Writing a book in 365 days – 211

Day 211

Writing – a dystopian world

…

On the other side, there was another door, but before we went through it, I was ‘decontaminated,’ which meant being sprayed with a gas of some sort. It didn’t have a bad smell.

Then another invisible door, or archway, opened, and beyond, it was a large open space with blue skies, trees, flowers, what was once parkland, because we had something similar in what was called a ‘public space’, but on a smaller scale. Life, such as before me, was still not possible on the outside, but it was improving.

Or so we were told.

It was a world within a world. It was warm, there were creatures, and people tended it.

“It’s a pity we have to die before we get to see what we once had,” I said. She had slowed down to match my movement.

She was what we called a power walker.

“There is much to explore over the coming week.”

It was large and a long walk. There was a lake, and there were small row boats. The only rowing I’d done was in a gym. Perhaps I’d get a chance to go on a boat.

We walked for half an hour. We reached a row of bungalows built along the water’s edge. At the third bungalow, she said, “This will be your residence for the next week.”

She led the way. As we approached the door, it opened. She went in, and I followed. It was far better than anything I’d lived in my whole life, the sort of place we speculated management lived in.

“You have everything you need for the next week.”

“Am I free to explore that world outside my door?”

“With me, yes. I will be staying here with you.”

Interesting. “And interaction with any others who are staying here.”

“Of course. This is not a prison. But as I said, I will be with you.”

It was beginning to feel like it was a prison.

She sat down at the table. “Please join me, and we’ll go over the rules.”

Was I disappointed? No. I could think of worse ways to live the last week of my life. It was just so unexpected that places like this existed, and my last week would be an endless reminder of what I had, in more ways than one.

About ten minutes into what seemed to be a well-rehearsed speech, I made a discovery. Well, it was not so much a discovery as it was confirmation of a theory I once had.

About a year before, I was given a case that involved a missing woman who had not turned up for work that morning. Normally, people had to be missing several days before we investigated, but I got the impression she was important.

And a surprise because crimes involving people were far and few between, and anyone committing crimes that killed or seriously injured others and was found guilty was summarily terminated.

In a small community, it was an effective deterrent.

And being such an important case, I was surprised my superior dropped the file on my desk with the warning, discretion was paramount, that I was to report results to him directly and only him, and if anyone came to me for information, I was to direct them to him.

It was an odd case, one where I should have got a similar story from everyone, especially in her block where she lived, but no two stories were the same. Similar, perhaps, but always a key detail amiss.

Only one of the thirty-odd people I spoke to had a completely different story. He had been missing the week she arrived, and when he came back, he discovered her living next door.

And when he tried to talk to her, she simply ignored him. Another strange thing was that she had a visitor who turned up late at night, and they would leave together, return in the early hours, and the visitor left before anyone else in the block woke.

And then, that very morning, neither returned.

When I asked why he didn’t report the events, he, like many others, said they didn’t want to get involved. I knew he knew more than he was telling me, but I also recognised fear.

I took my findings to my superior, and he told me it was imperative that I find her as soon as possible. He didn’t say why.

But I knew what it was he wasn’t saying.

A lot of my job involved discretion; one of only a few who were privy to information that was restricted. Yes, we had security levels, and due to seniority and my ability to keep secrets, I’d advanced to the highest level.

It was a privilege and also a curse.

It was where I discovered the people above my pay grade had a different life and privileges, which most people, if they knew, would be surprised. It was, someone once said, a case of don’t do as I do, do as I say.

Very apt.

It led me to the conclusion that she was having an illicit relationship with a man she worked with. I could go to her workplace to ask embarrassing questions, but instead visited the more exclusive hotels where illicit relationships played out.

There were seven I knew about, one near the block where she lived. I went there first, and when I told them who I was and what I was doing there, I was taken to the manager’s office, and then to a room where, very carefully laid out, the body of the missing woman.

They had known someone would come for her, and that it was better they did not report it via the usual means.

There were no visible signs of violence, so no harm had been inflicted on her. I asked who had booked the room and received a blank stare. No names were ever used, and there was no CCTV footage.

In certain circumstances, of which this was one. It told me that management was, or could be, involved.

I dismissed the manager and made a cursory inspection of the room and the body. Fully dressed, she looked as though she were asleep. It was not my job to determine the cause of death, but the skin under my fingers when determining if there was a pulse was odd.

She was perfect in every way, not exactly the norm.

Examination completed, I reported back and was told to leave, my job done. As I went through the foyer, I could see that someone had spoken to the manager; he looked a deathly shade of white.

I remained at a cafe not far from the hotel to see what happened next, and within ten minutes, two black cars and a van arrived, men in black uniforms from the cars, and men in white suits from the van.

Ten more minutes, and they were gone. I didn’t see the body being removed.

Nothing more was said, but seeing Miranda in front of me, now, she had all the same characteristics.

Wise or not, I had to ask, “Are you self-aware?”

…

Writing a book in 365 days – 210

Day 210

Writing exercise

…

It was no one fault that Melinda’s parents died in the accident. It just happened.

The day after she turned fifteen, and faced with losing her brothers and sisters in an unforgiving foster care system, she packed a bag for each and told them that they could take one toy and left.

Joey was 13, Annabel was 11, and Gertie was 9. The two youngest didn’t understand what had happened to them and wanted to know where Mom and Dad were.

There was no simple answer.

Instead, Melinda had to tell them in no uncertain terms that their lives had changed, and they had to leave. Otherwise, bad people would come and take them away.

It was emphasised by the four cars, lights flashing starkly against the dark night, the police and others coming to take them away.

After that, it was just a trial, sleeping during the day and walking at night.

It took three months. The plan if anything ever happens to their parents. Left with the eldest daughter, whom they charged with the responsibility to save their children and go to what Mom had called a safe house.

In Canada.

Three months and seven near misses, knowing everyone was looking for them. And not all of them with good intentions.

During those three months, Melinda had turned 16. Her mother had been looking forward to her 16th birthday; they were going to have a celebration.

That morning, after the other three went to sleep, failing to remember the day, Melinda cried. It felt like it was the end of the world.

Perhaps it was, in a sense.

Now, on the eve of her 18th birthday, the family was safe with their grandparents she had never met or knew about. It was almost like it had been before.

Except she knew it wasn’t.

She would always be looking over her shoulder. Even after the adjustments, like the change of names, the change of appearance, the learning of a different language and accent, German, to disguise who they had been.

It was time for the others to go back to school and resume their childhood.

For Melinda, watching the sun set behind the trees of her long-gone childhood, life would never be the same.

“You are sad, my child?”

Her grandmother, Heidi, was a kind and gentle soul, the one who had nurtured and home-schooled them as a mother would. Adolf, the grandfather, was gruff and angry but sympathetic to their situation. It was he who had toughened them up by teaching them to survive.

“I never got to experience all those things a young girl does, love, a broken heart, dancing, parties, just being a child, I guess.”

“There is an English expression. Youth is wasted on the young. The English have an expression for everything. You may think you have missed those golden years, but you have not. You simply spent them differently, much better than your contemporaries. As Adolf would say, come the apocalypse, who do you think will survive it?”

“Do you think there will be one?”

The sun had set, and darkness was closing in.

“Take a look around, smell the aromas of Mother Nature, savour the cool breeze as it rustles gently through the trees. This will always be here, despite the humans’ efforts to destroy it.”

It was a question she had never dared to ask, and she had impressed upon her siblings that certain questions must never be asked but now seemed to be the time.

“What really happened to my mom and dad?”

The old lady put her arm around her shoulder and hugged her. “It is not for me to say. It can only be a matter of speculation. Your grandfather went to your home some months after you arrived and obtained the police report on the accident. It read like an accident, but details are missing. There may be reasons why there may not. I think it’s best not to dwell on the past, Leisl.”

It took a while to remember who she now was, a name she selected herself, from a movie she one saw that made her happy, The Sound of Music. She used to go around the house and sing that song Sixteen Going on Seventeen while doing her chores.

Now, it was just another distant memory.

“As you wish. Do you think it’s wise that I leave now? I mean, the others seemed reconciled, but I will miss them.”

“As they will miss you, but it is not forever. You must continue your education, and you will be returning during the semester breaks. It is what your parents wanted for you.”

She had read the letter they had written, one for each of the children. It explained who the grandparents were and what was going to happen. It was part of a plan, and she had often wondered if it would have been the same if they had lived.

“But, now, we must celebrate your birthday.”

…

Writing a book in 365 days – 210

Day 210

Writing exercise

…

It was no one fault that Melinda’s parents died in the accident. It just happened.

The day after she turned fifteen, and faced with losing her brothers and sisters in an unforgiving foster care system, she packed a bag for each and told them that they could take one toy and left.

Joey was 13, Annabel was 11, and Gertie was 9. The two youngest didn’t understand what had happened to them and wanted to know where Mom and Dad were.

There was no simple answer.

Instead, Melinda had to tell them in no uncertain terms that their lives had changed, and they had to leave. Otherwise, bad people would come and take them away.

It was emphasised by the four cars, lights flashing starkly against the dark night, the police and others coming to take them away.

After that, it was just a trial, sleeping during the day and walking at night.

In Canada.

Three months and seven near misses, knowing everyone was looking for them. And not all of them with good intentions.

During those three months, Melinda had turned 16. Her mother had been looking forward to her 16th birthday; they were going to have a celebration.

That morning, after the other three went to sleep, failing to remember the day, Melinda cried. It felt like it was the end of the world.

Perhaps it was, in a sense.

Now, on the eve of her 18th birthday, the family was safe with their grandparents she had never met or knew about. It was almost like it had been before.

Except she knew it wasn’t.

It was time for the others to go back to school and resume their childhood.

For Melinda, watching the sun set behind the trees of her long-gone childhood, life would never be the same.

“You are sad, my child?”

“I never got to experience all those things a young girl does, love, a broken heart, dancing, parties, just being a child, I guess.”

“Do you think there will be one?”

The sun had set, and darkness was closing in.

“Take a look around, smell the aromas of Mother Nature, savour the cool breeze as it rustles gently through the trees. This will always be here, despite the humans’ efforts to destroy it.”

It was a question she had never dared to ask, and she had impressed upon her siblings that certain questions must never be asked but now seemed to be the time.

“What really happened to my mom and dad?”

Now, it was just another distant memory.

“As you wish. Do you think it’s wise that I leave now? I mean, the others seemed reconciled, but I will miss them.”

“As they will miss you, but it is not forever. You must continue your education, and you will be returning during the semester breaks. It is what your parents wanted for you.”

“But, now, we must celebrate your birthday.”

…

Writing a book in 365 days – 209

Day 209

Put it in your own words

…

What exactly does that mean these days?

Perhaps before the advent of computers and spell checkers and grammar checkers, and the vast array of writing helpers available, our writing was our own.

You know, getting sheets of paper, drawing lines on them, filling up the ink well and having a supply of ink available, then with your feather, or purposely made pen and nib, got stuck in.

What came out of your head went down on paper, the nib scratching its way along the lines, and thoughts tumbled out.

It may not have made any sense, but it was your own.

Except, of course, you decided deliberately or otherwise that you would copy someone else’s wprl either verbatim or very thinly disguised. Yes, there have always been lazy cheats.

I like to think that it was the exception rather than the rule.

Nowadays, you don’t ever have to write at all. Just a few plot points, and the story is written for you.

No effort, no putting it in your own words. And unfortunately, it is probably eminently readable.

What is the point?

I will never surrender to AI. I use spell checkers, but they have very strange ideas sometimes. It simply means you need to know how to spell. It can’t be that hard. We all went to school and learned the rudiments of our language.

Or maybe not. Not if the rumours about students and teachers’ abilities are remotely credible. I mean, spend half an hour in a crowded pub after the end of the word day, and the conversational language used is terrible.

It seems no one can string a sentence together without at least three or four profanities. And our regard for others?

Perhaps a story about ordinary people would be very uninteresting, and we would all have to migrate to a fictional world where respect and conversation without profanities still exist.

So much for the modern youth writing in their own words.

But I digress…

I’m sure that on some level, we all like the idea of picking up a book or reading one using an e-reader that doesn’t have that language or disrespect.

After all, books are what take us into a different world than our own, into the imagination of the writer who has, hopefully, toiled long and hard to put his or her masterpiece down on paper in their own words.

Writing a book in 365 days – 209

Day 209

Put it in your own words

…

What exactly does that mean these days?

Perhaps before the advent of computers and spell checkers and grammar checkers, and the vast array of writing helpers available, our writing was our own.

You know, getting sheets of paper, drawing lines on them, filling up the ink well and having a supply of ink available, then with your feather, or purposely made pen and nib, got stuck in.

What came out of your head went down on paper, the nib scratching its way along the lines, and thoughts tumbled out.

It may not have made any sense, but it was your own.

Except, of course, you decided deliberately or otherwise that you would copy someone else’s wprl either verbatim or very thinly disguised. Yes, there have always been lazy cheats.

I like to think that it was the exception rather than the rule.

Nowadays, you don’t ever have to write at all. Just a few plot points, and the story is written for you.

No effort, no putting it in your own words. And unfortunately, it is probably eminently readable.

What is the point?

It seems no one can string a sentence together without at least three or four profanities. And our regard for others?

Perhaps a story about ordinary people would be very uninteresting, and we would all have to migrate to a fictional world where respect and conversation without profanities still exist.

So much for the modern youth writing in their own words.

But I digress…

I’m sure that on some level, we all like the idea of picking up a book or reading one using an e-reader that doesn’t have that language or disrespect.

Writing a book in 365 days – 207/208

Days 207 and 208

Writing exercise – A locked room mystery

…

Don’t you just love a mystery?

I don’t, but not one that is impossible to solve.

Impossible?

I was told that nothing is impossible, and there is always a logical answer to every problem.

I was also told there will always be people who will maintain that the impossible is because of the unexplainable, and we had to look more closely at things that were not of this world.

Those people, the logical people, call crackpots or charlatans.

There is the unexplainable, but in the end, when we look at all of the facts surrounding a situation, we always find an answer.

But…

We do have unsolvable crimes committed by real people who got away with it. We do not like to think there is such a thing as the perfect crime. It is preferable to believe the criminal was very lucky

The crime I was called to, on a dark day and in a sinister house, had all the hallmarks of a perfect crime: a dead body in a locked room that had only one exit, the door, locked from the inside.

At least, that was the first report I was given by my partner Detective Sargeant Wilson, newly promoted to the detective branch, enthusiastic, and it came out in an explosion of words.

At least she had arrived properly and hadn’t blundered around the crime scene like my last partner had when he first started.

Downstairs in the living room, occupying six of the seven lounge chairs set around the fire, warming those within a range of about twenty feet. Beyond that, there was a chill in the air, not all from the cold.

Outside, a shard of bright light was followed by a crack of rolling thunder, after which the rain became torrential. I half expected the roof to be leaking.

I was introduced to the six, each including the victim part of a group who paid a small fortune to stay the night in a “genuine” haunted house. The group were all from the same family: the grandfather, Anton Giles; the father, William Giles; his third wife, Lucy; William’s eldest son, David; his eldest daughter, Winnie; Oliver, and Bertie.

The family get-together was the grandfather’s idea. William Giles’ current wife was younger than all his children, and the animosity from those children could be felt in the room. It was obvious the grandfather had a reason, and looking around at the group, finding out what that was would be the same as extracting teeth.

It was also clear, from the venue’s management, of which the manager and two assistants were present, that the murder, mock or otherwise, was not part of the “entertainment.”

An inspection of the room, opened with a spare key by the manager when a preliminary search for Anton had failed to locate him, showed the other key was in the room; then the door was locked from the inside, the victim had been shot at point-blank range by someone he knew because there were no defensive wounds. The gun was next to the key, and Anton’s watch and wallet were missing, suggesting robbery with violence.

There were no secret doorways or entrances to the room other than the normal door. The cupboard, full of clothes, didn’t have a secret back. There was no trapdoor under the carpet, and there was no vent in the walls or roof big enough to take an escapee.

There were no guests or staff on the site or in the house; the caterers had left after dinner, and would not be back until morning, if the rain stopped, because my car was the last to get over the causeway. If it rained much more, we would be lucky to leave in the morning. I arrived alone, and my partner arrived a half hour earlier with three constables, one each at the exits.

No one was leaving.

One of the six, or one of the three staff members, could be the murderer.

When I came into the room, Wilson was standing by the fire, notebook at the ready. The six were seated by the fire, the three staff in the background. It was a large room, and it took a few seconds to reach the fireplace and get a first look at the family, as Wilson introduced them.

When that was done, I was about to speak when William Giles’ eldest son, David, said, pointing at his father’s latest wife, Lucy, “She did it.”

William glared at the son and said, “Don’t start this again. It’s clear you don’t like her, but she is not a murderer. You obviously, on the other hand, must have after he wrote you out of the will.”

“I did nothing of the sort. And we have only your word on that; he never said he had changed his will. Unless, of course, you have a newer will, but it would have to be a fake. He said he was not leaving anything to a paedophile.”

A clear reference to the father marrying a young girl. She didn’t look very old, but a quick ID check Wilson had called for would soon sort that out. Appearances were always deceptive.

“Let’s not forget how mortgaged to the hilt you are, Davey. Hopeless with money, always asking Gramps to bail you out. I heard home tell you there was no more in that well. No wonder you killed him. You got your own version of the will?”

All this talk of a will. Sometimes, it was useful to let the suspects banter.

But then, time for a question. “Was this gathering for another reason, other than bonding?”

Oliver snorted. “Bonding. Every time we get together, it’s a surprise one of us isn’t murdered, and now it’s happened. Greed, that’s what this family thrives on. We were here for an important announcement, and I’m guessing Anton was going to tell us if he was leaving us anything. Worth billions, he was. If you are looking for a motive detective, there it is.”

Whilst Wilson hadn’t contaminated the crime scene, the rest of the family had, once the door had been opened, and everyone would have fingerprints all over the room, and Winnie had fainted on seeing the body. It was, Wilson said, a dog’s breakfast.

It was a family accurate assessment. And worse, we could not get forensics in until the flooding subsided.

I noticed that Wilson collected all paperwork from the grandfather’s room, locked with the key in his pocket, odd because of the other missing items, and then after a quick search of the other rooms, but no will or anything to do with inheritances was found.

Equally odd, even though Wilson at the time was unaware of what she was looking for. Clearly, the old man had brought something with him, and the murderer may have taken it.

A call to the old man’s lawyer was next on the list. A change in the will would make things interesting.

“I did not kill Anton. He didn’t like me, true, but none of you do either, and none of you are dead if that’s your criterion. The rest of you children, well, I’d be disgusted to call you my own.”

It sounded weird to hear from a girl younger than all of them, sounding more mature than her years. It’s probably not. They all looked and sounded like they had a privileged upbringing.

I had wealthy parents and a boarding school education, but my parents made me work, starting at the bottom and earning my keep and respect the hard way. There was no free ride for any of us in our family. Whatever bias I might have had was left at the door.

“If this were a gathering to discuss inheritance, where are your grandfather’s papers? They were not in his room and were not stored in a house safety deposit box with other valuables, as management requested.”

I looked at each of the six faces, and the only one that didn’t bear intense scrutiny was Lucy. It might be that she had a guilty conscience or just that she squirmed under intense observation.

Or it was an indicator.

Wilson just returned and motioned for me to join her outside.

She handed me a carefully folded document that had ‘Last Will and Testament of Anton Giles’ dated two days before. I unfolded the pages and went to the last. It was unsigned.

A quick scan showed it was short and to the point. None of the family was going to inherit. Bottom line, there was nothing to inherit, the total sum up for grabs, a little more than ten thousand pounds.

“Where did you find it?”

“In Lucy’s underwear drawer.”

I sighed. “We’re not going to get one grain of truth out of any of them. How long between the murder and your arrival?”

“About three hours.”

“Long enough for all of them to search the house, his room, find out the truth, kill him, and get their stories straight.”

“Even the house staff?”

“All of them.”

“Do you think it was Lucy?”

“Because of this?” I held up the will. “No. I bet there are about twenty of them hidden around this place, and not one is the real will. The old man was playing with them, failing to realise how it would affect one of them. One of them may have the real will.”

“How will we know?”

Uf or when the next person dies.”

I might not have come to that conclusion if we had not found the fake will. This was more than a family bonding. This was a weekend deliberately designed to torment his child and grandchildren before delivering the bad news.

I should not have answered the Superintendent’s call.