Short Story Beginnings

For our final piece this term we have to develop a 10 to 15 minute short film in script form. We can really go right ahead and make whatever we want because we don't need to produce it, unless I'd really really like to. So here are some early notes.

I think I'm going to stick to what I know best and feel most comfortable writing so I'm going to write a sci-fi screen play, below are some bullet points about the story and characters for me to work with at a latter date.

• Characters - mum, dad, 2 male children & medical nurse. 
• Setting - Near future, the world now has strict birth control laws, each family can only have 2 children at a given time. The children need pass each year at school above a certain grade, failure to do so will result in them being taken away, the public are unaware of the children's destination but they are most likely sent to slave camps where they work manual labour. Its a way for the governments of the 1st world countries to eradicate less able thinkers.
• Event - A boy is on the verge of failing his final year in infant school and his mother does her best to protect him from whats about to happen. 

THE PREMISE - In a world of strict birth control laws a mother has to protect her youngest son from being dragged away and thrown into slave labour for failing his end of year exam at school.

Some other things to look at -

• Eugenics
• China & their population
• Perhaps incorporate CELLi into the story.

Look for small moments in the story, these small moments will build up the larger picture and give a much more detailed narrative.

NOTES - I think I'd like to set the film in Spain, a rural town along the coast similar to where I've grown up. It will add a different perspective on things and will allow me to create slightly different characters.

The mother - she's your traditional Spanish mother, very family orientated, she takes great pride in looking after the house and her two sons while her husbands at work. Her relationship with her husband has soured as her son has started failing at school and her husband has started distancing himself from the child.

The dad - He's very focused on work, prides himself on being the bread winner. Ultimately he is a coward because he's so frightened of loosing his son he has started distancing himself from him so when the day comes for his son to be taken away it will be easier to handle emotionally.   

Documentary/Fictional Films

Before I began working on my documentary I never really thought about the similarities between fictional film making and documentary but realizing just how similar the two are has given me a whole new perspective on story and characters. As a writer before anything else this sudden realization that documentary film making is about weaving a narrative tapestry using real people to tell your story has not only given me a stronger desire to work on documentaries but given me a point of view that will help me create believable characters for the stories I'm likely to write in the near future.

I think most of the documentaries I enjoy are about people and when it comes to fictional films my biggest interest is characters. Even when I write sci-fi with all this incredible technology I want to write interesting, human characters and documentary film making and the process that goes into has helped me a great deal by changing my own thought process. I cant wait to get cracking on my short film for BA1 Story.  

Vignette

While working on our documentary this term we will also be working on a vignette, basically this will be a fictional portrait of a real person. The exercise will give us a good understanding of how to write deep, interesting and believable characters in future film.

My team will be looking into mental health issues and we hope that by interviewing and getting a good insight into that particular area we will develop a story that we can then use for our vignette.

Here's where we're at right now -

In our assignment we are going to be looking at the mental health spectrum as a whole, from schizophrenia, to obsessive compulsive disorder and Multiple Personality disorder and depression. For our research we are going to look into how these conditions affect every day life, and what are the courses of the conditions. To show this we are going to interview various people with different types of Mental Health issues as well as doctors and carers to help better understand the condition and what they go through.

The story that we will create from the interviews will be based around one person who is being interviewed. This interviewee will appear to have multiple personality disorder and will talk from each person's perspective from the footage of the documentary that we will be shooting. The actor will mime the voice over's as if he is talking, and we will create a film that hopes to challenge the way in which people view mental health. 

Werner Herzog - Into The Abyss, Interview Techniques

Now that I've started doing a lot of work into documentary film making I've been introduced on many occasions to Werner Herzog. A famous German film maker renowned for his documentary work and his ability to bring out incredibly emotional responses from his interviewees.

In our directing class today we were discussing how Herzog brings out these emotional responses and what he seems to do, while interviewing, is avoid the generic question/answer formula of a standard interview. Instead he asks the interviewee to recite stories, or moments in their lives, this allows that person to naturally tap into their subconscious, avoid a rehearsed answer and sometimes brings out a more honest and emotional response.

The opening interview from 'Into The Abyss' was really cool and it just goes to show that there is an art to interviewing. I'll try and have a look at more of his films before I begin filming my own documentary.      

Book Review

Mark asked to do a short book review about a cinematography book, here's mine -

Cinematic Storytelling.

This book is not just your average nuts and bolts guide to composition, shot sizes and camera movements the book displays in detail the uses of each of these elements of cinematography. Each description is also complemented by script captions and an example of why the shot/movement has been chosen and what effect it brings to the film as a whole. Its one of those books that you want at your side while story boarding so I'd recommend buying to anyone who wants to make films.    

Captain Daedalus

In our story lecture we were given a short prose version of a story and what we needed to do was break it down into scenes, I decided to write it as a script as I felt it would be more beneficial for me. So here it is -

EXT - CONFEDERATE CAMP - NIGHT

It is late, the air smells of hot iron and gun powder. Small campfires lie dotted around the camp with heaps of men surrounding them enjoying the cool night, telling stories and whoring with the native slaves.

A group of Confederate soldiers enter the camp bearing captives from the evening raids. Some are kicking and screaming, wrestling with their bound hands. With them is Captain Daedalus, a union captain, a brute of a man tamed by severe beatings. His face is peppered with bruises and blood lies in his wake.

The Confederate soldiers march the captives to a series of wooden cages and one by one they stripped of their clothes and tossed into their pen like captured wild boar, but Daedalus is kept in line. The Confederate captain signals to his men that Daedalus is perhaps a more valuable prisoner, so he is spared and taken to an old house sitting in the heart of the camp.     

INT - OLD HOUSE ATTIC - NIGHT

Daedalus is stripped of his regiments colors and thrown into a dusty box of a room placed on the top floor of a rickety old farmers home now turned into shelter for enemy soldiers.

His captives untie his hands while a soldier at the door trains his gun at Daedalus's head. Daedalus resits the urge to fight, his body feels broken and his will is diminishing.

The soldiers leave, locking the door behind them. Daedalus collapses to the floor, dust kicks up into his face - he sneezes and blood sprays across the wooden floorboards. Exhaustion gets the better of him and he falls asleep.

INT - OLD HOUSE ATTIC - DAY

The sound of rifle fire snaps Daedalus our of his sleep. The hard noise cuts deep into his aching head.

Above him there is a window, he gets to his feet and presses his nose against the glass. From so high up he can see the whole western side of the camp, so many troops, all gathering their strength to attack Daedalus's stronghold to the north. His army is unprepared and would not survive against this impending onslaught.

Suddenly the scent of escape arouses Daedalus's senses. He quickly opens the fragile window only to see rusty metal bars halting his progress.

A rotten mattress lies in the corner of the attic, old springs poke through the papery material. Daedalus grabs the mattress and tears it apart, collecting the metal coils from within. He begins to loosen the bolts and screws that hold the metal bars together, his fingers become bloodied and swollen as the rust cut into his skin but with time the bars fall free.

He collects the bits of bedding that lie strewn about the attic and binds them together to make a rope of sorts. All he can do now is wait for nightfall and let the shade of twilight cover his escape.

INT - OLD HOUSE ATTIC - NIGHT

The little camp fires begin to light around the base once more as Daedalus prepares his escape. The hazy consciousness that he feels cannot prevent him from moving with purpose and strength. All is ready, its time for him to run.

The wooden attic door begins to rattle as iron keys unlock it. Two soldiers come storming in, at first Daedalus is sure they are coming for him but quickly he sees a young soldier, a Confederate, being dragged behind them.

The young Confederate is thrown to his knees and kicked in the side of the head. He lies motionless as he and Daedalus are left alone, the old attic door slams shut.

Slowly the Confederate stands, gives Daedalus a look of pity then straightens his uniform trying to impose a sense of authority between them. Daedalus fights the urge to kill the man and make his escape but somehow feels sorry for the Confederate. He will likely be shot in the morning, it's much easier to die by gun fire than by the hands of an angry, beaten soldier.

Daedalus must now wait until the young man falls asleep before he can attempt to make his escape again.  

INT - OLD HOUSE ATTIC - NIGHT

Daedalus quickly scrambles around the room preparing to make his escape, he ties the bedding to the leg of a heavy dresser then throws the rest out the open window. Hunger and thirst etch away at his strength but he senses freedom.

A noise dampens Daedalus's spirits. The young Confederate is standing, watching Daedalus's every move. The two stare at each other with unblinking eyes, each hesitating to make a move.

The Confederate fails to hold his bluff, Daedalus sees the twinkle of tears in the boys eyes. Here is a boy frightened of facing death. Daedalus's guesses the boy has never once killed a man, nor even shot at a living target. Daedalus's swiftly continues preparing his escape.

Daedalus's is just about through the window when the boy begins to follow, Daedalus has no desire for company but there is little he can do. They climb through the window together.

EXT - CONFEDERATE CAMP - NIGHT

Daedalus and the boy quickly climb down the makeshift rope. Daedalus is the first to reach the floor, he ducks and scans the area for enemy troops, the coast is clear. He turns and signals for the boy to hurry but the young Confederate fumbles and appears undecided on whether he will continue to climb down.

Daedalus hisses at the boy gesturing him to make haste. The boy looks down to the floor and then his eyes set on Daedalus. Daedalus sees the eyes of a coward and knows that the boy is not worth the risk, Daedalus must warn his army and this boy cannot be aloud to jeopardize this.

Daedalus sees a clear path and begins to sprint to the edges of the camp and then disappears into the woods. If he was to glance back he would see the young boy still clinging to the rope.  

Cinematography Exercise

In our first cinematography class we were told to go out and film 30 seconds of hand held footage, I made two as I wasn't particularly happy with my first attempt.



The problem with this is that I'm not really moving the camera so in this situation it will be best to use a tripod.



The reason why the frame looks so shaky is because I'm using a longer lens and the subject I'm filming is completely still. In this situation I guess you'd best use things like a steady cam or something to help support the camera as I move with it.

Writing The Short Film

When in the early stages of writing a short film here are some pointers to take into consideration -

• Write a short prose version first so you have all the information, plot beats and characters worked out before you start writing the script.
• The story must always move forward in each scene. 
• Always think of the turning points, large and small.
• Always think of the imagery, possible character monologues, location descriptions. 
• Write a scene by scene breakdown so you know what each scene is about.
• Remember a new scene is when the story moves to a new place and/or time. 

When presenting a character here are some things to think about -

• Think of visual information that the audience can understand about the character - The first things we see about the character immediately builds an understanding of that character. Always think of the tiny characteristics. 
• When creating characters look for potential conflicts within themselves and with other characters.
• Try to play with expectations.
• Small, tiny spoken details may give insight into the character's past, future and present.     

Putting A Story To A Picture

In our story lecture we were each given a random photo taken from a recent newspaper and we were told to write down a story for that particular picture. We were given about 10 mins to come up with something.

'This guy is out on the streets with his countrymen supporting Ghana at this years Africa Cup Of Nations. The story could document the tournament and this mans journey during that period of time. The tournament took place in South Africa so this guy has probably left his family to attend the competition. There are emotional elements to the story as it could be a tale of his love of football and his love for his family and the difficulties balancing the two'  

Role Distance

When it comes to documentary interviewees Dorothy Heathcote developed the Frame Distance theory that can be used as a mode of address in documentary interviews.

• Participant - I am in the middle of the situation, experiencing it. It is happening to me now. 
• Observer / Guide - I saw what happened. I can describe for you what I saw and enact the event for you, though I may or may not understand it. I was there.
• Demonstrator - I re-enact so you can understand. 
• Authority - I was involved in the event so I can tell you. 
• Witness - I saw the event and can tell you about it. 
• Researcher - I need to know of the event.
• Critic - I interpret the event for you as an event. 
• Artist - I transform the event. 

By learning and understanding each of these roles I can use this model to enhance any interviews within any documentary I'm working on

In Class Exercise

In our story class we were grouped up and told to write down 3 characters and a situation revolving around a container. We understood that the idea behind this exercise was for us to jot down the first things that came into our heads and not really think to much about each individual component of the story. In the end I don't think people liked our idea but I think we were the only group that had done the practice the way it was meant to be done.  

Strangely enough this is an odd idea that I may want to come back in the future -

Peter - 6'0, mustache, heavy build, combat trousers, wheel chair bound, 40's & unemployed.
Jason - 5'9, inspects food for a living, thin & gaunt, wears smart clothing, always touches his eyes.
Jessica - 5'4, cousin of Jason, Peter's girlfriend, stoner, secretary at a law firm, distinctly average in every way.

The 3 characters are at a family party and are out in the garden. Their relatives don't like the trio very much.

At the bottom of the garden there is a steep drop. At the bottom they see a coffin, it appears to have just been dumped there by someone.

Peter uses his upper body strength to open the lid.

Inside is a body of an alien.

Each one stares at the alien and each one begins to see a person from their past lying there in the coffin.   

Time ran out and that was as far as we got, utterly bonkers story but we really did just write down the first thing that came to mind. Might be worth having a go at doing this exercise again sometime. 

Telling Lies

We watched a short film called 'Telling Lies'. It was not a live action film but a combination of voice over and sub titles. The cool thing was that subtitles did not match what the characters were saying but showed what they were thinking instead. It was a really cool little short that pokes fun at all the little white lies you can make in a given situation.

The drama is in the subtext - the unspoken word. Whatever a character says is not always the truth. Its a great tool that can add depth to the story and the characters.

Link

Via Twitter I've found a link about interviewing, here is the meat of it for future reference -

Just talk.

The best way to get a natural answer from an interviewee is simply to talk to them like the camera isn't even on. There are the common tricks, like not telling them the camera is rolling or just starting a conversation and never saying you actually started the interview process, but I find those aren't quite as easy or elegant as they seem on paper. But really, just talk to them and guide them through the conversation. Don't change your demeanor or suddenly stop and say OK, WE'RE GOING TO START NOW. If you do that, you'll see their posture change and their face tighten. Relax, and talk. And all those ums and ahhs will start to go away if the conversation feels natural.

Don't be afraid to coach them.

I always give interviewees a really simple rundown on how the ideal interview should go: self-contained answers, say whatever you want, if you want to start over, it's all good, etc. Even with being very concise and simple, and avoiding any camera-ish jargon, these often go right out the window when the camera is rolling and nerves hit. Don't be afraid to gently pause an interviewee and remind them you can't use their great answer because they're rocking back and forth in their chair. And if you don't want to stop them to get the answer again for some reason, you can always blame a random noise in the room for ruining their answer. Oh darn, we have to do that one again.

Open-ended Questions!

This is a staple of interviewing, but I've seen so much video that obviously didn't do this. Don't ask yes or no questions, or questions that can be answered with a single answer. Don't say "How long did you use Product Y?" Ask instead "Tell me about your experience with Product Y." Trying to edit a video where all the answers start with "Because.." really sucks.

Ultimately, the interviewee wants to share their passion for an experience, and they want to look good while they do it. If you present yourself as their advocate and assure them that you'll help them out and make them look and sound great on camera, they'll often speak a little more naturally and confidently. Of course, there will be the occasional person that just melts down on camera, and if that happens, just wrap it up and move along because they're probably going to self-destruct any minute.

Vignette Project & Documentary Insights

For this term we are going to be doing some research into carers that will eventually lead to us conducting a live interview with a real person that will then allow us to transform the material into a short fictional film. Also, in our second year we'll be doing a similar thing but as part of a brief for the NHS involving issues with mental health sufferers under the age of 25.

Even though the 2nd year is a little while off it's important to begin working on the research now, finding contacts and organizations at this point will improve my ability to write much more realistic characters. By delving into the real world and hearing real stories I'm bound to start developing my own ideas and finding new angles I may want to explore.

Having seen the classes's personal stories in pictures at today's lesson I've come to realize that more often than not real life stories have turning points. An action that results in an emotional reaction. 

In class Micheal told us a little story about when he was younger that he would lock everything down into storyboards, shot lists ect... But when he came to do a documentary about a boxer (I think) he didn't really know how the story would end but what happened was that the ending was unexpected and it really helped him change his modus operandi when it came to working on dramas. It sort of gave him a grander sense of freedom when writing.

Mock Interviews

During our first production management class we were given the task of creating a series of short mock interviews in small groups. I think what was immediate clear was that when working within a strict time limit its hard to get your questions across, allow the subject to give an insightful answer and have enough time to make the interview more interesting. Below are some extra points that may be worth thinking about in the future.

• Sometimes the subject matter of the interview is dull but an animated, passionate interviewee makes it much more watchable.    
• Be careful of people who simply don't want to be interviewed, if things get ugly you have to be ready to deal with that. 
• Be fluid when interviewing, take points that the interviewee says and expand on them with extra questions. By being more engaged with the contributor they more likely they will provide a better interview. 
• Always try to make the set/crew/contributors at ease when your working with them. 

Nuri Bilge Ceylan

  

Continuing through the film craft directing book the next director I've been introduced to a Turkish film maker by the name of Nuri Bilge Ceylan. I think whats remarkable about this guy is the fact that for a lot of his early films he financed them and worked on them with such a small crew. 

Here are some notes for future reference -   

• He says watching films is the best kind of education because if you know a little bit of the technical stuff then you can watch a scene and work it out, what lens was used and where the camera is ect... 
• He is a minimalist when it comes to his approach to film making - he made his first feature with just himself and a focus puller. His family and friends were the actors. 
• He says his script is not the bible - he will look to change things depending on what he sees during filming. 
• He raised the money himself for his 2nd feature. $100,000. He sold it to TV and made a few foreign sales so he got his money back in the end. 
• He will take photos of the scene from every angle and stick them in the script so he can think of the mise-en-scene. 
• He values sound very highly - he says you can easily change the meaning of a scene entirely by changing the sound. Also it's important to use sound to modify the characters emotion on screen. 
• He believes the reality or the truth lies in the facial expressions of his characters, not always in the spoken word. He likes to shoot close ups now rather than wide as he once did. 
• He says he doesn't watch his dailies, he prefers to use that time getting extra takes. 
• He makes an interesting point that as a director he is the only person who truly understands the film while shooting. That is a very isolated position to be in, no one really understands what your intentions are not even the people closest to you. 

Telling A Story With Pictures

Just for a warm up before my directing classes I've been given the task of finding a selection of photos or images that tell a personal story. Below are the photos I've selected.











During the lecture where we displayed the images to the rest of the class I don't think many people had any difficulty understanding the story I pieced together. But what was interesting was that my choice of using an hourglass was raised as a point of curiosity, a lot of people understood that symbol as a sign of wasted time and I do know that I felt a lot of my time, latter on, in Spain was wasted. I hadn't really thought about that when choosing the images but maybe subconsciously I chose it for that reason. Micheal mentioned that a good way to help you start to develop characters and understand how to write them is to begin to interrogate yourself and question why you make the decisions you make.   

Useful Article

As we are looking at the effects of social media I came across this news article about my local football club clamping down on players using Twitter to voice their concerns after matches. Its good to keep as it may be useful as a reference in the future.

BLACKBURN Rovers players have been warned about the dangers of tweeting – with the club ready to fine them for misuse of the social networking tool.

Several of Michael Appleton’s squad are on twitter, including Colin Kazim-Richards, Bradley Orr, David Goodwillie, DJ Campbell and Adam Henley, but all have been told their tweeting will be monitored.

Rovers players have been told they face a sizeable fine, understood to be in the region of £1,000, for any “derogatory tweets” about the club or comments about Rovers that could be misconstrued.

The manager said: “I have had a rule like that at every club I have been at.

“It is not about people using twitter, but if it is a derogatory mark towards the football club or about the football club they will be fined.

“If they want to talk about what they have had for breakfast then I haven’t got a problem with that but if they say something derogatory about the club then I might have a problem with it.

“I have used it at every club I have been at so it isn’t new to me.”

“Of course twitter can be a problem,” the Rovers boss added. “Sometimes people say things in the heat of the moment instead of keeping it to themselves.

“They tell the world about it even though they don’t mean to and then it is out there. Comments can be made about one thing and misconstrued.

“The players know and so far so good, they have been as good as gold and they have stuck to all the discipline things.”

1st Contributor

As its my job to research the positive and useful reasons we use social media I've asked a good friend of mine to be a contributor for our documentary. He is a student at Salford University but has established his music band 'Those City Lights' via the net and is a competent film editor and sound engineer who regularly gets work via social media. I think his experiences would add valuable credibility to this part of our documentary. 

The Drop Part II

Scene 1

Bathing in the evening twilight, just outside the city of Manchester centre stands a few rows of tall flats. In one we find Francis Daggot, sat in room 206 waiting for a call. Daggot is a man whose personality is scared deep on his face, a man who has seen terrible things, a man who has done terrible things and has the appearance to show it. He can’t go to sleep at night without wishing he could just turn out the light in his mind that keeps showing the faces of all the people he’s killed, like a broken record going over and over in his twisted soul. Booze is the only thing that blocks out a portion of the pain.

Daggot works as a petty middle man for a seedy underground organization, he deals in drugs, weapons, money, prostitution, you name he’s seen it and probably dabbled in it to. Tonight he’s waiting for a call from a man he only knows by the name of ‘Mask’. Tonight he will meet this man and be handed a bag of money stolen from somewhere he can only guess. This is an easy job by his standards but time is taking its toll, he no longer feels safe with his own judgment, he wants out of this life that he so happily created many years ago when all he wanted to do was get stoned and steal enough money the women he wanted fuck would forget about what he looked like for an hour or two.

He takes a small glass of whisky to his mouth, inhales the sweet aroma and necks it in one. Slams the glass down on the desk and refills. The lights are all out in his flat, he sits alone only with his thoughts, quietly preparing himself for a job he’s done a thousand times before. A hum from his mobile that is placed at his side startles him somewhat. He takes a look at the txt he’s just received. A photo of man wearing a gas mask is placed above an address. Daggot feels uneasy with the sight of the mask; he doesn’t like to deal with mad men even though Mask was hired with a superb reputation to his name. Daggot places the phone down and goes to get another drink; suddenly an unexpected hum comes from his phone. This time the txt is from the organization, a short txt reads ‘Kill Mask once you have the money’. Daggot knows this was not part of the original agreement. Even though this kind of thing has happened many times before, maybe it’s the booze or the sight of the mask, Daggot can’t shake the bad feeling that’s lingering over this deal.  He stands up and shakes his aching body, collects his coat and leaves the flat.    
   
Scene 2

Outside the air is damp and cool; the breeze has that typical northern sting to it. Daggot buttons up his coat a little higher to keep out the draft as he waits in the car park. Donny, a guy Daggot has known for quite a while is about to pick him up and take him to the meet. Donny is best described as a hot head, a Daggot 20 years younger, maybe a little better looking but Daggot doesn’t like to say so, even with all the madness inside of him he still likes to think he has a bit of pride. After a short wait, about 5 minutes, Donny pulls up alongside the curb and brings down the driver’s window. Daggot approaches. Donny is a black man, shaved head, muscular build and a stylized beard, cut nice and trim. The guy could be a model. Every time Daggot sees him he wonders more and more what the fuck he’s doing in such a shady business, it doesn’t even pay that well to say they break the law on a daily basis.

Donny – ‘You ready?’

Daggot nods his head and walks round to the passenger seat and climbs aboard. He relaxes slightly as the air is much warmer inside the car.

Donny – ‘So, who’s this guy we’re meeting?’
Daggot sniggers.

Daggot – ‘Wait until you see this’

Daggot slips his phone out his pocket and shows Donny the photo of Mask. Donny snatches the phone and takes a closer look, he laughs.

Donny – ‘What the fuck man. This guys a real clown. Hope he’s got the money, every last bit.’

Daggot – ‘I wouldn’t worry too much; he’s come with a fucking good rep.’

Donny hands over the phone, still unsure what to make of it all.

Donny – ‘We’ll soon find out.’

He revs up the car and they drive off into the city.

Scene 3

If the centre of a city can be called a concrete jungle then the outskirts must be called a wasteland. Donny and Daggot pull into an area hidden from the sky, a shadowy corner of the world where shadowy people can do shadowy business. Places such as this exists for shadowy purposes and in the night the two men wait, sit tight and relax.

Daggot – ‘This is it, we’re a little early. I’m sure he’ll signal us when he’s here.’

Donny – ‘This is all I ever see, the backstreets and alleyways. Why couldn’t he meet us somewhere a little more up town? You’d think we were criminals.’

Daggot laughs.

Daggot – ‘Donny my boy, these streets made you.’

Donny smiles wickedly. They both sit in silence for a while, Donny flicks on the radio and turns it down to shallow whisper.

Daggot – ‘So, how’s the wife? Still got you by the balls with that iron fist of hers?’

Donny – ‘Getting tighter every day. Where the hell does she think she’ll be if I pack in this gig? She don’t work, she won’t work.’

Daggot – ‘Well, she’s got Michael to look after now, maybe she wants you to settle down. Get an honest job. Your young, you a’int been caught yet, you haven’t got much blood on your hands.’

Donny looks aggravated.

Donny – ‘You know I couldn’t keep an honest job, who the fuck would take me? I only need to be looked at the wrong way and I wanna smash the fucker.’

Daggot – ‘Don’t give me that shit, you’re smarter than that. There’s plenty of jobs for a big guy like you, honest jobs. Jobs that don’t drag you out at night when you’ve got a kid and wife to care for.’

Donny – ‘Anyone ever tell you you’re getting sentimental in your old age? Look at you you’ve been in this since you were 16, you a’int doing so bad.’

Daggot laughs, then goes to light a cigarette. He takes a long puff, inhaling that warm taste that would sooth even a dying man.

Daggot – ‘Not doing so bad? Do I look like a guy who’s going ok? I’ve a dodgy ticker, a string of failed marriages, sons and daughters in every fucking corner of the country, a pair of lungs most likely black with tar and a penis that’s so shrivelled I’m expecting it to drop off every time I try to take a piss. Does that sound like someone who’s doing ok?!’

Anger is building inside of Daggot, anger directed at Donny. Daggot wants nothing more than to slap the stupid boy he sits next to until sense is someone knocked into him. Daggot knows this will be his last deal, his last spit in the face of honesty and truth. He knows now what tomorrow may bring and he welcomes it. The tension evaporates as a small flash from a small torch tells them the deal is on and Mask is here as promised.  

Scene 4

Daggot climbs out of the car a little stiffly, the heat of his last words still burning in his gut.

Daggot – ‘I got this, you watch my back.’

Donny – ‘Always man.’

They give each other a stare, a stare that only friends can give in circumstances such as this. Each one acknowledging that the other could die, here, tonight, in this dark alley. The words aren’t needed but both Donny and Daggot know what to do if trouble calls and know that they won’t be leaving each other behind.

Daggot slams the car door shut and pulls up his collar on his coat. The wind has picked up somewhat fierce. He strolls over to Mask, Daggot watching in every direction he can see, he does this instinctively. Mask seems to be alone; the knot in Daggot’s stomach gets a little slacker. Mask holds the bag of money out in front of him, dangling it like a carrot in front of a horse, teasingly.

Daggot – ‘That the money?’

Mask remains silent, but rescinds the bag to suggest he does not like Daggot’s tone.

Daggot – ‘All of it?’

Daggot is unfazed by any mind games, his head may be a little cloudy from the drink but his wits are a razor sharp, or at least he thinks they are. Mask tosses the bag into Daggot’s arms.

Mask – ‘Count it.’

Daggot pauses for a second, then smiles and unzips the bag. He checks over the money, it’s all there. He pulls out a note and tries to hold it in some light but the street lights all too far away nonetheless the money feels real. Daggot pauses again as he’s about to slip the note back in the bag.

Daggot – ‘Will you do us a favour and take off that fucking mask, it’s freaking me out.’

He says this with a hint of playfulness. Daggot puts the money back in the bag and swings it over his shoulder. Business done on his part. Mask just stands there, waiting for Daggot to part.

Daggot – ‘Gone on then fuck off. It’s a cold night, get home you’ve played your part. Your share will be in your account the moment this money reaches my boss. You have my word.’

Daggot feels a little uneasy with Mask’s silence and senses that maybe Mask has his own agenda but he laughs it off with another glimpse of the mask and turns back to the car, strides over to the passenger seat and climbs aboard.

Daggot – ‘Go and take this clown out. He’s small fry.’

Donny nods and climbs out of the car but before the door shuts.

Daggot – ‘Be careful.’

Donny slams the door and conceals his gun in his pocket and makes to follow Mask who has disappeared into the night.

Scene 5

The silvery moon is the only light illuminating Donny’s pathway as he treads softly behind Mask, who is walking quickly about 20 yards in front of him. Donny grips his gun a little tighter and walks that bit quicker. His senses are heightened as he prepares himself for the kill, but before he can jump into a sprint Mask darts around a corner and out of sight. Did he see Donny? Donny doesn’t think so, he’s been to quiet, he wouldn’t have noticed that he’s being followed. Donny jogs to the spot where Mask disappeared and in each direction there is nothing but perpetual blackness. Donny loses his bearings somewhat and decides to turn left, as good a direction as any. His pulse quickens as the kill continues to elude him, getting further and further away. He whips out his gun and holds it in front of him as if the metal tool will somehow show him the way. He hugs the side of wall, he can’t see what it is, maybe a warehouse or factory.

Back at the car Daggot is relaxing, enjoying a cigarette, almost feeling like a new man. This one last job and tomorrow he might be on board a plane to god knows where. He doesn’t care, anywhere away from the organization will do. They won’t bother tracking him down. Donny will cover him; say that he’s dead... or worse. Daggot reaches into the bag of money and suddenly realizes how easy it would be for him to drive away and take the money for himself. Donny might get chewed out but he’s a loyal guy they won’t kill him for giving him the slip. Then in the light of the car something catches Daggot’s eye. The bottom of his stomach collapses and his heart lands somewhere at the bottom of his seat. The money is fake.

Mask is nowhere to be seen, Donny is about to call Daggot and call in that he needs help tracking down this phantom in a mask then suddenly someone grabs him from behind, Donny shakes him off with ease, whips around and points a gun squarely at Mask’s face, he too as gun pointed at Donny.

Daggot climbs out the car in frenzy and just as he’s about to shout for Donny a gunshot cracks open the silence that’s been lingering in the air.

Daggot – ‘Donny!’

He dashes off in the direction of the shot, around corners of buildings and along slippery alleys until he finds a body. He can’t see clearly because of the darkness but as he gets closer a sigh of relief leaves him. The man on the floor is Mask. Daggot laughs a little.

Daggot – ‘Donny! Don! Come here, you got this son of a bitch.’

He can’t help but lay a kick in the side of the body, the body of a man who tried to cheat him out the money he himself was going to rob. He crouches down and grabs the bottom of the mask.

Daggot – ‘Let’s see who’s under this thing.’

Daggot rips off the mask then falls back in horror as the man behind it is Donny, shot dead. Daggot screams with rage and throws the mask with the furry of a lion, then sinks, squatting over his friend. Tears build up in eyes, he knows now that he cannot ever leave this business. Donny’s wife and kid will need him and the money he earns.

Somewhere away from Daggot a man climbs behind some rubbish bins and retrieves a bag containing the real money. He strolls away whistling to himself, tosses the smoking gun to one side then breaths in the air of a free man.

Lets Be Frank

Thin  strips  of  sunlight  pierced  through  the small  gaps  in  the  window  shutters.  I  rolled  onto  my side  spreading  my  arms  over  the  huge  double  bed,  hands  twitching  and  grasping  for  the  touch of  warm  flesh.   The  bed  was  cool  and  the  fragrance  of  perfume  lingered  in  the  air  around  the pillow,  I  cursed  under  my  breath  as  I  slipped  my  hand  to  my  crotch  loosening  the  strap  of  my pyjama  bottoms.  I snorted.  My  head  was  still  spinning  but  a  small  grin  spread  across  my unshaven  cheeks  as  memories  of  the  previous  night  started  to  filter  through  my  abused  mind. What  was  her  name,  bugger,  I  didn’t  even  remember  the  colour  of  her  hair. I  Finally  found  some  female  company  and  I  couldn’t  even  remember  where  the  bloody  hell  I  found  her.   Not  many  ladies  took  an  interest  in  me,  not  any  more,  not  since  I  lost  my  family.  My  family  isn’t  dead,  just  far  away.  Ironic  really,  I  could  get  any  piece  of  skirt  as  a  married  man  but  now  a quick  jerk  off  over  dirty  magazines  is  about  the  extent  of  my  sex  life.

Sat  across  the  room  on  a  slanting  shelf  was  a  photo  of  My  ex  wife,  a  shadow  of  the  woman who  I  once  knew.  It  was  placed  face  down  gathering  dust. I  had  not  allowed  my  eyes  to  gaze over  my  beloved  Jessica  for  such  a  time. Her  smile  blossomed  with  rosy  cheeks  glistening  in  the autumn  sun,  her  long  golden  brown  hair  falling  over   her shoulders  as  the  bitter  wind  whistled around,  hugging  her  gently  as  if  nature  herself  adored  her.  She  was  virtuous  and  beautiful.  Yet  I couldn’t  bring  myself  to  throw it out,  so  there  the  photo  remained,  the  only  piece  of  my  past life  that  I  still  possessed.

 Without  knowing  I  had  slipped  back  into  a  light  sleep,  snores  echoing  around  the  empty  flat  as snot  girdled  in  my  mouth.  Suddenly  there  was  a knock.  A  firm  hand  rattled  against  the  front  door  then  the  bell  rang.  I  jumped  up  coughing  and  spluttering,  Bloody  hell,   I  mumbled  as  I climbed  out  of  bed  and  slipped  into  a  shirt  I  scavenged  from  the  wash  basket.  I  opened  the  door.
Good  afternoon.  Spoke  a  young  policeman,  smartly  dressed  holding  a  note book  in  his  right hand.   Are  you  Mr.  Bell?
I  was  still  wiping  the  sleep  from  my  eyes  and  desperately  trying  to  avoid  breaking  wind.   Yes, that’s  me.  What’s  the  matter?
Well,   I  have  some  disturbing  news. I’m afraid  one  of  your  neighbours ,  David  Caldwell,  was  found dead  not  long  ago.
Who?  I  spat,  letting  out  a  quiet  fart  as  I  spoke.
David  Caldwell,  he  lived  only  a  few  doors  away  from  you.
Well  what’s  this  got  to  do  with  me? I  didn’t  fucking  know  him.
Your  neighbours  heard  some   commotion  early  last  night,  I  can’t  say  for  certain  but  we  think  the man  was  robbed,  his  back  window  was  smashed  from  the  outside.  Did  you  happen  to  hear  anything?
Quickly  realizing  the  gravity  of  a  man  being  found  dead  I  jumped  to  attention  and  poked  my head  out  the  front  door  and  surveyed  the  car  park  from  an  open  window.  Ambulances  and police  cars  were  parked  up  in  the  snow  with  curious  onlookers  loitering  around  the  rare  sight  of excitement.  No  officer,  didn’t  hear  a  thing. Robbed  you say?  Don’t  like  the  sound  of  that.
Of  course  this  is  tragic  news  but  please  if  you  remember  hearing  anything  call  me  on  this number.  The  officer  tore  out  a  page  from  his  note  book  and  handed  it  to  me.
Thank  you  officer,  I’ll  start  having  a  think.
It  will  be  much  appreciated.  He  said  as  he  turned  on  his  heels  and  strode  across  to  the  next door.
I  Studied  the  small  note.  Fancy  writing  I  thought,  then  just  screwed  it  up  into  a  little  ball  and tossed  it  at  the  bin.  It  missed  and  fell  onto  the  growing  pile  on  the  floor.

Later  that  day  I  took  a  quick  walk  though  the  local  park  to  help  clear  my  aching  head.  The district  looked  so  wonderful l in  snow,  the  trees  rustled  in  the  light  breeze  and  my  footsteps crunched  under  the  weight  of  me.
Not  surprisingly  all  I  could  think  about  was  David  Caldwell.  I  had  lived  in  those  flats  for  nearly five  years,  I  thought  I  knew  everyone,  Mrs.  Robbins  and  her  cats,  Joe  and  Sandra,  Billy  Campbell  and  his  daughter,  just  come  of  age  she  had  and  what  I  wouldn’t  do  to  get  her  into  bed.  I smiled  wickedly  then  drooped  back  into  my  thoughtful  shell.  Nope,  couldn’t  remember  or  recall anyone  on  my  estate  by  the  name  of  David  Caldwell.  Wonder  what  he  did?  Perhaps  he  worked early.  I  had  a  tendency  to  wake  up  long  after  midday  so  it  was  quite  possible  this  David  Caldwell  had  lived  there  and  I  hadn’t  even  been  aware  of  it.  However  I  suddenly  remembered Campbell’s  daughter  had  been  chatting  to  one  of  her  friends  about  some  bloke  she’s  been shagging,  someone  on  our  estate.  I  certainly  wished  it  was  me  I  thought  as  I  admired  her  from an  open  window,  smoking  innocently.  Perhaps  it  was  this  Caldwell,  I  certainly  knew  everyone else  was  too  ugly  and  too  old  to  get  that  piece  of  ass  into  bed,  must  have  been  Caldwell.
Unknowingly  I  had  walked  to  the  pond  and  was  just  standing  there  with  my  feet  half  pressed against  the  metal  fence  around  it.  A  young  man  walking  his  dog  gave  me  a  puzzled  look  as  he passed  me  by.   I  then  realized  I  had  never  bothered  to  walk  this  far  into  the  park.  The  pond was  quite  a  sight  frozen,  ducks  and  dogs  ran  across  the  slippery  surface  causing  all  sorts  of excitement,  a  group  of  young  children  found  it  hilarious,  laughing  and  wailing  as  one  dog  nearly tore  the  head  off  a  goose.

A  rare  sun  had  long  stayed  high  in  the  sky  but  as  the  day  wore  on  grey  clouds  rolled  off  the hills  and  engulfed  the  town  into  darkness.  Snowflakes  dropped  from  the  heavens  as  if  made  of stone  terrorizing  the  late  afternoon  traffic.  From  inside  the  warmth  of  my  flat  I  heard  the thunderous  honking  of  horns  and  shouting  of  foreign  languages.
 A  gentle  hand  lovingly  caressed  my  face  and  as  I  opened  my  eyes  a  slim  naked  figure  rolled  on top  of  me.  Laura  kissed  my  dry  lips  as  I  ran  my  hands  up  and  down  her  body,  my  fingers  felt every  bump  of  her  bones  then  I  quickly  retreated.
Not  again  babe,  I  can’t…  I’m  too  tired.
Tired!  Laura  exclaimed,  We’ve  barely  gotten  started.
What  do  you  mean? I  asked  sleepily.
You’ve  been  asleep  for  the  past half  hour.  If  you  don’t  want  a  fuck  then  I’ll  just  leave,  I  couldn’t  care  less.
 I  jumped  up  suddenly  quite  awake,  No,  no  don’t  go.  I  pleaded.  Stay  the  night,  I  don’t  feel  safe on  my  own,  not  since  I  heard  of  this  robbery.  Tom  Bailey  says  the  police  think  it  was  murder.
Oh  Frank,  just  lock  the  door  and  you’ll  be  fine,  you’re  forgetting  one  thing.  No  one  gives  a  shit about  you  and  you’ve  got  fuck  all  to  steal.  Said  Laura  bitterly.
 Oh  piss  off  then,  your  moneys  on  the  dresser  like  always.
Laura  got  up  off  the  bed  and  walked  out  the  room.  I  eyed  her  bare  backside  all  the  way.  A  few  moments  latter  there  was  a  sound  of  the  front  door  opening  then  slamming  shut,  the silence  and  darkness  was  all  I  had  for  comfort.  

Another   rattling  on  the  front  door  the  following  morning  awoke  me  from  my  light  sleep.  I twitched  and  jumped  as  each  thud  bore  deep  into  my  aching  head.   I  opened  the  door.
Good  afternoon.  It  was  the  same  policemen  from  the  day  before,  again  with  his  notepad.
What  the  fuck  do  you  want?  I  shouted  in  an  exhausted  rage.
I’m  terribly  sorry  to  disturb  you  but  are  you  Mr.  Bell?
What?  Is  this  some  kind  of  joke?  You  already  know  who  I  am  you  spoke  to  me  yesterday!
The  young  policemen  looked  bemused,  I’m  sorry  but  you  must  be  mistaken,  we  haven’t  met,  I certainly  didn’t  speak  to  you  yesterday.
Blimey,  you  policemen  are  bloody  useless.  Go  on  just  tell  me,  what  you want  now?  I  was rubbing  my  head,  the  throbbing  was  getting  worse.
Well  I  have  some  disturbing  news,  your  neighbour ,  David  Caldwell,  was  found  murdered  not  long ago.
My  mind  suddenly   fell  blank  and  my  jaw  dropped  a  little.
I  can  only  apologize  sir,  this  truly  is  dreadful  news.  Said  the  officer  in  a  weak  consoling  voice.
Did  you  know  him  well?
Stood  perplexed  I  slowly  shook  my  head.  No.  I  didn’t  know  him.
The  officer  handed  me  the  same  piece  of  paper  with  the  exact  same  hand  writing  perfectly scribbled  in  the  centre.  When  the  door  closed  and  the  wisp  of  frosty  air  faded  from  the  porch  I screwed  up  the  piece  of  paper  and  tossed  it  at  the  bin  were  it  hit  the  side  of  the  metal  rim and  fell  onto  the  growing  pile  on  the  floor.
I  wiped  my  hands  over  my  face,  my  sharp  stubble  prickling  at  the  palms  of  my  hands.  What was  going  on?  A  quick  look  at  my  watch  told  me  that  it  was  quarter  to  five  on  the  tenth  of December.  Today  was  tomorrow,  a  day  had  passed,  today  was  a  new  day  but  how  can  the  same  man  have  died  twice,  it  was  preposterous,  impossible  and  downright  fucking  crazy.  He must  have  been  mistaken,  the  policemen  was  mistaken,  that  was  it, the  boy  was  young  and perhaps  seeing  a  dead  man  for  the  first  time  had  shook  up  his  nerves.
 I  began  to  logically  make  excuses  and  reasons  as  to  why  the  young  officer  would  again  knock on  my  door  to  tell  me  that  my  neighbour  had  been  found  murdered.  At  about  six  o’clock,  once  I had  showered  and  cleaned  myself  I  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  nothing  had  happened,  that  the  boy  was  just  checking  around  and  had  forgotten  that  he  had  already  spoken  to  me. Today  tomorrow,  when  under  pressure  those  words  are  easy  to  mix  up.   Fucking  let  anybody  in the  public  services  these  days,  I  thought,  regaining  some  solace.
 I  had  seen  enough  of  my  flat,  the  smell  of  sex  and  sweat  was  drowning  me.  I  decided  a  quick pint  in  the  local  boozer  would  buck  up  my  mood.  The  walk  passed  quickly  as  I  strode  with  brisk steps.  My  lips  were  parched  and  my  belly  groaned  for  a  few  pork scratchings.

The  pub  was  dimly  lit  but  homely.  The  carpet  was  old,  torn  at  all  sides  with  huge  splodges  of chewing  gum  smeared  deep  into  the  material.  The  paint  was  fading  away  revealing  damp  walls, but  the  music,  the  smell  of  delicious  spirits  and  women  would  welcome  any  man.  I  felt  more  at home  here  than  I  did  anywhere.
The  barmaid  had  spotted  me  before  I  even  had  chance  to  look  up  off  the  floor  having  shaken off  the  flake s of  snow.  The  usual  darli’n,  not seen  you  in  here  for  a  while.  Thought  someone might  have  started  showing  you  a  good  time  elsewhere.  She  was  repulsive , her  hair  was  thick, long  and  untended.  Her  face  bore  the  sign  of  wrinkles  and  stretch  marks  badly  covered  in  fake tan  or  cheap  makeup,  I  could  never  tell,  but,  to  my  delight  standing  in  the  corner,  away  from all  the  chin  wagging  commoners  stood  a  thing  of  pure  beauty.  Long,  naked  legs  stretched  up  to a  pert  ass  wrapped  tightly  in  black  hot  pants  and  a  pearl  white  blouse  softly  hugged  her delicious  breasts.  This  was  Juliet,  the  daughter  of  Billy  Campbell.   I  drew  a  deep  breath  and made  to  greet  her.  Evening,  I  said  politely  as  I  casually  rested  my  arms  against  the  bar.
Juliet  turned  to  face  me,  her eyes  shifted  examining  who  stood  before  her.  Her  senses  reading me  like  I  was  some  kind  of  data.  She  suddenly  smiled.  Hi,  you  live  a  couple  of  doors  away.  I’ve seen  you  talking  to  dad.
Yes,  yes  me  and  your  dad  go  way  back.  Helped  me  move  in,  a  good  man.
It’s  nice  that  you  say  that,  he  is  a  good  man.  Can  I  get  you  a  drink?
My  heart  leapt  a  little. Just  got  one  but  you  can  get  the  next  round  if  you  like?
Oh,  I  didn’t  notice.  Juliet  turned  fully  on  the  spot  to  face  me  completely.  I  tried  so  hard  not  to let  my  eyes  wonder  over  her  chest,  but  I  couldn’t  help  it.  God  I  so  badly  wanted  her.
Juliet  smiled  arrogantly  as  if  enjoying  toying  with  the  pathetic  man  I  was.  I’m  just  waiting  here, I’m  heading  into  town  latter.
Oh  really,  girl’s  night  out?
Oh  no,  no  no  no.  Juliet  said  smiling,  My  boyfriend  is  coming  to  pick  me  up,  we  are  going to  dance  the  night  away.  Dance  like  there’s  no  tomorrow.
My  body  shrivelled  as  embarrassment  washed  through  me.  The  world  had  fallen  silent  and  all that  I  dared  look  at  was  the  bottom  of  the  pint  glass.  How  stupid  I  had  been  to  even  think  she would  ever  want  me.
Moments  later  Juliet  began  fussing  like  a  giddy  school  girl.   I  jerked  my  head  just  a  millimetre  or  so  to  notice  the  couple  hugging  and  snogging  as  if  the  place  was  some  kind  of  whore  house. My jealousy was building into  rage.  I  picked  up  my  pint  glass  and  downed  the  remaining  larger in  one.
Juliet  barked  with  laughter  and  pushed  her  lover  in  the  chest,  he  stumbled  back  and  playfully bumped  into  me,  my  glass  slipped  from  my  grip  and  smashed  loudly  on  the  floor.  I  grabbed Juliet’s  lover  by the  scruff  of  his  neck  and  shook  him,   but  as  sudden  as  I  had  sprung  to  life  in  a  fit  of  fury  I  had  gone  cold  and  dropped  the  poor  man  to  his  knees.  My  eyes  widened  in horror  as  I  watched  the  man  stand  and  straighten  his  coat.   What  is  your  name?  I  mumbled.
The  man  screwed  up  his  face  in  disgust.  Run  along  you  stinking  piss  head.  You  try  to  attack  me now  you’re  asking  me  questions,  you  need  to get your head checked  out.
But  your  dead.  I  whimpered.  You  died,  your  David,  David  Caldwell.
How  do  you  know  my  name?  Have  you  been  following  me?
Juliet  jumped  off  her  seat  and  restrained  David  as  he  stepped  closer. No  sweet,  this  man  lives  in our  estate.  It’s   just  a  coincidence,  he  knows  my  dad.
The  whole  pup  had  readied  themselves  to  oust  me  out. Your  dead.  Your  dead!   I  shouted  then flung  myself  onto  David.  A  splintering  pain  dashed  across  my  face,  my  teeth  cracked  and  the taste  of  crimson  blood  washed  down  my  throat.  I  collapsed  into  a  weary  pile  unconscious.

There  was  a  rattle  and  a  loud  thud  echoing  somewhere,  somewhere  in  the  darkness  of  space. There  it  was  again  but  this  time  it  was  louder  and  somewhere  closer.   I  opened  my  eyes  as  my head  nearly  split  open  with  pain,  god  how  much  had  I  been  drinking.  The  sound  of  knocking  arose  again  so  I  climbed  to  my  feet  and  staggered  towards  the  door.  Hold   your  fucking  horses I’m  coming!  I  threw  it  open  so  hard  its  hinges  cracked.  Oh  no.  Not  you  again!  What  now!?   I slumped  back  against  the  wall,  standing  in  front  of  me  was  the  young  policemen.   He  tried  explaining  that  a  loud  bang  had  been  heard  coming  from  David‘s  flat  the  night  he  had  disappeared.  I  just  nodded  blankly  then  slammed  the  door  back  in  his  face.  As  I  expected  a  piece  of  paper  torn  from  a  note  book  with  the  same  neat  handwriting  scribbled  upon  its  surface slipped  through  my  letter  box.
I  stormed  into  the  bathroom  and  splashed  ice  cold  water  over  my  face,  scrubbing  the  skin  until my  cheeks  began  to  turn  red.  I  had  no  understanding  of  how  I  had  gotten  home  or  why  there was  nothing  on  my  face  to  suggest  I  had  been  knocked  unconscious.  As  I  slammed  the  little cupboard  over  my  sink  it  bounced  back  open  reflecting  the  face  of  Caldwell,  his  handsome  image  in place  of  my  own. I had never met the man before, but, somehow I  knew his face.  I whimpered  with  insanity.  I  quickly  locked  the  front  door  then dragged  anything  I  could  find  to  wedge  it  shut  so  no one  could  possibly  get  in.  Under  my  bed covers  I  climbed  wrapping  myself  up  safe  and  secure.
The  next  day  there  was  a  few  knocks  at  my  door  but  this  time  I  dared  not  answer.  I  leaned over  to  the  window  and  saw  the  young  police  man  leaving  the  building  with  his  note  pad  placed  in  his  back  pocket.  I  roared  with  laughter, You  basted!  Didn’t  get  to  see  me  today  did  you!   Again,  lying  quite  still  on  my  welcome  mat  was  a  small piece  of  paper  from  a  note  pad.
As  the  days  turned  to  nights  and  the  nights  into  days  at  half  past  four  in  the  afternoon  without fail  the  young  policemen  knocked  on  the  door  and  posted  the  small  piece  of  paper  through  the letter  box.
I  was  rocking  side  to  side  clutching  onto  my  throbbing  head  that  was  slowly  getting  more  painful l each  passing  day.  I  hadn’t  moved  at  all.  As  I  sat  in  a  puddle  of  my  own  urine  I  finally knew  what  I  had  to  do  to  end  it  all.  As  the  sun  sank  behind  the  white  hills  I  tossed  aside  the cabinet  blocking  my  front  door  and  took  hold  of  my  hunting  rifle,  it  felt  brilliant  to  finally  hold its  warm  metal  skin  again.  Stomping  out  across  the  hallway  I  stopped  outside  flat  thirty-two.  I kicked  open  the  front  door  and  paced  towards  the  bedroom  where  only  a  small  slit  of  light  was creeping  out  from  beneath  the  closed  door.  The  sound  of  David’s  bed  rocking  and  the  wail  of shagging  obliterated  the  silence  of  the  cold  night.  I  carefully  passed  into  the  room  holding  my gun  out  in  front  of  me.  Juliet  screamed  and  fell  to  the  floor  gathering  her  clothes  to  cover  herself.  David  was  white  with  fear.   As  his  eyes  widened   his  hands  raised  to  the  air.
You’re  supposed  to  be  dead!  I  shouted  then  squeezed  the  trigger  bringing  an  end  to  the  phantom  once  and  for  all.

*  *  *

The  first  signs  of  spring  had  started  to  show  in  my  small  cherished  garden,  its  flowers  had bloomed  overnight  and  they  looked  beautiful  in  the  mornings  sun.  I  sat  at  my  garden  table admiring   the  country  side  when  a  young  man,  hardly  over  the  age  of  twenty-five  appeared  at the  gate.  Yes?  Can  I  help  you?  I  asked  placing  my  cup  of  tea  on  the  table.
Mrs.  Bell  I  presume?
Yes  I’m  Jessica  Bell,  what  appears  to  be  the  matter?
It’s  your  ex  husband.  Please  come  with  me.
At  Frank’s  flat  the  young  police  officer  struggled  to  open  the  front  door.  Waste  bags  and  broken furniture  lay  scattered  on  the  floor.  I  struggled  to  breath,  the  air  was  musty  and  thick  with sweat,  human  waste  and  urine.  God,  what  was  happening  to  you?  I  asked  myself  as  the  officer lead  me  into  his  bed  room.  The  bed  sheets  lay  in  a  pile  on  the  floor  with  blood  stains  covering almost  every  inch  of  the  sickly  yellow  material.   Scattered  on  the  floor  were  pieces  of  rubbish and  blank  notebook  pages.  His  bin  was  overflowing  with  wasted  paper.  As  I  examined  his belongings  it  was  horribly  easy  to  see  poor  Frank  going  slowly  insane .  In  one  of  his  drawers thousands  of  note  book  receipts  had  flooded  out  onto  the  floor.  I  picked  up  an  old  photo  frame that  lay  on  its  face,  it was  empty  but  for  a  thick  layer  of  grime.  The  frame  looked  as  if  it  had been   salvaged  from  someone’s  garbage.
Please  officer  tell  where  you  found  him.  I  asked  as  tears  trickled  down  my  cheeks.
We  found  him  a  few  doors  away,  number  thirty-two.  The  place  was  empty,  apparently  it  hadn’t been  put  back  on  the  market  due  to  the  circumstances  of  how  it  was  left  by  the  previous tenant.  There  had  been  rumours  that  on  some  mornings  Frank  would  break  in  through  the  back window  and  just  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  bed  room  crying.
Why  did  no one  try  to  help  him?
I  can’t  say,  I  think  most  people  didn’t  care.
David  was  a  family  friend,  what  happened  to  him  put  a  strain  on  all  of  us,  I  had  no  idea  poor Frank  was  hurt  so  badly,  if  only  he’d  let  me  help  him,  if  only  he’d  have  kept  in  touch  all  this could  have  been  prevented.
I’m  sorry  Mrs.  Bell  but  I’m  going  to  have  to  ask  you  to  return  with  me  to  identify  Frank’s  body.
Please  officer,   just  a  moment  alone  then  I  will  do  whatever  you  ask.
The  young  officer  nodded  and  retreated  back  out  into  the  hallway.   I  starred  aimlessly  around Frank’s  home,  for  seven  years  this  is  where  he’d  been  living.  I  had  moved  on  and  re married  and  had  a  young  daughter,  poor  Frank  just  locked  himself  away  slowly  going  mad.  If  only  he’d have  kept  in  touch,  let  me  know  where  he  was  living  I  could  have  told  him  that  I  had  never stopped  loving  him.  Never  stopped  wishing  he’d  forgive  me  for  what  I  did  to  him.

Harbour Lights Re-Write

Harbour Lights

Introduction

Icy rain hammered across the old windows, thunder crashed like titans against heavy clouds and lightning lit up the harbour in a ghostly glare. This is the setting that always welcomes my first memories.

I was sat excitedly beside a grubby canteen window snuggled up in my father’s wool blanket; I was five years old and in Hong Kong. The night was late and my father was working at the docks unloading a beautiful new shipment of western art from a huge cargo ship that had docked into Hong Kong moments ago. The ship sat silent in the night; I could just make out its huge mass through the heavy rain. It was a frightening sight for someone so small but I loved the energy around the harbour, I loved watching my father work.

We moved to Hong Kong from England when I was very young, my mother died suddenly so my father decided to move away, as far as he possibly could. I don’t remember her very well; I can only recall her beautiful, angel like, features from dusty old photos. My father loved her and when she died so did a part of him, he changed, he worked to take his mind off everything. At the time I was perhaps too young to really understand the shift, he was still my dad and I looked up to him every waking moment, I loved him with all heart.

A small Chinese boy suddenly ran past me chasing a wet cat out of the front entrance, his fingers were covered in jam; it’s funny how you remember these things. The front door burst open and as the boy ran out into the night I saw a couple of black limos pull into the yard. The door closed. I pushed my nose to the glass and tried to strain my vision to get a clearer look but my breath kept fogging up the cold window. An uncomfortable air descended around me, the canteen fell silent and everyone around had come to stand beside me to look out across the docks. My little heart began to beat faster, I knew something terrible was going to happen and I wanted my dad. I pushed the blanket off and struggled to climb down from where I was perched. I wanted to go outside to get a better view. The wind was cold on my cheeks and a hand quickly came to pull me back in out of the rain but just as I felt the tug on my shoulder I saw my father, his finger was pressed against the chest of an elderly man dressed smartly in a suit. I was just about to call out to him when my ears erupted with the sound of gunfire, before my voice could leave my tongue my father fell to the ground dead. His fellow colleagues soon met the same fate; one by one they dropped hard to the floor like stones. Bullets peppered the canteen shattering glass and porcelain; the kitchen burst a light with flames. Around my chest someone’s arms held me tight. We moved to the back of the canteen and hid behind the storage bins. I hadn’t stopped screaming, tears were streaming from my burning eyes. In the bins I shivered and screamed until the world faded from focus. I don’t remember anything more.

I sometimes have nightmares about that night, I don’t know if what I see is real or not. Maybe they are memories that my mind had tried to erase, the horror being too harsh for a child to bare, to disappear and at times fade back into the mind’s eye when I’m asleep and vulnerable. For whatever reason I remember that night as I lay here, naked, in bed with a stranger getting his money’s worth. His boozy breath tickles my neck and I cringe. I try to fight back tears but I can’t, I turn my head and burry my face in a cushion, biting the fabric hard with my teeth. Maybe these recollections are my sad excuse to justify the direction my life has taken, maybe I just feel sorry for myself and I want someone to pity me.

I feel the man climb off, he snorts and I hear an elastic snap then a light thud in my bin. I bring myself from out of the cushion and stare out of the window and across the violent sea. I shiver even though the flat is warm; a nice open fire is crackling softly at the foot of my bed. The man slaps at my backside and throws a few hundred dollars my way. He chuckles to himself, collects his clothes and makes towards the door. “Same time t’moro,” He says in broken English. I give no reply and for that he laughs and leaves with nothing more to say. I can’t find the strength to move but when I do I collect the money and count it, he gave a tip. I catch my image in the mirror across the room, naked, watery eyed holding a wad of paper. A sad whore, a nobody. A cliché. A little girl lost just looking for her dad.

After the massacre at the Harbour I was shunted around as a piece of evidence, I never learned to speak Chinese so I never had a clue what anyone ever said to me. Before I could count to ten I was moved into an orphanage and given a half baked explanation to keep me company. For what it was worth I was told that the attack was an unexpected move by the local Triads, the news rocked all of coastal Hong Kong. No one ever really knew what had transpired that night. Only I, it seemed, had seen my father in direct confrontation with the elder Triad. As a young girl I never thought much about it, I don’t think I ever thought about anything for a while, but as I got older the image became stronger. I don’t even know if it happened the way I remember it now that I’ve analyzed it so damn much.

The orphanage however was a little box of hell, nobody liked me. I was the little English girl, the white meat. You’d think children wouldn’t mind, that they’d get along, you’d be wrong. In the small courtyard they’d throw pebbles at me if I got to close, some kids would even hiss every time I walked by. In the end I found a dark corner in the basement where I could hide for most of the day. Down there, in the dark, I knew the rats and the spiders would not pass judgment upon me.

My bed room was shared, it was a little match box with smoke stained wallpaper. I’ve lost count of how many times I awoke to find a spider crawling through my tangled hair or to the sound of the other children plotting a little scheme to ‘get’ me. The orphanage was owned by a group of young men and women, none of us ever got to know any of them properly. Now that I think about it I imagine many of them were simple volunteers. We had lessons a few times a week and handed a little work to do in our spare time. It was a cold place to live, love and sincerity had yet to come calling at this door.

I was now 10 years old and half way over the orphanage fence. I’d had enough, time to run away. I figured they wouldn't miss me; they’d enjoy the extra bread and milk. The orphanage was deep within the center of Hong Kong, the buildings towered over me like huge prison bars preventing me from escaping my fate. With my little head perched back looking to the sky the sheer size of the world around me caused my head to spin.

My dad always told me that if I’m ever lost ‘find a river and follow the current, you’ll always find the sea’. The harbour was all I knew and I wanted to go back, maybe to look upon it one more time before I’m found and brought back to the orphanage or die alone in the streets like a common rat. I decided to walk forwards and not turn back, where my nose would lead me was the direction I wanted to go in.

By nightfall the rain had arrived along with the rowdy crowd and the desperate. I passed ghost like between them all, my little body of no concern to anyone. Walking alone I felt trapped in a twisted fun house, the lights, the music, it all boiled up in my senses. I thought the world had gone crazy. But as the morning sun began to rise above the grey mist the sparkle of a beautiful sea twinkled in the corner of my eye. I felt a familiar hand reach out to me, I was nearly home. In the years that had passed the harbour had remained the same, I liked it. I could smell the fresh fish, hear the call of the seagulls and feel the energy of the workers again. My tummy tightened with excitement but like a band it snapped and suddenly I realized I was still alone.

In the following days no one had come looking for me, after a while I stopped hiding around in the alleyways, how foolish of me to think that I may have been missed, that someone might have tied searching. But one day, just as winter had begun to extend his frosty fingers and old woman found me shivering in a door way. She kindly handed me a chocolate bar, I took it without hesitation. The soft caramel melted on my tongue as pleasant tickle ran alone my spine and then I noticed a sparkle in her eyes that told me I was safe, I held out my little hand and she took it, pulled me from the cold floor and embraced me. I had forgotten the warmth of another and inhaling her generosity I fell asleep in her arms. When I woke found myself in a bed, a lovely open fire was alight with dancing flames at the foot of my bed. The old woman was sat asleep on the only chair in the room. I looked at her for a while; I had to fight the urge to leave. I’d been running for so long it felt like the natural thing to do but just as I was about to slide out of the bed I saw, sat on the bedside table, a pile of fresh fruit and a glass of milk. The warmth of love echoed from this old woman, how lucky I had been to be taken in by such a kind human being. I didn’t understand her, nor did I know her name but as time went on she became my mother, the mother I’d never knew. In my silly English way I called her Rose, she would chuckle and speak back to me in Chinese, and then I’d laugh because I knew that neither of us understood one another. But that did not stop us growing close, it never stopped us from expressing our love for one another. Rose eventually understood the name that I had chosen for her; why I chose Rose was simple. A Rose is a beautiful and pure symbol of nature, something precious and delicate. It was a fitting name and she knew it.

Every spring time, when the sun was being kind and the wind offered a refreshing hug we’d travel for miles on the train to arrive at this beautiful garden where roses bloomed vibrantly in colours of red and white. All around me was an expression of Rose’s love. It remains one of my happiest memories. I had battled through the thorn bush and been rewarded a brief and beautiful flower to hold and cherish in my heart forever.
I would live with Rose until my eighteenth birthday. I arrived home from school late in the afternoon to find the house empty, only a letter that I barely understood welcomed me. I never saw Rose again but in her kindness she had left me her home and what little money she had left. I fell to my grazed knees and quietly wept. I was alone once more. The flowers beauty had passed.

Once my studies came to an end I faded into the night, evolving with the life that breeds when the sun descends. I loved the music, I loved the way the drink made me feel, I loved how the world looked through the smoke of cigarettes and drugs and I especially loved the feeling of being held. It was a toxic mix but a remedy I needed. The noise drowned the little girl lost and left me an empty shell that could feel nothing but the beat of my favourite song. I suppose I was just being young but it was strange to fit in so easily for a change. The music was my language and the booze was my blood. The world no longer felt so foreign to me. But now, examining my pale reflection in the mirror I feel regret. The sad whore had gone; I could just see myself as a little girl holding hands with my father. My rosy cheeks flush in the fire light. I have my mother’s eyes and my father’s smile, the windows into my soul. Now at twenty-five I train my focus over my swollen features, I cannot see any resemblance. Deep in my gut I know I’ve forgotten the people who once loved me, if they all could see me now my heart would break. The money in my hand, an honest hours pay, burns as I look at it. I wish to cast it into the fire and rid me of the evidence of my life, but money is money and it’s all worth the same no matter how you earn it.