We looked up at the façade of the building, and Jinna spoke for all of us.
“Ugh.”
There wasn’t much else to say. It was grey and cold and concrete, and the idea that we were to live here… I coughed, the infection in my chest a lingering reminder of why we had had no choice.
Momma smiled bravely. She could see exactly how much of a struggle it would be to adjust, but that was not the point – never the point, with Momma. She knew we would manage, and manage with grace, if she had to fight every hour of every day to make it happen.
“Come on, let’s go inside.” There was a slight brittleness to her voice, but otherwise no one who didn’t know her would have known she was sad about this at all.
Jinna, despite her sulk, led the way. It was obvious she planned to swipe the biggest bedroom, but as it turned out she didn’t manage it. None of the bedrooms were big. All the same size, tiny concrete oblongs with cold grey walls and cold grey ceilings and tiny oblong windows with double glazing that was painted shut. If there had been heating, the rooms would have been warm enough to stifle a person. As it was, the glass seemed to shut out the light of the sun as well as its warmth. Jinna looked around and thought about complaining again. There was no point but at thirteen that didn’t usually stop her. Instead she heaved a sigh, and started planning her escape. She ran away with clock regularity, and even if we hadn’t have moved to this hole, she would have been making maps and finding hidey holes anyway. I made a mental note to keep an eye out for her, and saw her making a mental note to keep out of my way as much as possible.
Momma went to work at once, and soon rugs and mats were laid over the tile floors and the chill rising through the soles of our shoes became a little more bearable. Tommy fell and bruised his knee, the role of little brothers one he fell into quite naturally, and the time we spent fixing him up and offering the cheap, too-sweet candy, and cuddling and kissing better made us feel like a family again.
Momma’s face fell when tummies started to rumble. She had seen the kitchen before – we had not. She knew what was coming.
A look passed between us, and without a word I followed her out into the dank hallway. It took a moment to realise that all the bedroom doors had locks, and that we would share the kitchen and the bathroom with others. Momma saw the horror in my face at the idea, but there was no use either of us saying anything.
The kitchen was clean, and there were no cockroaches that we could see. That was the best thing we were able to say about it, and that was said without words. Swiftly we cut the dry rye bread and hard, sour cheese, and found a few mismatched plates. I piled up six, unthinking, and then put two back before Momma saw. I wasn’t quick enough, and the tears pooled in her eyes for a few seconds.
There was no time for sentiment with two hungry children to feed. We strode back down the corridor and plastered smiles on our faces. Jinna saw straight through our insincerity, but she appreciated the effort all the same. Tommy barely even saw the fake smiles. When there was food available he had no eyes for anything else, and we three girls had learned to be grateful for it during this eventful week.
Momma and I took the smallest plates so that our meagre portions would look the same size as Jinna and Tommy’s. I pretended not to see when Momma gave Tommy half her cheese, and she pretended not to see when I gave Jinna an extra slice of bread.
Voices rattled in the corridor, guttural words we didn’t understand and didn’t want to. They made Momma jump, and put a shiver down my spine. Jinna wanted to go out and see, try and speak to the folks who were making such a racket, but she stilled when I glared at her. Momma quietly walked over to the door of the tiny room we had crammed into and turned the key in the lock. My shoulders untensed from their position up by my ears.
Momma swallowed and braced herself to spout the propaganda we all needed to hear to get through the day.
“When Daddy comes back from the front, we’ll find somewhere nicer.”
No one said anything. None of us believed he would ever return. But none of us would ever say it out loud, for then it might be true.
Showing posts with label floot. Show all posts
Showing posts with label floot. Show all posts
Thursday, February 11, 2010
5 - Journalism: The DCI's Diary
Diary 2010 Week To View
If found please return to DCI Swallow
25th January
The subject continues to keep to his usual routine. It’s difficult to tell whether he has any awareness of us – although we endeavour to be discrete, the rumour mill will work against us if neighbours become aware of our presence. Given the size of the flat and the thinness of the walls this seems inevitable, but we have several cover stories and counter-rumours to turn to if necessary.
Jones continues to insist that we refrain from mentioning the subject’s name or those of any of his associates even in our written communication. I’m monitoring that situation, too – Jones appears to have a strong case of paranoia where the subject is concerned, but this is understandable in light of his previous postings in the breakaway republics. The subjects links to the republics remain unproven, and all evidence points towards his being a local small time drug dealer who is trying to get a reputation as something more.
Sneyder, the police psychologist assigned to our unit, assures me that she thinks Jones is stable, and there is no doubt that he is an able officer, but all the same it troubles me that he attributes a good deal of power and influence to one petty criminal.
As the subject is well known and this case well documented, I have acquiesced to his wish that we refer only obliquely to the subject. In the long run it will not harm our case.
10th February
Jones’ behaviour continues to concern me. He has taken to muttering words which rhyme with the subject’s name, and were it not for his excellent work deciphering the coded messages we have picked up from our friend on the other side of the street I would request he be taken off the case. Unfortunately he is one of the few code breakers we have available, and as such is indispensible to us here.
After two weeks’ observation the subject still appears to have no intelligence of our presence. The messages we have intercepted have largely been of no consequence, but some of them have given us new leads to follow up. At the end of this month we should certainly have enough to move onto the next stage of the investigation, and I have no doubt that the records we are keeping will help lead to a conviction.
18th February
After some unusual activity from the subject, we have requested back up, which should be with us in a few days. Our suspicions grow that he has finally realised he is under surveillance, and although he will not make a move before the High Tide festival, which he will need as cover to launder the cash we believe is stored in his flat, we are concerned about our safety after that time.
Fortunately this unpleasant development has allowed us to shoot several dozen high resolution pictures of the subject and his associates with firearms which are certainly not legally owned, and can only add to the strength of our case.
25th February
The increased security has certainly given us all some measure of peace of mind, although I fear Jones will need transferring to another unit before the festival is finished. The strain of waiting for a possible attack has lead to increased paranoia, and his increased use of his asthma inhaler particularly concerns me. I am certain that his dependence on the drug is far beyond what is normal even in severe asthmatics, and he would not have been allowed to serve on this team if his health had been judged lacking.
I confess it will be a relief to leave this wretched flat and get back to the office to analyse the information we have collected.
29th February
Jones is dead. The flat is surrounded and we don’t know exactly what is happening outside. It looks like Jones was correct after all. If this record is retrieved, then let our deaths count for something; whoever is assigned to this case in future must be warned that the subject possesses powers that defy description and that the only chance to defeat him is
The diary extract reproduced above was recovered in early March when survivors and bodies were pulled from a destroyed building which was an apparent victim of a terrorist attack.
Mysteriously, police records give no reference to the case, or the officers involved, and even the unusual surname Sneyder gave us no link to any known police force either nationally or on Interpol.
The body from which the diary was retrieved was unrecognisable, having been badly burned in the fire, and no matches were found of any of the victims of the explosion in the dental records currently available to us. Only a small portion of the diary was unharmed, and tests reveal that the security lock had been breached several times before the time of the explosion, although the DCI makes no record of any attempt to break into it.
No other written material, recording equipment, or similar items and devices were recovered at the scene.
We respectfully suggest that the information contained in this report stays confidential until such a time as the subject is identified and neutralised.
- Bacon County Federal Coroner’s Office.
If found please return to DCI Swallow
25th January
The subject continues to keep to his usual routine. It’s difficult to tell whether he has any awareness of us – although we endeavour to be discrete, the rumour mill will work against us if neighbours become aware of our presence. Given the size of the flat and the thinness of the walls this seems inevitable, but we have several cover stories and counter-rumours to turn to if necessary.
Jones continues to insist that we refrain from mentioning the subject’s name or those of any of his associates even in our written communication. I’m monitoring that situation, too – Jones appears to have a strong case of paranoia where the subject is concerned, but this is understandable in light of his previous postings in the breakaway republics. The subjects links to the republics remain unproven, and all evidence points towards his being a local small time drug dealer who is trying to get a reputation as something more.
Sneyder, the police psychologist assigned to our unit, assures me that she thinks Jones is stable, and there is no doubt that he is an able officer, but all the same it troubles me that he attributes a good deal of power and influence to one petty criminal.
As the subject is well known and this case well documented, I have acquiesced to his wish that we refer only obliquely to the subject. In the long run it will not harm our case.
10th February
Jones’ behaviour continues to concern me. He has taken to muttering words which rhyme with the subject’s name, and were it not for his excellent work deciphering the coded messages we have picked up from our friend on the other side of the street I would request he be taken off the case. Unfortunately he is one of the few code breakers we have available, and as such is indispensible to us here.
After two weeks’ observation the subject still appears to have no intelligence of our presence. The messages we have intercepted have largely been of no consequence, but some of them have given us new leads to follow up. At the end of this month we should certainly have enough to move onto the next stage of the investigation, and I have no doubt that the records we are keeping will help lead to a conviction.
18th February
After some unusual activity from the subject, we have requested back up, which should be with us in a few days. Our suspicions grow that he has finally realised he is under surveillance, and although he will not make a move before the High Tide festival, which he will need as cover to launder the cash we believe is stored in his flat, we are concerned about our safety after that time.
Fortunately this unpleasant development has allowed us to shoot several dozen high resolution pictures of the subject and his associates with firearms which are certainly not legally owned, and can only add to the strength of our case.
25th February
The increased security has certainly given us all some measure of peace of mind, although I fear Jones will need transferring to another unit before the festival is finished. The strain of waiting for a possible attack has lead to increased paranoia, and his increased use of his asthma inhaler particularly concerns me. I am certain that his dependence on the drug is far beyond what is normal even in severe asthmatics, and he would not have been allowed to serve on this team if his health had been judged lacking.
I confess it will be a relief to leave this wretched flat and get back to the office to analyse the information we have collected.
29th February
Jones is dead. The flat is surrounded and we don’t know exactly what is happening outside. It looks like Jones was correct after all. If this record is retrieved, then let our deaths count for something; whoever is assigned to this case in future must be warned that the subject possesses powers that defy description and that the only chance to defeat him is
The diary extract reproduced above was recovered in early March when survivors and bodies were pulled from a destroyed building which was an apparent victim of a terrorist attack.
Mysteriously, police records give no reference to the case, or the officers involved, and even the unusual surname Sneyder gave us no link to any known police force either nationally or on Interpol.
The body from which the diary was retrieved was unrecognisable, having been badly burned in the fire, and no matches were found of any of the victims of the explosion in the dental records currently available to us. Only a small portion of the diary was unharmed, and tests reveal that the security lock had been breached several times before the time of the explosion, although the DCI makes no record of any attempt to break into it.
No other written material, recording equipment, or similar items and devices were recovered at the scene.
We respectfully suggest that the information contained in this report stays confidential until such a time as the subject is identified and neutralised.
- Bacon County Federal Coroner’s Office.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
6 - The Royal We: Best Friends
too long again - need more practice!
Also, totally forgot to do number 5...
Frank laughs when mother calls us in from the garden. It’s just as well she didn’t notice. We often get into trouble when we are together, but it’s better than playing alone. We have some good times. Frank doesn’t really have anywhere else to go, so he usually stays over. We don’t mind sharing our things, and we don’t like Frank’s house. It’s old and cold and quiet, with a high roof and stone walls, and no one who lives there ever seems to be at home when we visit. It scares us and so we’ve only been there a few times. Frank had to move there, and is supposed to stay there all the time, but no one checks. It says Frank on the wall and so everyone thinks he must be there.
“Coming!” We get up quickly and run indoors.
“Have you washed your hands?”
“Yes.”
Jacob talks more loudly. Frank is mischievous but shy. We get on well because we can help each other out that way.
We go indoors, and mother greets us over her shoulder then starts dishing out dinner. As usual she’s only set us one place, but we don’t mind sharing – we’ve been sharing for months and we’re used to it. If we mentioned it she’d get upset, and we hate it when that happens.
Mother never seems to notice, and she always gives us a big portion anyway. She says Jacob is a growing boy, and we suppose Frank must be too.
We finish in double quick time. Frank eats the cabbage, as Jacob doesn’t like it all that much. Mother is very impressed and we get a big slice of chocolate cream pie. She won’t let us eat it in the lounge – she knows that Frank will leave a mess. Jacob is tidy but when Frank is around you can’t tell that. We cancel each other out.
After dinner we go and play in the garden. There’s a miniature swing-boat, but we’re not very good at making it go. We used to be good at it, but somehow we can’t manage it any more. Mother says that life will get more difficult as we get older, and we think this must be what she means.
The swings are fun, though, even if it’s not the same as sitting on the swing-boat together – Jacob offers to push Frank, but Frank prefers to watch. Frank gets sick easily, and we don’t want to waste any of the pudding.
Our next door neighbour’s cat Smoky jumps over the fence. He hisses at Frank, and won’t let Jacob near him much either. He’s a miserable old animal – we used to feed him from our secret stash, but when we ran out of things he liked he wouldn’t forgive us. Frank tries to pick him up, but the cat slips through his fingers. At least we didn’t get scratched.
Later on we go indoors. Frank wants to stay outside, but really it’s too cold. Jacob is tired and shivering even if Frank never notices the frost. We used to be scared of the dark, but we’re not any more. If we stay together, then we’re both braver.
Frank thinks of a surprise for mother, and we creep upstairs. Frank is best at creeping, and even Jacob can’t hear his footsteps. Frank starts to order Jacob about, but Jacob doesn’t mind. We imagine the look on mother’s face and grin at each other.
“Sweetie, you tidied your room!” Mother is surprised when she comes up. We think she might cry, but she looks happy too. We look at each other and shrug. Neither of us understands parents.
“We both did,” we say, and smile proudly. It’s not really true. Frank had to sit still while Jacob picked up his toys, because Frank makes a mess everywhere he goes. He’s terrible at picking things up. But Frank did tell Jacob how to sort them out, so we did it together really.
Mother looks a little sad. “You’re a very brave little boy,” she says. Jacob thinks she is talking about Frank, but later on Frank says she meant Jacob. Maybe she meant both of us, though neither of us really understands what she means.
Also, totally forgot to do number 5...
Frank laughs when mother calls us in from the garden. It’s just as well she didn’t notice. We often get into trouble when we are together, but it’s better than playing alone. We have some good times. Frank doesn’t really have anywhere else to go, so he usually stays over. We don’t mind sharing our things, and we don’t like Frank’s house. It’s old and cold and quiet, with a high roof and stone walls, and no one who lives there ever seems to be at home when we visit. It scares us and so we’ve only been there a few times. Frank had to move there, and is supposed to stay there all the time, but no one checks. It says Frank on the wall and so everyone thinks he must be there.
“Coming!” We get up quickly and run indoors.
“Have you washed your hands?”
“Yes.”
Jacob talks more loudly. Frank is mischievous but shy. We get on well because we can help each other out that way.
We go indoors, and mother greets us over her shoulder then starts dishing out dinner. As usual she’s only set us one place, but we don’t mind sharing – we’ve been sharing for months and we’re used to it. If we mentioned it she’d get upset, and we hate it when that happens.
Mother never seems to notice, and she always gives us a big portion anyway. She says Jacob is a growing boy, and we suppose Frank must be too.
We finish in double quick time. Frank eats the cabbage, as Jacob doesn’t like it all that much. Mother is very impressed and we get a big slice of chocolate cream pie. She won’t let us eat it in the lounge – she knows that Frank will leave a mess. Jacob is tidy but when Frank is around you can’t tell that. We cancel each other out.
After dinner we go and play in the garden. There’s a miniature swing-boat, but we’re not very good at making it go. We used to be good at it, but somehow we can’t manage it any more. Mother says that life will get more difficult as we get older, and we think this must be what she means.
The swings are fun, though, even if it’s not the same as sitting on the swing-boat together – Jacob offers to push Frank, but Frank prefers to watch. Frank gets sick easily, and we don’t want to waste any of the pudding.
Our next door neighbour’s cat Smoky jumps over the fence. He hisses at Frank, and won’t let Jacob near him much either. He’s a miserable old animal – we used to feed him from our secret stash, but when we ran out of things he liked he wouldn’t forgive us. Frank tries to pick him up, but the cat slips through his fingers. At least we didn’t get scratched.
Later on we go indoors. Frank wants to stay outside, but really it’s too cold. Jacob is tired and shivering even if Frank never notices the frost. We used to be scared of the dark, but we’re not any more. If we stay together, then we’re both braver.
Frank thinks of a surprise for mother, and we creep upstairs. Frank is best at creeping, and even Jacob can’t hear his footsteps. Frank starts to order Jacob about, but Jacob doesn’t mind. We imagine the look on mother’s face and grin at each other.
“Sweetie, you tidied your room!” Mother is surprised when she comes up. We think she might cry, but she looks happy too. We look at each other and shrug. Neither of us understands parents.
“We both did,” we say, and smile proudly. It’s not really true. Frank had to sit still while Jacob picked up his toys, because Frank makes a mess everywhere he goes. He’s terrible at picking things up. But Frank did tell Jacob how to sort them out, so we did it together really.
Mother looks a little sad. “You’re a very brave little boy,” she says. Jacob thinks she is talking about Frank, but later on Frank says she meant Jacob. Maybe she meant both of us, though neither of us really understands what she means.
4 - The Unstable Self: Pain
with thanks to Gerard Manley Hopkins from whom I have begged, borrowed, and possibly stolen! - The Caged Skylark
I don’t want to be here any more. I wonder if I can escape. I wonder if I can fly away.
She winces even in her sleep. I look down dispassionately at my earthridden, bedridden self. In that bone-house, mean house. But not resting. No mounting spirit here. She’s caged. Trapped. Not a skylark, but a dodo.
What, then, of me? Sprung like a rhythm out of flesh. Flying high. She battered against barriers and gave in. I soar free. I can’t explain.
It’s strange to watch her face contort and to feel nothing. To see my limbs twist with pain. To see her teeth grind together. And to feel nothing.
I look away. The view from the window is green and pleasant. She looks it every day but she doesn’t notice it. She looks, the light enters her eyes, the image is processed by her optic nerve and transmitted to her visual cortex. She looks at it. But she does not see it. I have not seen it before, though I have looked at it every day.
A noise makes me look back to the bed. Eyes have opened. Vision is blurred. She can’t see. I can’t see. I have no eyes. They’re there on the bed and they’re misty and clouded with pain. I wonder how, then, am I looking down at her? At me?
I don’t want to. I float away. She is trapped by her bones, flesh-bound, imprisoned. I am free as a bird, as a dare, as the breeze over a meadow. I can soar. I can sing.
She groans. I sink, pulled down. Don’t! Let me go. She won’t let go. She can’t. She doesn’t know how. She needs a sign.
Rain. A drizzle, falling like tears. She did not look. I did not notice the clouds. I am floating above it all, far away, and lying in this bed, a prisoner of her body.
She can’t escape. The sky is weeping for her and she is trapped here, in chains. The chains bind me tight and she cannot move. The bed is not rest but torture.
I fight back. I rise, slowly, slowly. Looking for a light in the darkness. Looking for sweet release. All she wants is not to be in pain any more. Legs too weak to hold her scramble for purchase on the smooth sheets. Machines beep. Regular. Monotonous. Beep. Beep. Counting away the seconds of a life no longer being lived.
The sun falls on her face and she smiles as I feel the warmth. No pain, just warmth. Welcome. Release.
Sudden fear. Is this what I want? Her body tenses, one last effort against the inevitable. How does she know that this is the right time? Who will promise that what is to come will be better?
A rainbow outside the window. She looks. I see it.
Her spirit sings like a bird released, flying high over the meadows. Her body relaxes back into the pillows, quiet. Pain drains away. I cannot feel anything.
At last at peace. Breathing stills, stops. Heartbeat stills, stops. I soar onwards, chains released.
I don’t want to be here any more. I wonder if I can escape. I wonder if I can fly away.
She winces even in her sleep. I look down dispassionately at my earthridden, bedridden self. In that bone-house, mean house. But not resting. No mounting spirit here. She’s caged. Trapped. Not a skylark, but a dodo.
What, then, of me? Sprung like a rhythm out of flesh. Flying high. She battered against barriers and gave in. I soar free. I can’t explain.
It’s strange to watch her face contort and to feel nothing. To see my limbs twist with pain. To see her teeth grind together. And to feel nothing.
I look away. The view from the window is green and pleasant. She looks it every day but she doesn’t notice it. She looks, the light enters her eyes, the image is processed by her optic nerve and transmitted to her visual cortex. She looks at it. But she does not see it. I have not seen it before, though I have looked at it every day.
A noise makes me look back to the bed. Eyes have opened. Vision is blurred. She can’t see. I can’t see. I have no eyes. They’re there on the bed and they’re misty and clouded with pain. I wonder how, then, am I looking down at her? At me?
I don’t want to. I float away. She is trapped by her bones, flesh-bound, imprisoned. I am free as a bird, as a dare, as the breeze over a meadow. I can soar. I can sing.
She groans. I sink, pulled down. Don’t! Let me go. She won’t let go. She can’t. She doesn’t know how. She needs a sign.
Rain. A drizzle, falling like tears. She did not look. I did not notice the clouds. I am floating above it all, far away, and lying in this bed, a prisoner of her body.
She can’t escape. The sky is weeping for her and she is trapped here, in chains. The chains bind me tight and she cannot move. The bed is not rest but torture.
I fight back. I rise, slowly, slowly. Looking for a light in the darkness. Looking for sweet release. All she wants is not to be in pain any more. Legs too weak to hold her scramble for purchase on the smooth sheets. Machines beep. Regular. Monotonous. Beep. Beep. Counting away the seconds of a life no longer being lived.
The sun falls on her face and she smiles as I feel the warmth. No pain, just warmth. Welcome. Release.
Sudden fear. Is this what I want? Her body tenses, one last effort against the inevitable. How does she know that this is the right time? Who will promise that what is to come will be better?
A rainbow outside the window. She looks. I see it.
Her spirit sings like a bird released, flying high over the meadows. Her body relaxes back into the pillows, quiet. Pain drains away. I cannot feel anything.
At last at peace. Breathing stills, stops. Heartbeat stills, stops. I soar onwards, chains released.
Monday, February 8, 2010
3 - Unreliable Third: True Love?
it's a bit too long really, but I'm trying to get a few done... I'm going to go back and have another couple of goes at some of them, but I'm posting my first efforts anyway!
Helen smiles at George and tries to ignore the little frown lines around his mouth. He is trying to make her a better person, and it is working – slowly, but it is working.
She turns back to her ironing, standing up straight, ensuring that her back is elegantly poised and her shoulders are not slouched. He hates slouching, but only because he doesn’t want her to get backache. He only slouches himself because of his own back trouble, and he doesn’t want Helen to suffer the way he does. After all, he couldn’t afford for them both to visit the masseuse.
He turns the television up a little higher. He’s forgotten that she hates this show, hates the presenter. He wouldn’t have put it on if he had remembered, but she forgives him, because he’s just trying to relax. He’s been working late, it’s not his fault his job is so stressful. She’s grateful his secretary is such a sweet girl, always so obliging, staying late at work so he doesn’t have to make the phone calls himself. Jeannie. A lovely girl. She even calls Helen herself when George is working late, so that George can get on with things and be home a little earlier. Jeannie is such a pretty thing, she could be a model, but George says she prefers to do something useful with her life.
Helen folds up the last shirt with care as the programme finally finishes and places it in the pile of ironing. George harrumphs and hauls himself up from the settee. There’s a faraway look in his eye that reminds Helen of their honeymoon. She’s about to say something when he catches her eye and frowns again.
“I’m going to bed.” His voice is gruff, but that’s just his way. She knows he loves her. She’s sure that tonight when she goes up he’ll be waiting for her, not turned away and snoring as he has been recently. He’s just been tired, and she can’t blame him for that.
“Can you…?” She gestures towards the pile of ironing, but he puts a hand in the small of his back and grimaces.
“Can’t. Back trouble.”
His terseness can’t cover up the fact that he’s still miles away, looking past her at some memory that softens his expression and reminds her of the man she fell in love with.
She’s sure now that he’s remembering their honeymoon, and once he’s gone up the stairs she starts to bustle about, getting everything quickly tidied away so that her beloved won’t have to wait for long.
She tries not to move too quickly when he is in the same room – she knows he gets irritated when she makes a noise. It’s not his fault – he has sensitive ears. That’s why they rarely have music on. It’s something to do with the beat or the pitch or – Helen doesn’t really understand, but she loves him and she can listen while he’s at work. The neighbours won’t tell.
There’s more to do than she had thought, and she doesn’t want to leave anything untidy. George probably won’t be up before her in the morning, but if he is he won’t want to be tripping over things. It only takes a few minutes, but George is so tired, and when she pushes open the bedroom door he’s snoring. She sighs. She’s disappointed, but not surprised. He’s been working late. Jeannie told her so. Maybe at the weekend he won’t be so tired.
He’s only doing it for her, working himself into the ground so that she can stay in all day and not have to work. He loves her. She knows he loves her. She’s sure of it. She is.
Helen smiles at George and tries to ignore the little frown lines around his mouth. He is trying to make her a better person, and it is working – slowly, but it is working.
She turns back to her ironing, standing up straight, ensuring that her back is elegantly poised and her shoulders are not slouched. He hates slouching, but only because he doesn’t want her to get backache. He only slouches himself because of his own back trouble, and he doesn’t want Helen to suffer the way he does. After all, he couldn’t afford for them both to visit the masseuse.
He turns the television up a little higher. He’s forgotten that she hates this show, hates the presenter. He wouldn’t have put it on if he had remembered, but she forgives him, because he’s just trying to relax. He’s been working late, it’s not his fault his job is so stressful. She’s grateful his secretary is such a sweet girl, always so obliging, staying late at work so he doesn’t have to make the phone calls himself. Jeannie. A lovely girl. She even calls Helen herself when George is working late, so that George can get on with things and be home a little earlier. Jeannie is such a pretty thing, she could be a model, but George says she prefers to do something useful with her life.
Helen folds up the last shirt with care as the programme finally finishes and places it in the pile of ironing. George harrumphs and hauls himself up from the settee. There’s a faraway look in his eye that reminds Helen of their honeymoon. She’s about to say something when he catches her eye and frowns again.
“I’m going to bed.” His voice is gruff, but that’s just his way. She knows he loves her. She’s sure that tonight when she goes up he’ll be waiting for her, not turned away and snoring as he has been recently. He’s just been tired, and she can’t blame him for that.
“Can you…?” She gestures towards the pile of ironing, but he puts a hand in the small of his back and grimaces.
“Can’t. Back trouble.”
His terseness can’t cover up the fact that he’s still miles away, looking past her at some memory that softens his expression and reminds her of the man she fell in love with.
She’s sure now that he’s remembering their honeymoon, and once he’s gone up the stairs she starts to bustle about, getting everything quickly tidied away so that her beloved won’t have to wait for long.
She tries not to move too quickly when he is in the same room – she knows he gets irritated when she makes a noise. It’s not his fault – he has sensitive ears. That’s why they rarely have music on. It’s something to do with the beat or the pitch or – Helen doesn’t really understand, but she loves him and she can listen while he’s at work. The neighbours won’t tell.
There’s more to do than she had thought, and she doesn’t want to leave anything untidy. George probably won’t be up before her in the morning, but if he is he won’t want to be tripping over things. It only takes a few minutes, but George is so tired, and when she pushes open the bedroom door he’s snoring. She sighs. She’s disappointed, but not surprised. He’s been working late. Jeannie told her so. Maybe at the weekend he won’t be so tired.
He’s only doing it for her, working himself into the ground so that she can stay in all day and not have to work. He loves her. She knows he loves her. She’s sure of it. She is.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
1 - Reluctant I: Don't Get Caught
Don’t get caught. The best advice an old thief can give, and the old thieves are the ones to heed. It’s easy to say, less easy to do, especially when the guards are coming and the lock picks just aren’t working. It’s a time to consider whether this is a good life path. The door is very ornate, very imposing, and very solid. Wood may seem old fashioned, but when it’s centuries old oak it might as well be cast iron. Coupled with an unexpected state of the art lock it is impregnable to the opportunist thief.
A kick only results in a sore toe and a muffled swearword. Being found isn’t an option – this is not the time to get caught, that’s for sure. The windows on either side of the corridor are starting to look more tempting; falling twenty feet seems a better alternative than having my kidneys used as bongos.
The imposing pillars that line the corridor also provide a little cover for anyone trying to open the window. It’s a small comfort, but in this situation it’s better than nothing. The latch is, naturally, sealed shut, but it is less of an obstacle than the heavy wood of the uncooperative door.
The task is a fiddly one, but doable. The voices are getting closer, but obviously these guards are more easily fooled than some. Doubling back or hiding in a cupboard would seem amateur to an amateur, but in the right situation it can provide those few extra moments to evade capture.
The window finally opens with a noise that could be interpreted as a sigh of relief by those of a fanciful nature. The night air is cold but welcome, like a scent of freedom on the wind.
The drop is enough to give pause, but only for a moment. Whoever designed the gardens planted a shrubbery for this very purpose, or at least never considered a flower bed under the window a security risk. They were foolish, but they earn a quick murmur of gratitude.
Edging out through the window and onto the ledge is the easy part: closing the window again from outside is more difficult. Clearly the architect was less fond of criminals than the gardeners are. It’s necessary, another ruse to give a few moments before the escape route becomes clear to those in pursuit. All those moments add up, eventually equaling a successful getaway.
It’s impossible to close the window entirely. A rush job will have to do. So far these guards have not proven the most observant, and it might just be enough.
Decision: wait and hope they don’t notice the window is ajar, or risk them hearing the rustle of the greenery below? The chill breeze makes the decision – even the stupidest guard will have more trouble ignoring a draught.
At arms length hanging from the ledge the ground still seems a long way away, but it is too late to second guess. Footsteps which have been getting steadily closer for five minutes are now too close to ignore.
A deep breath, a reluctant unclasping of fingertips, and the deed is done. A bush doesn’t provide much cushioning, but it’s better than the cold hard ground. Bruises will have to be ignored for now, a stealthy creep through the shadows stands between me and freedom. The gardener has earned his thanks with an avenue of trees that provide excellent cover, and the outer walls are no barrier to one experienced in burglary.
A moment to brush off the leaves, and a thief becomes an ordinary citizen emerging from an alleyway into the light. Hiding in plain view is another trick the old thieves will teach the young. It’s one of the best ways of following their favourite piece of advice. What was that again? Don’t be afraid to ask – a proud thief is a dead thief in this city.
But always remember. It’s simple. Don’t get caught.
A kick only results in a sore toe and a muffled swearword. Being found isn’t an option – this is not the time to get caught, that’s for sure. The windows on either side of the corridor are starting to look more tempting; falling twenty feet seems a better alternative than having my kidneys used as bongos.
The imposing pillars that line the corridor also provide a little cover for anyone trying to open the window. It’s a small comfort, but in this situation it’s better than nothing. The latch is, naturally, sealed shut, but it is less of an obstacle than the heavy wood of the uncooperative door.
The task is a fiddly one, but doable. The voices are getting closer, but obviously these guards are more easily fooled than some. Doubling back or hiding in a cupboard would seem amateur to an amateur, but in the right situation it can provide those few extra moments to evade capture.
The window finally opens with a noise that could be interpreted as a sigh of relief by those of a fanciful nature. The night air is cold but welcome, like a scent of freedom on the wind.
The drop is enough to give pause, but only for a moment. Whoever designed the gardens planted a shrubbery for this very purpose, or at least never considered a flower bed under the window a security risk. They were foolish, but they earn a quick murmur of gratitude.
Edging out through the window and onto the ledge is the easy part: closing the window again from outside is more difficult. Clearly the architect was less fond of criminals than the gardeners are. It’s necessary, another ruse to give a few moments before the escape route becomes clear to those in pursuit. All those moments add up, eventually equaling a successful getaway.
It’s impossible to close the window entirely. A rush job will have to do. So far these guards have not proven the most observant, and it might just be enough.
Decision: wait and hope they don’t notice the window is ajar, or risk them hearing the rustle of the greenery below? The chill breeze makes the decision – even the stupidest guard will have more trouble ignoring a draught.
At arms length hanging from the ledge the ground still seems a long way away, but it is too late to second guess. Footsteps which have been getting steadily closer for five minutes are now too close to ignore.
A deep breath, a reluctant unclasping of fingertips, and the deed is done. A bush doesn’t provide much cushioning, but it’s better than the cold hard ground. Bruises will have to be ignored for now, a stealthy creep through the shadows stands between me and freedom. The gardener has earned his thanks with an avenue of trees that provide excellent cover, and the outer walls are no barrier to one experienced in burglary.
A moment to brush off the leaves, and a thief becomes an ordinary citizen emerging from an alleyway into the light. Hiding in plain view is another trick the old thieves will teach the young. It’s one of the best ways of following their favourite piece of advice. What was that again? Don’t be afraid to ask – a proud thief is a dead thief in this city.
But always remember. It’s simple. Don’t get caught.
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