Another little exercise, this one linked to the story Secrets (posted on the blog earlier http://colinabrett.blogspot.co.uk/2017/12/secrets.html ) and describing an incident from the protagonist's (John Armstrong) past.
===
They were drinking champagne and losing their shirts at the races that day. Did they care? Did they heck! The money they were losing wasn't theirs. It wasn't, technically, stolen, either. At least, not stolen by John and his peers.
It was the technicality that made it interesting. John Armstrong had found a 'leak' in the company's finances. Project ARGENT, through a series of fronts and blinds, was funnelling money into the Chief Financial Officer's retirement fund. And a tidy sum it was, too. John had confronted the CFO, blackmailed him into stepping aside, and taken the old man's job. Several thousand Pounds had been routed from ARGENT to John and he had decided to celebrate.
Now they were standing in the VIP marquee on the day of the Grand National. The titled, well-heeled and filthy rich were flowing around John's knot of hangers-on, assistants and part-time lovers. Some of the job descriptions overlapped.
Stephanie Morgan leaned closer to John. She ignored the venomous look she drew from Alexandra Stewart, John's current sweetheart, who, in Steph's opionion, deserved to be replaced. "John," she said, her voice like honey, "I've just met this fabulous gent who has given me the most solid tip for the National." She snuggled closer still and began playing with the white carnation on the lapel of his jacket. Her voice became husky. "I don't suppose I could, you know, place a bet," she wheedled.
John straightened in more ways than one. Stephanie had that sort of effect on him. "Of course you can." He found his credit card and held the glittering Platinum plastic in front of avaricious blue eyes. "Shall we?"
Stephanie linked her arm through John's and looked daggers at her rival. She made sure her hip swayed against his as they walked to the bookmaker.
"How much?" John asked.
"I don't know," Stephanie wondered how much she could get away with. "A couple of hundred, maybe?"
John doubled the stake and took the betting slip for £400 at 66-to-1. If the horse came in, that would be over twenty thousand in winnings.
They watched the race from the VIP stands, sharing John's compact binoculars. Excitement built to unbearable levels. Two horses fell. Another six threw their riders. Their horse, Second Dawn, won by several lengths after a nail-biting finish. Stephanie, ecstatic, threw her arms around John and kissed him hard on the lips. She enjoyed the effect she was having on him.
As they collected their winnings, John said, "You must introduce me to your tipster. Where is he?"
Stephanie looked around. "He was over there," she pointed to the corner of the marquee. "Oh," she said, "he seems to have gone. He was a nice-looking man, well dressed. Little moustache. Couldn't guess his age, though. Anywhere between thirty and fifty. He must have been at the deviled eggs from the buffet, though, because there was such an odd smell around him."
The description, for some reason, triggered an alarm bell in John's mind but, try as he might, he couldn't work out where he had seen the man. John had more pressing things to deal with and currently, she was pressing against him, swaying slowly, her silk dress rustling and her inviting blue eyes locked on his.
Saturday 31 March 2018
Friday 30 March 2018
Chances
Another little exercise from the Writers Toolbox.
===
"If you don't take chances," said the man in the striped pyjamas, "you might as well not be alive."
He was obviously taking his own advice. After all, strolling through downtown in PJ's and pink fluffy slippers was taking a whole world of chances! A sprightly sixty-something, the man was alternately laughing and joking with passersby, and trying to have a serious conversation with Max. His curly grey hair swayed in the breeze and his wispy beard jiggled every time he laughed. He, that is they, were starting to draw curious and somewhat unpleasant looks from a gang standing at the street corner.
"Max, my boy," he said, fixing him with diamond-hard eyes, "It's like this ... " He didn't finish his sentence. Instead, he stepped out into the road and began to cross.
Max was a split-second late in catching the old man's arm and preventing him dancing with the traffic. Unable to stop the old geezer, Max stared, panic-stricken as a huge black Mercedes thundered around the bend.
Maybe it was just the fear of seeing the old man smeared across the road. Maybe it was a weird fight-or-flight reaction as his body flooded with adrenalin. Maybe it was the imminent threat of death. Max would never know why, but that split-second stretched into a month.
"Stop!" he managed, just as the Merc reached the old man.
What happened next was impossible. No blaring of the car's horn. No bone-shattering shock of impact. No thud. No blood. Max stared as the car reached the point where the old man stood and passed straight through!
The man in the pyjamas danced a merry jig across the road. Two more cars ignored the laws of Physics and slid through the old man as if he was made of fog.
Laughing maniacally, the old man gestured at Max. "Your turn!" he yelled.
Sod that for a lark, thought Max. The old man was plainly as mad as a box of frogs. Max turned away with a dismissive wave. He had an urgent appointment with a cold beer.
The old man watched Max depart and shrugged. Life was all about chances. Max had just used one of his. Maybe, in another year or so, he would be ready for a second.
===
"If you don't take chances," said the man in the striped pyjamas, "you might as well not be alive."
He was obviously taking his own advice. After all, strolling through downtown in PJ's and pink fluffy slippers was taking a whole world of chances! A sprightly sixty-something, the man was alternately laughing and joking with passersby, and trying to have a serious conversation with Max. His curly grey hair swayed in the breeze and his wispy beard jiggled every time he laughed. He, that is they, were starting to draw curious and somewhat unpleasant looks from a gang standing at the street corner.
"Max, my boy," he said, fixing him with diamond-hard eyes, "It's like this ... " He didn't finish his sentence. Instead, he stepped out into the road and began to cross.
Max was a split-second late in catching the old man's arm and preventing him dancing with the traffic. Unable to stop the old geezer, Max stared, panic-stricken as a huge black Mercedes thundered around the bend.
Maybe it was just the fear of seeing the old man smeared across the road. Maybe it was a weird fight-or-flight reaction as his body flooded with adrenalin. Maybe it was the imminent threat of death. Max would never know why, but that split-second stretched into a month.
"Stop!" he managed, just as the Merc reached the old man.
What happened next was impossible. No blaring of the car's horn. No bone-shattering shock of impact. No thud. No blood. Max stared as the car reached the point where the old man stood and passed straight through!
The man in the pyjamas danced a merry jig across the road. Two more cars ignored the laws of Physics and slid through the old man as if he was made of fog.
Laughing maniacally, the old man gestured at Max. "Your turn!" he yelled.
Sod that for a lark, thought Max. The old man was plainly as mad as a box of frogs. Max turned away with a dismissive wave. He had an urgent appointment with a cold beer.
The old man watched Max depart and shrugged. Life was all about chances. Max had just used one of his. Maybe, in another year or so, he would be ready for a second.
Thursday 29 March 2018
Cold November Day ...
A cold, wet November day in Peterborough. "I promise," Ted swore on his mother's grave. But then, he swore on just about everything and, most of the time, not as pleasantly as a simple 'promise'.
I knew the pain Ted was experiencing. I had lost my mother in similar mysterious circumstances. At least Ted had a grave to pollute with his language. My mother had vanished without a trace almost ten years ago and I had nowhere to grieve her absence.
Of course, it was my dad who took it worse. When he wasn't drinking or plotting Mum's last movements and associated events on a highly detailed map, he did a weird thing with his newspaper. He kept folding it in and over itself, (he sometimes read it upside down), perhaps looking for clues to Mum's whereabouts, hidden in the finger-smudged newsprint.
Where had our mothers been taken? I wondered, as Ted and I walked from the grave back to the car. What had been done while they were away? And why had Ted had his mother returned when I had not? Too many questions and not enough answers. One thing was clear. The answers were not hidden down a crack in the pavement. I would go out into the world and find my mother, or the answers, in the forgotten parts of the globe.
I knew the pain Ted was experiencing. I had lost my mother in similar mysterious circumstances. At least Ted had a grave to pollute with his language. My mother had vanished without a trace almost ten years ago and I had nowhere to grieve her absence.
Of course, it was my dad who took it worse. When he wasn't drinking or plotting Mum's last movements and associated events on a highly detailed map, he did a weird thing with his newspaper. He kept folding it in and over itself, (he sometimes read it upside down), perhaps looking for clues to Mum's whereabouts, hidden in the finger-smudged newsprint.
Where had our mothers been taken? I wondered, as Ted and I walked from the grave back to the car. What had been done while they were away? And why had Ted had his mother returned when I had not? Too many questions and not enough answers. One thing was clear. The answers were not hidden down a crack in the pavement. I would go out into the world and find my mother, or the answers, in the forgotten parts of the globe.
Wednesday 28 March 2018
CyberNet
Larry stood her up. The bastard! Amanda was incandescent. She had been looking forward to the movie date for the last week. She had her naturally blonde hair cut and styled, had bought herself a horrendously expensive pair of shoes and a new dress, short enough to show off her shapely legs. A new bag concealed her favourite gun.
Amanda found Larry in the Terminal Bar and Grill, Finally! she thought, after trawling through several downtown bars. The leers of the dirty old men in those bars clung to her like sump-oil. The Terminal was not named after a bus station or airport lounge. The name harked back to the old, old days, when computers were the size of rooms and terminals with weird names, VT240, Wyse and Ansi, were 'hardwired' back to a 'server'. That was way back, before the CyberNet (version 0.1) had gone live in 2021, the year Amanda was born. Even the clientele in Terminal were old, styling themselves as 'hackers' in the traditional sense.
Larry was old. Nearly thirty. At least he was sober, for a change. Sat at the bar, wearing a week's worth of beard, a week's worth of sweat, Amanda could smell him from here, his brown hair in disarray, his black leather jacket slung over the back of his bar stool. Amanda knew there would be a switchblade in the right pocket, cash in the left and various electronic gizmos stashed in the others. He rarely carried a gun. Three chromed interface sockets studded his left temple, ready to be linked to the cellular cybermodem hidden in his jacket.
Amanda plonked herself in the next bar stool and surreptitiously pointed her gun at Larry. She wasn't too worried about setting off metal- or weapon-scanners in Terminal. The gun was a 3D-printed polymer model, which fired caseless high-density plastic ammo. Largely undetectable, it probably wouldn't penetrate Larry's jacket, but it would cause a helluva lot of pain if she shot him in the stomach, something she was very tempted to do.
"Where the hell have you been?" she asked, the gun never wavering from Larry's stomach.
Larry stuffed the last piece of peach pie into his mouth, chewed, swallowed and belched before replying. "Pleased to see you, too, Mandy," he replied, then, when he saw her finger tighten on the trigger, said, "I mean, Amanda, sweetie."
Amanda did not relax her trigger finger. She hated being called Mandy. "Where the hell have you been?" she repeated.
Larry looked over the young girl. Amanda was maybe eighteen, smart, determined and a genius with cyber-systems. Could he trust her with what he'd found? "I'm in a world of trouble," he said simply.
Amanda found Larry in the Terminal Bar and Grill, Finally! she thought, after trawling through several downtown bars. The leers of the dirty old men in those bars clung to her like sump-oil. The Terminal was not named after a bus station or airport lounge. The name harked back to the old, old days, when computers were the size of rooms and terminals with weird names, VT240, Wyse and Ansi, were 'hardwired' back to a 'server'. That was way back, before the CyberNet (version 0.1) had gone live in 2021, the year Amanda was born. Even the clientele in Terminal were old, styling themselves as 'hackers' in the traditional sense.
Larry was old. Nearly thirty. At least he was sober, for a change. Sat at the bar, wearing a week's worth of beard, a week's worth of sweat, Amanda could smell him from here, his brown hair in disarray, his black leather jacket slung over the back of his bar stool. Amanda knew there would be a switchblade in the right pocket, cash in the left and various electronic gizmos stashed in the others. He rarely carried a gun. Three chromed interface sockets studded his left temple, ready to be linked to the cellular cybermodem hidden in his jacket.
Amanda plonked herself in the next bar stool and surreptitiously pointed her gun at Larry. She wasn't too worried about setting off metal- or weapon-scanners in Terminal. The gun was a 3D-printed polymer model, which fired caseless high-density plastic ammo. Largely undetectable, it probably wouldn't penetrate Larry's jacket, but it would cause a helluva lot of pain if she shot him in the stomach, something she was very tempted to do.
"Where the hell have you been?" she asked, the gun never wavering from Larry's stomach.
Larry stuffed the last piece of peach pie into his mouth, chewed, swallowed and belched before replying. "Pleased to see you, too, Mandy," he replied, then, when he saw her finger tighten on the trigger, said, "I mean, Amanda, sweetie."
Amanda did not relax her trigger finger. She hated being called Mandy. "Where the hell have you been?" she repeated.
Larry looked over the young girl. Amanda was maybe eighteen, smart, determined and a genius with cyber-systems. Could he trust her with what he'd found? "I'm in a world of trouble," he said simply.
Tuesday 27 March 2018
The Empath
I had this system for getting exactly what I wanted out of people. I'm not a telepath, a psychic or psionicist. I'm an empath. That means I can tune into peoples' emotions and read exactly how they are feeling. This trick works wonders when trying to get guys into the sack. When it comes to money, however, it really does work like a charm. I use an object from the person, or 'mark', something small like a pen, lighter, even a phone. I can feel how they're feeling through the impressions left on the object.
But there was this one guy I just couldn't read. I decided the only solution was to seduce him, the old fashioned way. A few drinks, some footsie under the table, light touches. I played with my hair, loosened a couple of blouse buttons, loosened a couple of his shirt buttons. Lingering looks and suggestive smiles.
As I cuddled closer, I finally got it. The day his mother slapped his face was etched into his feelings, into his very soul. It had hurt, not just from the stinging cheek, but right down, deep inside. His mother had damaged his sense of self worth. That was my 'way in'. "I know how you feel," I said, "my mother did the same to me."
And the rest was easy.
But there was this one guy I just couldn't read. I decided the only solution was to seduce him, the old fashioned way. A few drinks, some footsie under the table, light touches. I played with my hair, loosened a couple of blouse buttons, loosened a couple of his shirt buttons. Lingering looks and suggestive smiles.
As I cuddled closer, I finally got it. The day his mother slapped his face was etched into his feelings, into his very soul. It had hurt, not just from the stinging cheek, but right down, deep inside. His mother had damaged his sense of self worth. That was my 'way in'. "I know how you feel," I said, "my mother did the same to me."
And the rest was easy.
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