Life of their own…

For years now, I’ve wanted to write a supernatural detective story that is a sort of combination between Simon R Green’s ‘Nightside’ series and early seasons of Buffy. I’m aiming to have two post-uni girls as my main characters, with the cheesy kind of relationship that Dirk Pitt (Matthew McConaughey) and Al Giordino (Steve Zahn) have in the 2005 film ‘Sahara’. In essence, I want lots of angst, lots of romance issues and lots of Zombie mayhem…

… only, it’s not really turning out the way I want it to. I don’t know whether it’s the fact that I’m not involved in any particularly relatable angst at presence, or whether it’s because I haven’t played House of the Dead in far too long, but somehow what I’m writing seems to be more akin to that dreadful chick lit pulp that’s presented in glittery pink covers than it is to unrealistic zombie massacre.

Mostly, I love it when characters turn out to have a life of their own – it’s one of the more interesting aspects of writing. I’ll never forget my excitement when I realised that two of my characters had fallen desperately in love without my prior knowledge . It was almost as good as the surprise I got when one member of this happy union died unexpectedly. I know how pretentious all that sounds, but it’s true nevertheless – while I do plan key plot points of my work, the vast majority just sort of spills out through the keyboard.

Right now though, I’m really hacked off with my subconscious at coming up with nonsense I’d actively avoid in a bookshop. I know I said I wanted romance, but I don’t really want my prologue to incorporate a break up, declarations of undying love and something so lame it could only ever have been conceived by a ‘Neighbours’ script writer. As a result, I have scrapped my opening chapters and will attempt to start again. After some distinctly non-lovey music. Spineshank here I come.

Let It Be – final section.

It’s been a while since I last posted this story but I decided to finish it. It does end quite abruptly, but I want to enter the whole thing into a competition with a 5000 word upper limit so I needed to be concise. I hope I haven’t lost anything by doing so. Let me know your thoughts

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I must have stumbled back to the garage rather than going home and woke up the next morning to Mary pushing a coffee cup into my hand. Back then, I used to take it black – and she knew that – but she’d clouded it with cream and when I sipped it, I tasted nothing but sugar.

“Christ, Mary. This is rank,” I said, spitting across the ’shop floor.

“It’ll sober you up, though. And I need you to come with me.” I’d never seen those black eyes so dark as I did then. I sat up from where I’d made my bed on the worktop and stared at her before noticing the terrified figure in the corner of the room.

“John, this is Nancy,” Mary paused while I took in her big belly, “And what Junior did to her wasn’t something she had a say in.”

Nancy looked down, shame faced and teary, and Mary looked to the truck. I nodded, gulped down my coffee and stood, handing over the keys. I was in no state to be driving, but damned if I’d let my girl go and fight this one alone.

As we rattled out of the ’shop I noticed that the sun wasn’t up yet, and I saw tear tracks glowing down the faces of both women in that early light. My head was throbbing something rotten, but I liked the pain it gave me as we shot over the bumps in the road, reminded me what we were going to somehow. All the while, that creamy coffee threatened to reappear.

Junior, it turned out, lived way out of town, past the Davies’ ranch and about another ten miles north. We all sat in silence, Mary with her foot to the floor and my old truck’s suspension squeaking as we went. We parked up in front of his neat little house and Mary turned to Nancy, offering a soft smile,

“It’s alright, sweetness. We’ll make sure you’re taken care of.”
Mary and I left the truck and made our way to the porch. Ruby light was spilling over the horizon now and glinted off the buckle of Mary’s belt. She stopped when she noticed me staring and met my gaze evenly.

“John, I don’t know what’s going to happen and what exactly I’m going to do in there. Just promise me if it all turns bad that you’ll take care of Nancy. She can have my job and bring the kid to work with her. Mamma Doyle’s already said she can have my room.”

“It ain’t going to go bad, Mary. But sure. I’ll keep her safe.”

Mary knocked on the door. There were some noises inside and then bleary eyed and dressed in a gown, Junior appeared.

“Miss Ward?”

“Shut the hell up, Junior. Is Ruth in?” Mary’s voice was cold.

“No, but I don’t see-”

She shoved him aside and entered, checking every room of the property while I kept my eyes on the boy. He glared at me, looked like he was ready to say something, but Mary’s return made him hold his tongue.

“She isn’t here, John. We can make this loud.”

I pushed the boy into the den to shouts of protest and Mary kicked his knees into a bend. He fell onto the couch and glowered at her.

“Nancy told me what you did, you bastard.”

“I didn’t do anything she didn’t ask for. She loved every second of it.”

“The knife marks? Did she love the knife, you sick freak?”

“She threatened to tell her Papa, to tell Ruth. What was I supposed to do? I let her see the consequences.”

“I’ll show you consequences,” Mary hissed and spat at him, “I told your old man. I told Nancy’s and I told the sheriff. We’re just going to wait here until-”

Junior had a gun in his hand from God-knows-where and pointed the thing at Mary. I don’t know what made me do what I did, but I picked up the nearest heavy looking thing – a big blue vase – and I tossed it at the boy’s head. It shattered on his skull and fell into thousands of pieces around him.

Mary pulled at what I’d thought was a shiny belt buckle and pointed an old Schofield at the boy.

“I love you, John,” she said to me with a wry little smile and then turned to the dazed kid before her.

“Blood of my blood, flesh of mine, you are nothing. It ends here.”

* * * *

Mary fell after shooting Junior, blood spilling from her stomach where she’d put a hole in him. And then she just vanished and I was left standing in a room with a dead man.

Like she’d said, the sheriff showed up, wanting to talk to the boy for what he did to Nancy. I thought fast – I knew they’d try and pin the thing on me since I was the only one there, but I’d promised Mary I’d take care of the girl and her child so I did what I had to.

I told them the story up until the point Mary pulled the trigger, and then acted like she’d run off into the dawn. They searched for her for months, even posted a reward, but needless to say they got nowhere.

I went to speak to Bertie after it happened and told him and Mama Doyle what really took place. They finally shared Mary’s secret with me, and that just made me love her more.

Way back before Columbus even set out for this great land, someone had done to Mary what Junior did to Nancy. She’d lived as an outcast outside in her village – an unmarried woman with a boy-child. She’d sworn to protect him, to protect every drop of his blood and the fates took her at her word. When that boy’s blood passed to his son, she was bound to protect him and so on, until Albert Hart Junior. By pulling that trigger and ending his life, she’d broken her vow and been taken from the world.

Blood of my blood, flesh of mine, you are nothing. It ends here.

To the Water

Some of you will have read this before – it’s a short story I wrote based on the influence music can have at certain points in our lives. The following story is based on what I associate with this song:

My story is NOTHING like the video, by the way.
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TO THE WATER*

I brake hard when I see the exit and turn sharply to the left. The car behind honks the horn and you yell abuse out of the window. I laugh and the dog barks, pressing her velvet black nose against the glass behind me, leaving snail-trails as she goes. She knows where we’re headed, even if I’m not totally sure.
I haven’t been here for a long time but the narrow curves of this side road are familiar. I seem to remember we spent a lot of time here last summer but I couldn’t drive then and to be honest, I concentrated more on the music and the rough skin of your palm on my bare thigh than on the road.
You haven’t wound the window up yet and I can smell the bitterness of the sea on the sharp evening breeze. It’s almost summer now, so the nights are getting longer again; the sun’s descent into the ocean slowing to a creeping fall. Even so, by the time we’re finished and head back to the car, it will be dark. This in mind, I lower my foot a little – I want us to be by the water when the day sinks behind the horizon.
“Oh desert speak to my heart, oh woman of the earth…” Your singing is diabolical, so off key, like a cat’s howl. But it makes me smile so I turn the volume up and join you, though I sound little better.
“Maker of Children who weep for love, maker of this birth.”
The dog is over-excited as we pull into the car park and I turn off the ignition. I look at you and grin but there seems to be no time to talk – the creature in the back will not be denied her freedom. She’s barking and ricocheting off every conceivable surface. Eventually she realises there’s a gap between the front seats and charges for that but she doesn’t count on it being too thin for her broad Alsatian shoulders. We laugh, then you get out and swing your seat forwards. She bounds from my rusting, old car and goes tearing towards the beach without a backwards glance. You chuckle fondly and watch with such kind attention that I can not help but imagine you watching your children.
I don’t bother locking the car and without waiting for you, I go racing after the dog, laughing, calling for her and slapping my thighs with pantomime enthusiasm. You watch me run and then, after a moment of careful consideration, give chase. You’re faster than me and throw yourself around my waist, tackling me to the ground. I squeal and try to wriggle away, sand creeping into the folds of my clothes and getting stuck in my hair. I spit out a mouthful and cough as I taste the sea. All the while we’re laughing.
You let me go for a second and I half crawl, half stumble away. I am breathless. You get up and stand doubled over, rest for a second then follow, knocking me from my feet again. The dog chooses now to return, thinking that this is a wonderful game, devised solely for her amusement. She paws at us and snaps playfully, licking any exposed skin and tugging on loose clothes. When she has finally had enough, the three of us sit panting in the sand, gathering our thoughts and remaining shreds of dignity.
The air is cooling and the red sunlight, reflected on the waves, looks like a million scattered rubies. I try to shake the sand from myself and turn to you with a little smirk as I run my fingers through my hair. Neither of us has said a word yet and it seems wrong to somehow. The moment itself, the tension and the electricity, say more than we eloquent mammals possibly could. Above us the greying sky is freckled with the first stars and other than your beloved dog’s breathing, all I can hear are the waves and the thick bass of my racing heart.
It’s been so long since last time – almost a year has passed in fact. I wonder absently if it will be the same, if your lips will still taste like the cola you’re always drinking. I do not entertain the concept of maybe. This is inevitable. Just as the moon will rise, as she will wax and wane and the tide will ebb and flow, we will kiss and it will be everything. I allow myself a little chuckle at my sudden poetical leanings and then concentrate on you again, and your beautiful blue eyes. You do not ask me why I laughed – you understand me well enough to know I will not tell you.
And I know you well enough to know that you want to pull me close to your chest so that you can stroke my hair and kiss my face. But I also know that you’re afraid. You made a mistake before and you’re terrified of repeating it. And all the while I’m terrified of letting the perfection of this second slip away, unfulfilled, leaving us both disillusioned.
“Tell me you still love me,” I command, bold as ever. Your eyes are the same colour as the greying sea. My words hang heavy in the air and play again through my mind. I look at you, trying to read your perpetual frown.
“I can’t.” You cast aside my command as simply as that. I realise in this moment that I am no longer your Princess, no longer your black eyed angel.
My heart feels ready to explode. There’s a burning in my chest that spreads to every limb and rots numbly in my stomach. My breathing quickens until I feel as if I’m panting again. I bite my bottom lip, screw my eyes tight-shut and wait for the sudden feeling of nausea to pass. I dare to look again, take a deep breath and remind myself that a lot can happen in a year and that you might not be the person I knew after all. Perhaps you have found someone. I force myself to concentrate on the horizon. I try to rationally explain away all the wonderful feelings I’ve had tonight, but my hysterical thoughts fail me. I look back at you, trying not to appear too broken.
“I’ll show you I love you,” you whisper.
Relief floods over me in the same instance that curiosity takes hold of all my senses. I watch you intently, waiting for whatever magical act you’re about to perform. The world around me no longer exists and as clichéd as it may sound, there is only you.
You pull a scratched and scarred leather box from your pocket. You offered that ring to me before – Christmas day as we lay in bed you gave me all I’d ever wanted and I denied you the light and rainbows ending we had both longed for. I will not be so foolish again. I remember the cloudy emerald and the matt silver band of the antique ring. I think, as I did when I pointed to it in the shop window, that it will look stunning on my slim, pale fingers…
But you’re standing up. You toss the box with all your strength into the water. It goes for about ten metres, then there is a little splash and it’s gone – probably forever. I look at you, askance.
“That ring was offered by another me to another you. Please, let’s just start again.” It sounds scripted, like you’ve been thinking about this for a long time. Still, I can’t help but stare, wondering where this sudden courage has come from – I know you now as a man of awkward silences and twiddling thumbs. It had been different back then, of course, but you had never been as decisive and articulate as this. I offer you a smile as my acceptance, the baton of ineloquence now firmly in my hands. You help me up and clinging to your arm, as if all my strength has gone from me, we walk back to the car, your dog hot on our heels.
We will kiss, but not now. We will go home, but not now. Now we will hear the rest of the song and we sing as loudly as we can. Your hand rests on my leg as I press my foot to the floor and hear my wheels spin in the sand.

“Run to the water, find me there,
Burnt to the core but not broken
With a nuclear fire of love in my heart
Rest easy baby, rest easy
Recognise it all as light and rainbows
Smashed to smithereens but be happy.”

*Run to the Water – Live, The Distance to Here, 1999