective hum of sympathy, but it was only a brief respite before the inane chat continued.

The truth was: I had needed to do something to relieve the boredom. Perhaps it’s something to do with age, a growing intolerance with people wasting what remains of my life. Perhaps I’m entering a second childhood – I don’t know. I do know I’d rather knit fog than hear about the latest celebrity gossip. And why this preoccupation about footballers and their teams? I know diddly squat about that and don’t want to.

Not that it would have been any better sat amongst the bride’s guests – they all seemed like they had corks up their proverbials. Or a number three wood, as they’re all golf fanatics.

I had told Maureen I didn’t want to come to the wedding. Of course, when she said I didn’t have a ghost of a chance of avoiding it, I wasn’t going to argue. Yet when we arrived and I gazed around the room at the range of numpties there, I decided I wasn’t just going to sit around.

Before anyone else came into the dining area I managed to switch around quite a few of the name cards on the tables. That was entertaining. I told a few guests that I am called John Royd, and my wife is called Emma. And that fake telegram I was able to slip into the pile: I can’t wait for that to be read out.

I’m sure Maureen suspects something is going on.

Ah well, they’ll be divvying up the wedding cake soon. I can flick sultanas at the bride’s mother.