This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.
…
What’s it like turning around and not finding your shadow lurking behind you, watching every move.
Down at the stationhouse (it sounds just like what is said on a TV show called Murdoch Mysteries) he finally gets the message across that he’s not the infamous Jacob.
He also suddenly realises that until his doppelganger is brought to justice, this is going to be a new sort of normal for him.
The thing is, how did an exact copy of him walk the earth and no one seem to notice. He was a criminal before, but perhaps he hadn’t killed anyone before. It’s an interesting question.
Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking about the connection between Jack and Jacob, and it seems to me the best, and possibly only explanation, is that his mother’s sister, the one that was supposedly killed in a native attack in Africa, lived on, came back to England, found his mother (her sister) and took the first man she ever loved (and had a child with) away from her, and basically did the same thing.
What are the odds, though, that the same man fathers two identical children, one each from identical twins. Talk about a twist in the tale!
The burning question should be, why didn’t his mother tell him about her twin sister?
It also adds some context to Jack’s sighting of what he thought was his mother and the fact he was bothered about the man with her. Every right to, the man was Jacob.
And his memory is telling him that his aunt was the one who shot him, not the police. It might need to be refined a little more, but the clues are there.
This morning we wake up to rain. Or so we thought. Taking a closer look out the window of our room on the 16th floor, we notice the rain is speckled with snowflakes. As the morning progressed the snow got harder until there were flurries.
Later we discover this is called wet snow by the local Vancouverians, and whilst they winge a lot over the endless rain, to them rain is infinitely better than snow.
To us, by the afternoon, it was almost blizzard conditions, with lots of snow. Then the only thing is that it does not accumulate on most of the ground so there are no drifts to play in.
Because the weather is so dismal we decided not to go into Vancouver to do some sightseeing because the clouds were down to the ground and then the snow set in.
Another interesting fact is that construction workers do not go off the job if it’s raining, or worse when it is snowing. Our room overlooks a new apartment complex under construction and the workers battled on through what seemed like appalling conditions.
At four in the afternoon, the Maple Leafs are playing the Ohio Blue Jackets, in Ohio. It is a game we expect they will win. Sparks is the goalkeeper, not Anderson, they’re playing back to back games and Anderson’s starting tomorrow.
They win, four goals to two.
Just before darkness falls, about four thirty, the snow stops and there is a little rain, which melts the snow.
Time to go up to the executive lounge to get some snacks and coffee, then sleep because the next day we’re taking on the Trans Canada highway from Vancouver to Kamloops.
The forecast is for snow, more snow, and just for a change, more snow.
Detective Chief Inspector Davis and Detective Sargeant Bains step into the frame as the investigating officers. The Chief Inspector had been expecting his last year before retirement to be one of the cases that required more time completing the paperwork than investigating, and Sargeant Bains under his watchful eye because of past misdemeanours that nearly had him sent back to uniform.
Both had read the case notes and the Chief Inspector had queried the delegation of the case to him because it was the sort of case the fast tracker would seize upon.
It got a very severe reprimanding look, along with the statement ‘There are eyes above both our paygrades watching this with very keen interest, so don’t muck it up’.
That, of course, meant there was going to be high-level interference, that it had gone to a fast-track inspector who wisely wanted nothing to do with it. Maybe his retirement would come early.
Davis may have thought the interference was going to come from the victim’s family, he was well aware of who her father was in the scheme of political and other arenas, but he hadn’t known about or met Michael yet. That was going to be the highlight of that first day.
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.
…
What’s it like turning around and not finding your shadow lurking behind you, watching every move.
Down at the stationhouse (it sounds just like what is said on a TV show called Murdoch Mysteries) he finally gets the message across that he’s not the infamous Jacob.
He also suddenly realises that until his doppelganger is brought to justice, this is going to be a new sort of normal for him.
The thing is, how did an exact copy of him walk the earth and no one seem to notice. He was a criminal before, but perhaps he hadn’t killed anyone before. It’s an interesting question.
Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking about the connection between Jack and Jacob, and it seems to me the best, and possibly only explanation, is that his mother’s sister, the one that was supposedly killed in a native attack in Africa, lived on, came back to England, found his mother (her sister) and took the first man she ever loved (and had a child with) away from her, and basically did the same thing.
What are the odds, though, that the same man fathers two identical children, one each from identical twins. Talk about a twist in the tale!
The burning question should be, why didn’t his mother tell him about her twin sister?
It also adds some context to Jack’s sighting of what he thought was his mother and the fact he was bothered about the man with her. Every right to, the man was Jacob.
And his memory is telling him that his aunt was the one who shot him, not the police. It might need to be refined a little more, but the clues are there.
There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?
A retired spy, well not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.
But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.
And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.
Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest. Then, inexplicably, she disappears. That might have been the end to it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum, find her or come back to work.
Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!
A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.
When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.
But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.
I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021. It even has a cover.
It wasn’t long after Janine had died that I was sent out of the room while the hospital staff did whatever they did after a patient died. I was by the nursing station, and two were talking.
“You wouldn’t believe it. just as one patient died, the other came out of her coma. The exact second. It had to be divine intervention or something.”
I didn’t ask, but I could guess. I walked up the passage to Margaret’s room and looked in the door. She was awake. Well, her eyes were open, and she didn’t look like she was in a coma, but I wasn’t a doctor.
But I had to wonder if there was a connection between the two events.
Those last few days with Janine were impossible. I don’t know if she realised the pain she caused me in making those baseless accusations or not, and I could only put it down to the medications the doctors had her on.
She was certainly not her usual self.
Something that did come out of it, not that she had intended it, or that I had consciously thought about it until now, was what would have happened to Margaret if she had not recovered.
I’d noticed that there was no next of kin on her paperwork, which meant that she might have died and just been cremated or just would have disappeared.
No one deserved that fate.
It was only a fleeting thought because the moment the hospital staff had completed their work, the administrator arrived and wanted to know what I was going to do. Whilst sympathetic to my loss, they still had a hospital to run and a bed to free up for the next patient.
That meant for the next few days I was tied up with arranging funerals and organising the three children who had been on a rotating cycle of being with her at the hospital, and then altogether at the funeral, a feat only manageable at Christmas.
They stayed just long enough to see if there was anything to inherit and when they realised it was all passed to me, asked me if I would be OK, each said they were willing to stay if I needed them but were on the next plane out when I said I didn’t.
Perhaps I would see them again at Christmas.
I know the day after the last child left, I was sitting alone in the dining room with a cup of coffee and the morning newspaper wondering what I was going to do without her.
Someone had suggested I should pack up all her things and donate them to a charity. The girls had taken what they thought she would want them to have, and suggested I hire someone to do it. They couldn’t; the memory of her passing was too raw. It was for me too, but then I had a whole house filled with reminders and memories.
That’s when I had to get out of there, if only for a few days, and it was where, as if driven by an unseen force, I ended up back at the hospital, and after an hour of wanting to but not wanting to I found myself knocking on Margaret’s door.
I didn’t know if she was well enough or had even recovered enough to have visitors.
She turned her head, saw me, and smiled. “James, come in. What a pleasant surprise. Oh, and I’m sorry for your loss. I was devastated when I heard that Janine had passed. How are you?”
It was probably more than she should be saying. She looked tired if not very sad.
“I don’t know how to feel or what I should do. I couldn’t stay at home, and I know it sounds stupid, I didn’t have anywhere else to go?”
“That’s not stupid at all. You’ve just suffered a terrible loss, and it can be very disorientating. Come and sit.”
I went over to collect the chair and sat where she could see me without having to move too much.
“You don’t have to say anything. Perhaps you simply take the time to reflect on what you had and what you still have. That will never go away, not as long as she remains in your heart.”
Had I expected those words? No. Perhaps coming from someone else, they may have sounded hollow, but I got the impression she meant every word. Perhaps having suffered a hugely calamitous point in her own life, she had gained an insight into how precious life was, and it was not meant to be frittered away or ended until it was the time. She certainly sounded different to the last time we met.
“I was told that I woke up the exact moment Janine died. I doubt there was a significance that it was just a coincidence. I certainly never expected to come back, and no, what I did was not because of something I did or said.”
Those were the words that Janine had used, almost to the letter. it had crossed my mind, but what I had said, someone needed to, and if it could not come from what was once a friend, then she was beyond help. “Janine seemed to think that I was responsible.”
“Is that why you’re here?” she asked when I didn’t say anything. There was no reproach in her tone, just curiosity.
“Not really. I thought I would come and see how you were. Perhaps it was the notion that I could lose two people I cared about was worrying me. You know me well enough to know that I speak my mind when I’m with friends, and I always wanted to believe you were one. I was hurt when you chose William, but it was not unexpected. You were raised with certain expectations, and I could never fulfil those, for your parents, or you.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. I know what I did, and I’m not proud of it, and there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about you. But I can’t blame my parents and their expectations, just my stupidity in not realising that I should have chosen love. Because of that, I have the rest of my life to pay penance. I do hope, though, despite everything, that we might still be friends. God knows I don’t deserve it, but I promise I will never hurt you again.”
That thought, a leopard never changed its spots came into my mind, but then, most leopards don’t go through near-death experiences. I shook my head, though I couldn’t say why. “This is too soon,” I said. “I feel sad, and I feel angry, and I feel cheated. It’s not your fault.” I stood. “Perhaps another time.”
Why was I there? What on earth had made me think going to see Margaret for any reason was going to assuage the pain I was feeling? And it was pain, far stronger than I imagined it would be. An onlooker would say I was a mess, and they would be right. Janine, if she knew what was happening, would be disappointed. I knew she would want me to be strong for the children’s sake, and I had been.
But in those hours, days after they had returned home and I was alone, that was when it came home and hit me. I was alone. I had no one to talk to, no one to do the things we did together, no one to just be there. it might be said that I took her for granted, but I think over time, you both do that to a certain degree. You do stuff, you argue, there a good moments and bad moments, but that was what a relationship was, and you look forward to being together for the rest of your days.
When that is cut short, when one or the other dies, there’s an empty spot that can’t be filled. And it was the reason why, at that moment in time, I couldn’t function. It was why, a week later, after several phone calls from my eldest son, David, not being answered, the police came to see if everything was ok, and I was found unconscious on the floor.
I woke up in the hospital, and an odd sensation went through me moments before I opened my eyes, an image of someone waving to me as they disappeared into a bright light. Had I just experienced my own near-death experience, had I just spent some time in heaven’s waiting room, where Janine had told me in no uncertain terms that I had to pull myself together?
I certainly felt like I used to after she told me off.
“Thank God.”
I turned to see David; concern written all over his face.
“I thought we all thought we’d lost you too. why didn’t you simply ask one of us to stay with you?”
“You have your own lives to live.”
‘You are a part of those lives, and we want, no, need, you to be in them for as long as possible. I should have realised. Mum said you’d be lost without her, but we thought she was joking. You’ve always been so solid in the face of every catastrophe.”
“Perhaps I’m the one who should be sorry to cause you trouble.”
“You are no trouble. And I’m here for as long as it takes.”
…
Time heals all wounds. Well, most of them anyway.
With life again in the house, people coming and going, the sounds of children running around and being nuisances as only children could, a new life was created, a new normal. Janine was not gone. There were photos of her everywhere, things that were hers everywhere, and it was like she was still there.
A year passed, the anniversary of her death, and the whole that had been created by her departure was not as large as it had been, and the subject of whether or not I would ever find someone else, not to replace Janine, but to be a companion, a friend, someone who might make life a little less lonely was actually discussed at the table.
I thought it was too soon. They thought it was time I considered it. After all, they knew that their mother would be happy for me if I found someone who could be, as David put it, a special friend.
I was sitting at what might have been called my favourite spot at the Golden Bell Cafe, overlooking the town’s botanical gardens.
It was a time of reflection, the gardens were the place where I’d proposed to Janine, and she had accepted, and it subsequently became a place we made time to be together.
When I’d finished the coffee and cake, I would take a walk there, the excuse being I had to walk off the calories.
It was also an excellent spot to see comings and goings, and being the small town it was, I knew most of those going by. Usually, it was the same people, but this morning there was a new face.
And to be honest, I knew I was going to see her again, and the thought of it did not upset me. It might have once, but I was in a better place now than I was.
This was not a coincidental meeting. I had long suspected David had discovered that Margaret had been an old girlfriend and knowing him he would have checked her out and had thought if I saw someone familiar from the past, it might be beneficial
It had his sticky fingers all over the plot. David always meant well, especially when trying to help his siblings, sometimes with hilarious results, and they were used to his interceding.
When our eyes met, she smiled. She, too, had benefited from time passing and had almost become her old self again, at least physically.
When she reached the cafe, she joined me at the table.
“It is nice to see you again, Margaret.”
“And I you, but I have to be honest with you.”
“David came to see you and ask if you’d try and brighten up an old fossil like me?”
“He didn’t call you an old fossil, but I believe he believed he had the best of intentions, but not the history.”
“No. But he means well. And if you want me to be honest, I’m glad to see you. Life is too short for both of us to hold onto the past. Whatever happened then did for a reason, and probably with the intention that it might be possible to have a second chance later on. Maybe this is our later on. I know Janine would be upset with me if she knew how sad I’ve been since she passed, and perhaps at some point, she might give me a sign.”
“I don’t deserve a second chance, James. I should not have done what I did. I loved you, you know that.”
“Then perhaps we will take it one step at a time. Today. Coffee, cake, and a walk in the park.”
“One day at a time is fine,” she said, with what looked like teary eyes.
I had no idea what she was expecting, perhaps for me to be my usual bad-tempered self when I saw her, but it didn’t seem right, and enough time had passed before seeing any other women
At my age, it was going to be impossible, which is why Margaret was ideal. I still had feelings for her, probably always did, and just suppressed them while I was with Janine, but now seeing her across the table, those feelings were being given a workout.
I put my hand on hers, and she looked up. A tear escaped and ran down her cheek. “Then you pick what you want us to do tomorrow. Where are you staying?”
“The guest house.”
“Then tomorrow I’ll come and get you. I have a big empty house and you can stay with me. There’s a lovely room with your name on it. Now that’s settled…”
I think I knew at that moment, when I’d looked into those teary eyes that whatever we had those many years before had not gone away but just lay dormant, waiting for the chance to re-emerge and take both of us by surprise.
Even so, there was a measured reluctance to go that next step, not until I got a sign from Janine that she was happy for me.
And when I got to a point where I thought it would never happen, it did.
We went to the cafe and the usual walk. We talked about the usual things and what we were going to do, but I sensed she was getting frustrated that I was still hesitant.
It had been over a year since Janine had passed, and everyone had thought enough time had passed that I had a perfect opportunity to be happy again.
We got home and she went upstairs to her room. We were not sharing the room or the bed, not yet, and that might have added to the frustration because there was no reason not to.
I noticed a letter on the sideboard near the front door and picked it up. It was addressed to me in Janine’s writing.
A letter from the grave.
I held it with a shaking hand. All I could think of was that it would be advice, or just one last word, her penchant for always having the last word.
I opened the envelope and there were several sheets, handwritten. It was dated after we had that argument when I dropped on to see Margaret when she was in a coma in the hospital.
It was a rather odd time to write a letter to be delivered a year after her death.
…
Dear James
This might feel a little creepy, and I’m guessing that thought has passed through your mind.
It is not. It’s an apology because I admonished you for no reason other than my jealousy running wild, but perhaps underlying that, it was my insecurity.
I had in the beginning of our relationship wondered if it was going to last, that the moment Margaret came to her senses and saw what she had lost, she would come back and take you away from me.
It was silly, but I could not believe my fortune when she left. Of course, you were very sad but I had no doubt that I could make you happy, happier than you would have been with her.
The truth is, we were meant to be together. All I had to do was put away those fears that I might lose you one day and just get on with it. I can’t say I’m not glad she didn’t come back.
Then, when she did, those fears rose again. When you went to see her, I wanted to stop you, but doing so may have had the opposite effect. I was glad to learn whatever you may have felt for her, that you were not sorry for her or her situation, nor did you want to pick up where you left off.
I guess it was the only part of you I never understood, and I never asked because it might stir up demons that didn’t need to be woken.
I went to see her after you did, and it was spooky to come face to face with your worst fears. She had hardly aged, whereas the rest of us had been worn out by living a hard life.
Sorry, jealousy again.
I told her about us, the highs the lows, everything she would not have experienced, and as far as I could see, didn’t. She was not a mother, she was not a housewife, and she didn’t work crazy jobs to bring in enough money to ensure we could give our children the best life they could have.
As you can imagine, she had no answers.
But as I understand it, she now had no life, and the people she thought she could rely on later in life had abandoned her. Those sorry circumstances led her to where she is now, and for that, I am sorry for her. No one should ever finish up alone and unloved.
So, having duly thought about it, I can see no reason why you should not consider letting her back into your life. She could use a friend, and if nothing else, you would be a very good friend. If it becomes something more, then so be it. You have a lot of love in that heart of yours, James, and it won’t hurt to share some of it with her.
If I know you as I believe I do, you will have thought about it, and think it is too soon, or that it would sully your memory of me. It won’t. You will never forget me. I know you that well, James.
If this story were being written in the first person, the only perspective or point of view would be that of the narrator.
Since we need to have several perspectives, it is better done in the third person so we can change between characters and try to understand their motivation.
We might look at the first-person perspective for each of the characters later.
The second of the protagonists is the girl with the gun. How did she get it? How did the situation deteriorate so quickly? What is she going to do?
This is a short story, and we need to know something about her, so we must get to the heat of the matter quickly, let’s start with:
Her mother said she would never amount to anything, and here she was, with a broken drug addict coming apart because she had been cut off from her money, dragged into coming to this shop to leverage drugs from his dealer at the end of a gun. It was her fault, Jerry said and made her feel responsible, much the same as her parents and everyone else in her life.
One of life’s losers or just a victim? This theme can go in any direction.
Then a moment to reflect on why she was here:
Why had she agreed to go with Jerry? At that moment when she picked up the gun off the floor, she realized it was not out of responsibility or fault, it was out of fear.
That gives us the why; he had obviously tried to make her feel responsible and when that failed, he threatened her. But now there’s a bigger issue, the gun and a situation spiralling out of control. The thing is, she has the gun and the power to walk away or make matters worse.
The problem was that she had outed the shopkeeper as a dealer in front of someone who had not known. That now made him a victim as much as she was.
She looked at the two men facing her, a shopkeeper who was a dealer and a customer scared shitless. As much as she was. Her gun hand was shaking.
The scene is set, and something has to give.
Time for the shopkeeper to weigh in.
“I have no idea what you are talking about. Please, put the gun down before someone gets hurt.”
It’s a typical response from a man who realizes he’s in trouble and is trying to make time while he thinks of how to rescue himself from a potentially dangerous situation.
Time to change the perspective again and explore the shopkeeper.
If only Jack hadn’t come in when he did. He would have the gun, call the police, and brazened his way out of trouble. Who would the police believe a pair of addicts or a respectable shopkeeper?
Now he had to deal with the fallout, especially if the girl started talking.
Next, actions have consequences, building the tension.
This section was rewritten, moving from Jack as the narrator to the girl, and then to the shopkeeper:
Annalisa looked at the two men facing her, a shopkeeper who, despite his protestations, was a dealer and a customer scared shitless.
The poor bastard was not the only one. This was meant to be simple, arrive at the shop just before closing, force the shopkeeper to hand over the shit, and leave. Simple.
Except …
The shopkeeper told them to get out. Simmo started ranting waving the gun around, then collapsed. A race for the gun which spilled out of his hand, she won.
He was getting the stuff when the customer burst into the shop.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, she thought.
Why had she agreed to go with Jerry? It was her fault, Jerry had said, and he made her feel responsible for his problems, much the same as her parents and everyone else in her life.
Her mother said she would never amount to anything, and here she was, with a drug addict coming apart because she had been cut off from her money, dragged into coming to this shop to pick up his score from his dealer at the end of a gun.
She heard a strange sound come from beside her and looked down. Simmo was getting worse, like he had a fever, and was moaning.
The shopkeeper saw an opportunity. “Listen to me, young lady, I have no idea what you are talking about. Please, put the gun down before someone gets hurt. Your friend needs medical help and I can call an ambulance.”
The girl switched her attention back to him. “Shut up, let me think. Shit.”
The storekeeper glanced over at the customer. He’s been in once or twice, probably lived in the neighbourhood, but looked the sort who’d prefer to be anywhere but in his shop. More so now. If only he hadn’t burst in when he did. He would have the gun, call the police, and brazen his way out of trouble. Who would the police believe a pair of addicts or a respectable shopkeeper?
Now he had to deal with the fallout, especially if the girl started talking.
