Romance Epilogue

Ok I felt pretty bad with how I "ended" Jeff and Deb's story, so here is an epilogue that might make you feel a little better.

As far as the writing goes, this story is the closest to a true "romance" that I have written. I really wanted to give that feel to the story after the depressing story I posted last night.

On a side note, I've never been so attached to two characters before that I've had to write an epilogue to give them a happy ending, go figure.


Epilogue: Jeff & Deb
Tim Harvey

The applause that the four-piece acoustic band received once they had finished their song was probably well deserved, although Deb wasn't really listening. She sat near the edge of the balcony of the beach-side resort. She took in a deep breath of fresh sea air and watched the sun's slow descent over the clear and calm waves. Deb felt a deep wave of relaxation and she would have leant back in the wooden deck chair if he evening gown would allow it. She looked down at the flowing black satin that clung to her body and gathered at her ankles, and she smiled.
It had been so long since she had felt like this.
Deb looked into the function room of the resort and quietly counted the couples slowly dancing as the band began another tune. The men wore black dinner jackets and bow-ties, the women were all clothed in such amazing and elegant gowns. The evening was such a special night for Deb and she smiled. Her first New Year's Party as a practising lawyer, she shook her head with a smile and wondered how she ever ended up here. But at thirty-three years old, Deb was finally sure of where her life was going, she finally felt as if she could fit in.
A tall gentleman approached Deb and handed her a glass of champagne. She took the glass and smiled up at him. He was lean and she spent just a little more time than she should have admiring how the cut of his suit revealed his athletic build. She didn't blush however as she stood and hugged Eric. Deb rested her hand on his back and he leaned in to kiss her neck. It was only a gentle brush of his lips really but Deb got an incredible feeling of satisfaction from his subtle gesture.
Eric gently turned Deb around and the two stood, arms around each others waists, watching the crowd. “Want to mingle?” He said it with a raised brow and a hint of sarcasm, but Deb knew from his tone that he would be happy to do whatever she wanted.
She looked up at his face and frowned, “I thought you were going to have a shave?” She said it as she lightly brushed the dark stubble on his cheek.
His mouth spread wide, and he rested his hand over hers, “I was, but-”
Eric turned away with a teasing smile and Deb couldn't help but break out into one of her own, “but, I like a bit of stubble? Is that it, Eric?” She said, teasing him back.
He looked down and laughed before locking eyes with her, “I think that's about right.”
Deb gently slapped his shoulder and took a sip of her champagne.
“As to your other question, no, I don't want to mingle,” Deb turned back to the ocean and took another deep breath, her eyes instinctively and gently closing as she did.
Eric watched her closely and smiled, “beautiful.” He let the word out slowly and closed his own eyes.
Without moving or opening her eyes Deb smiled, “me, or this beach?”
“Well,” Eric began and let out another teasing laugh.
Deb mock gasped and turned around gently slapping his shoulder again.
Eric pretended to defend himself, “the beach has nothing on you, Deb,” he chuckled as he said it and Deb smiled, wrapping her arms around his waist.
Eric leant in and kissed her on the lips. His gentle brush against her lips caused her heart to race. Eric pulled back slightly, watching as Deb delicately moved her chin towards him. He leant in for another kiss and this time he pulled her tightly towards him.
When they were done, Deb noticed that Eric was breathing heavily, and she realised that she was too. She rested her head on his chest and listened to his heart. He brushed a hair from her face and held her close as they looked out into the ocean.
“Thankyou for being here for me.” Deb almost whispered the words into Eric's chest and she felt him pull her tighter.
“You deserve it Deb.” Eric gently stroked her hair and she smiled, she had never felt more alive.

In another part of the hotel, Jeff sat in a large leather lounge, his relaxation disturbed by the loud laughter of his three mates. The boys had wanted to party but Jeff was just hoping for a quiet New Year's. He smiled as his mates cracked jokes. The four of them were all twenty-seven and with the real world finally settling in on the young men, they didn't have much time for each other. Since Jeff had gained his teaching degree only a year ago he was flat out with work.
One of his mates was a contractor, another was still a medical school. The third was working as a journalist. Two of the three were married, one of them was a happy marriage. The contractor had a long term girlfriend. Jeff never felt left out by this, he had been single for a long time but he enjoyed trying to find out who he was.
Jeff nodded his head as his mates left to get more beers, he wasn't drinking because he was the designated driver. Jeff looked around the cocktail lounge and smiled at a girl at the bar. He had been single for so long now, he thought. He promised himself that he wouldn't enter a relationship until he was sure that it was the right time. Jeff frowned as he wondered what he meant when he made that promise years ago. He had a good job and his own house.
Jeff looked down at the brown leather shoes on his feet. They were new and clean. Jeff smiled at the shoes and ran a hand through his blonde hair. He took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. It was a new year, maybe it was time to take a chance.
Jeff stood up and walked over to his mates. He stood slightly apart from the group and made eye contact with the girl standing at the bar. She wore a blue silk cocktail dress, her blonde hair was cut short. Jeff gave a glance at his mates and shrugged at the girl. She let out a silent laugh and looked down at the bar, her mouth spread into a smile.
Jeff made his way over to where she stood. She looked up at him and smiled.
“Hi. I had to get away from those guys, they're my mates, but they can be a handful,” Jeff smiled as he gestured to his mates who were knocking down shots of tequila, “as you can see,” he added.
She smiled and raised an eyebrow, “yep, they sure do look like a handful.” Jeff noticed her perfume, it smelt of citrus.
“Hi, I'm Jeff,” he stuck out his hand and she took it into hers.
“Karen,” she replied as she shook his hand.
“Drinking tonight, Karen?” Jeff asked.
“Nope,” Karen replied with a smile as she raised her glass of water, “designated driver.”
Jeff smiled and held his hand to his chest in a gesture of mock sincerity, “a feeling I know all too well.” Karen chuckled at this and Jeff felt a warmth in her laughter that gave him a boost of confidence.
“What do you do Karen?” Jeff was normally never this direct but he felt at ease around this woman, who was a complete stranger.
“Hmm, long story actually. I can give you the short version if you want,” Karen smiled as she said this, Jeff noticed that she blushed slightly as she tried to think of her answer.
“Let me hear the short version and then I'll tell you if I want the long version,” Jeff smiled teasingly as he said this and was glad when Karen smiled widely at him.
“That's fair enough, I'm a vet actually. What about you Jeff?”
“I'd still like to hear that long version sometime,” Jeff laughed, “Me? Well I'm a teacher.”
“Wow,” Karen said, “enjoy it?” She sipped her water through a straw and looked up at Jeff expectantly.
“I've just started a few months ago but yeah, I'm actually loving it.” Jeff smiled as he said this, it dawned on him that he hadn't had such an easy and open conversation in years.
“Umm Jeff?” Karen said, looking over Jeff's shoulder.
Jeff turned to see one of his mates being escorted out of the lounge by a bouncer.
“I'm so sorry, Karen. I have to go.” Jeff turned to leave but halted as he felt a hand on his shoulder.
He turned around to see Karen offering him a bar-mat with a phone number scrawled on it.
The two shared a smile as they locked eyes, and for the first time in a while, Jeff felt alive.

New Romance

Just taking a quick break from my writing comp (which is going quite well). Needed something to mix it up a little.

Ok this is hardly romance, its actually fearly bleak and dark but it features my usual romantic leads; Jeff and Deb. A lot of emotion etc, I tried to convey some ideas of love and loss but plot wise its a hard nut to crack, trying to give this a happy ending.

So, hopefully you can enjoy this. Truthfully I didn't enjoy writing this as much as I thought I would when I set out to write another quick Jeff and Deb. It actually left me fairly depressed.


Jeff & Deb Meet Again
Tim Harvey

The front door to the flat stood open, the screen hung out in the elements and the heavy wooden door rested safe inside the flat. Deb looked at the wooden door, it was heavy and safe. If she closed it now, she could be all right. If she could just close this door she would be safe inside the flat. But she couldn't close the door, there was no way.
Outside the flat, standing next to the hanging screen door Jeff stood looking at the welcome mat. He didn't quite feel welcome. The air between the outside of the flat and the inside was vast, a vacuum of incredible silence that threatened to swallow any sound that tried to pass between it. Jeff could turn around and walk, just like he did years ago. But he couldn't walk, there was no way.
It had been three years since the two had seen each other. Three years since Jeff left, and three years since Deb lost the baby.
There was a horrible thickness to the air between them. Jeff wanted to open his mouth but couldn't even begin to comprehend how he could cut through this silence.
Deb's eyes slowly moved to Jeff, he had left because of her.
Jeff's eyes drifted upward to Deb, she hated him for leaving.
“Deb,” Jeff began but his voice cracked, had she even heard him say anything?
Deb stood as still as she could. She was frozen and undeniably certain that she would stay this way until he spoke. He tried to say something. She should speak now, but she couldn't.
“Deb,” Jeff looked down. He had a painful sense of deja-vu that came from nowhere.
“I'm so sorry.” The words drifted easily through the air, although they were the hardest things Jeff had ever had to say, not because he didn't mean it, but because it reminded him of what he did.
He felt a deep weight in his stomach, so heavy he needed to sit down. But he stood still, his thin frame swaying slightly in the crisp breeze.
Deb's eyes were red and her mind was rocked violently with waves of anger. Every second thought was to slam the door in his face, every second thought was about how much pain and suffering this man had caused her.
But, every other thought was about the impossible sense of safety he gave her. She knew he could never hurt her intentionally but she was terrified of what he could do to her accidentally, had done to her accidentally. He didn't know what he was doing when he left.
“I didn't know what I was doing when I left.”
She had spent three years trying to forget about him but it was impossible. Every day whenever she drifted away from her work, or the television, or a book, she found her thoughts were devoted to him. She held conversations with him in her mind, she wondered what he would say if she told him something secret. She imagined herself happily married and successful when he showed up and she would gloat about her incredible life, and she would hate herself. She wondered what he would do if she was in an accident and held conversations with him in the hospital. He always apologised, in her thoughts. He always made her feel safe. She could go days hating him, this led to her hating herself, which made her hate him even more. She would love him and then she would hate him, in her mind she screamed at him.
The moment he walked out that door, three years ago, Jeff felt sick. He was violently rocked from his sleep by physically painful bouts of guilt. He had trouble eating and sleeping. His dreams were peaceful until she appeared. She cried and pushed him away and he screamed. Jeff ate very little, he would begin to chew and drift away. She would drift into his thoughts and the food in his mouth began to rot. In his dreams he jumped off buildings and threw pills down his throat. He dreamt of brutally hacking at his limbs in front of her and he woke up to vomit into his bin, which was never far from his bed. She hated him and he hated himself. He loved her but he hated her too. He hated her for making him feel this way, and in selfish twangs of horror he found himself dreaming of their death.
She looked at the man standing in her doorway. He was gaunt and almost skeletal. She had hoped that he had suffered for his actions but instantly she felt a wave of fear for his well-being. He was sick and she could tell he was in pain. This man had changed her life. They shared everything, he let her talk openly and she never once felt judged. She never once felt that Jeff would laugh at her or accuse her. He was so open himself and she had the strangest desire to know everything he thought, every move he would make. She had an instinctual desire to protect him and hold him close when he didn't understand something. She wanted to guide him and teach him everything she knew, and if she didn't know the answers to his questions she wanted to hold his hand and the two of them would learn together. When she hugged him he was always stiff at first but he would loosen up and wrap his arms around her shoulders and pull her tightly towards him. She never felt comfortable with anyone like she did with him. In his arms was the safest place in the world, he knew how to care for her and protect her from the world.
Jeff looked through the doorway at Deb. She looked well, although she looked much older than when he had left. He still felt captivated by the sparkle in her eyes. She led him into this adult world by the hand and he wanted to go. He wanted to learn everything she knew. Whenever he stood dumbly hoping that she would reach out to him, there was an amazing feeling through his whole body when she did. Her delicate gentle hands wrapping around his own clunky nervous ones made him feel alive. He could never be articulate, he could never be close or initiate contact, but she would always know when he felt inadequate and reach out to touch him. Sometimes she kissed him, sometimes it was hug, but even the lightest brush of his hand coated him in a warmth and safety he could never find anywhere but with her.
Deb was tired of hatred and anger. She couldn't go on in pain and guilt and she needed someone to help her through. She needed warmth and compassion. She needed the passionate embrace of a man who would do anything to make her feel special and alive again. As frightened as she was for thinking it, she needed Jeff.
Jeff swayed slightly, the light breeze enough to move his thin frame. He was sick and tired of his guilt. She could never love him as she did but he needed her to know he was sorry. His mistake had cost him his life and even though she could never take him back he needed her to know that she was the most important person in his life. If she was in pain he wanted to be the one to make it go away.
Deb stepped closer to the doorway, eventually reaching the doorstep. She knew he couldn't do anything. He would never be able to throw his arms around her, she had to do that for him. But she was so tired, she felt weak and numb. If he can't do this for me, she thought, if he can't reach out and hold me, I can't do this. One time, I need him to reach out to me, just this one time.
Jeff stepped closer to the door. Deb had taken a few steps forward and he thought it best to do the same. He needed to hold her, he could see it in her eyes. She needed him to take her in his arms and hold her tightly. She needed this now more than ever, her body language told him that she was aching to be held.
Deb stood in the doorway and Jeff moved closer. He was frozen by fear. She couldn't possibly love him. He swayed harder, the air between the two was dribbling with the fear of rejection.

“I'm sorry,” the words were barely audible and Jeff turned and left.
“No,” Deb gasped equally inaudibly, but it was too late.


Enjoy the ending? No, me neither. I might have to create some new romantic leads, I feel like I've irreversibly ruined any hope for these two.

Quick Short

Hi all, this is a quick short done just now. It's fairly self-expalanatory. Any comments and ideas are more than welcome.

On a side note, I'm still working hard on that writing competition and doing well, despite the dreaded university schedule.

Not another drunk piece!
Tim Harvey

I went to a party dressed as Hunter S Thompson. My word document freezes as I write this and I wonder, 'is this happening, did I write that?' You are the witness to a truly unique event. As I write this, I am totally intoxicated. My spelling may be bad, my grammar improper. You'll have to forgive me, but frankly, I am drunk. This is it. This is what is going on, right now!
I went to a party dressed as Hunter S Thompson. One person recognised my costume, and frankly, I only expected one person to get who I was supposed to be. One person commented that I looked like the director of pornographic films. I laughed at this, 'yes, I do look like a porn director.' Another girl suggested I looked like somebody from a completely unrelated film. I said, 'I can be whoever you think I am.'
I danced, as Dr Thompson. I acted like Johnny Depp from the film that made Hunter Thompson so famous to young audiences. But, one person commented, later in the evening, that I 'looked like a writer.' he turned to his friend and said; 'he looks like a writer.' My heart leapt at the idea of resembling a writer. I thought; 'am I a writer?' This bounced in my head for a while.
Presently, I am lying in bed, writing. Does this make me a writer? I am unsure. I write, sure, that is true enough. But as a writer? I am unsure. What does a writer look like, what does a writer feel like? I don't know. A smart man, named Dan O'Brien, once wrote; 'I am an idiot.' For some reason this article comes to mind. We are all idiots, I feel. We believe we have life sorted out and one day, everything we hold close, changes. One day we adopt a new set of ideas and rules that completely supersede our old idea of life.
As humans we all do this. This may be a by-product of the 21st century, social networking and all that. I don't know, I am unsure. There is a lack of confidence in my ability to determine what is accurate at the present moment. I hold strong ideas very close until I find something that seems, at the moment, more important. What does this mean? I am unsure.
I once wrote a story that started like this; 'I wake up on the edge of a river. The river is a sleek, smooth mirror. The water, like liquid metal reflects everything around me. I don't know how I got here or what is going on.' The story pretty much ended there. I was unsure of where to go. Once I thought of a story that went like this; 'You stand at a crossroads. Two roads split in front of you and you are unsure. You decide to sit and wait by the crossroads. Eventually someone comes along, they are beautiful and perfect. They instantly choose a road and you regret following them. But you are scared they chose the wrong road for you.'
What does this mean, I am unsure.
Being unsure is a pretty common problem in this narrative, isn't it?
Sometimes I am sure of certain things. There are things that I write that just feel right. I don't necessarily write from personal experience, but each word I put down, sometimes, feels like... It feels like how I feel. I can't explain emotion, I can't explain feelings, but some things just fit. They just feel... correct. I couldn't say if they feel correct because I have seen them, or because I have read them. I can't say, with any certainty, that anything I write is honest. I hope that it is open though, I hope that there is some way of looking at me through my writing. Like the mirrored river of that short, all writing is a reflection of myself.
I smiled when my friend commented that I looked like a writer. It was a comment on the costume, sure. But, it was a reflection of myself, and all that I hope to be.
I write not for fame, money or accolades. I write to feel, to explore feelings, to express myself. This project, right now, the one that you are reading, is a projection of me. This is a way for me to express. It is personal, and I know it is damned raw. There is little room for self-censorship when you are drunk. I apologise for any drunken actions. When I dance with someone, when I talk candidly, when I make crude jokes, I apologise. But I cannot apologise for the openness presented when I write.
A lot of writers get criticised for being intoxicated. Hunter S Thompson was one of these writers. William S Burroughs, Edgar Allan Poe, Philip K Dick, these writers were criticised for their ailments, their... insanities. They should never have to apologise for their expression, they should never have any shame attributed to their names for their writing. Jim Morrison and Ian Curtis were musicians that shared the same fate.
Whatever this means, whatever it means to be a writer, I am unsure. The pad and pen are methods of expression that should be only done for self fulfilment. Any writer looking for fame, any writer hoping for money is in the wrong line of work. It must, and I repeat, must, be done for the self, or for the love of others. Anthony Burgess wrote 'A Clockwork Orange' because he thought he was dying of a brain tumour. He wanted his wife to be able to live a happy life after his death. The man wrote a large number of books in a year. He wrote almost one novel a month, according to my recollection. He did this, not for fame, not for accolades. He did this in the hope that one of his novels would sell. Sure, it was for the money, but he feared death. His doctor told him he would die, so instead of falling into self-pity, he wrote. He wrote for his wife.
'A Clockwork Orange' is successful today because of Stanley Kubrick's film, but the novel was successful too. Anthony Burgess was writing for the love of his wife.
I don't know if I'll ever be in that position. But I hope that if I was diagnosed with a terminal illness, I would put everything aside, all shame, all self-pity and self-loathing, for the love of another. I can picture Burgess writing with an amazing fire and passion, I can picture him typing, not as if his life depended on it, but as if the lives of his loved ones depended on it.
Recap; I was told that I resembled a writer, tonight at a party. I am drunk. Whatever was written is a train of thought. This “metaphorical” train has left the station and I am... yeah, unsure of where it will end. All I know at the present moment is, that this train has left me with a sense of confidence. It has departed and instead of lonely and afraid I feel excited. I am writing, now. I am a writer and even if I never see fame, if I never see a dollar for my work I will feel fulfilled. This is my expression, this is my form of release and I, right now, realise that this is what I have. This is something that makes me happy, whether it is writing a drunken blog post at three in the morning or working on a project, I am at my most comfortable, (to quote R.E.M;) at my most beautiful, when I am free here at the computer, writing.
That was a good way to end this: read above. Drunken sentimentalism aside, I like to write... and you like to read, apparently, otherwise you wouldn't have read this.

Temporarily Unavailable!

Hey, I won't be writing any blog entries until at least April 15th as I've got my hands full with a writing competition. I would post updates here but I'm not too sure of their rules on publishing entries online etc so best to err on the side of caution and all that.

Feel free to peruse previous entries and email suggestions etc

Chaper 4 finished

Chapter 4 is done, and I've even thrown a bit more action in to heighten the excitement a bit. The next few chapters are action heavy so hopefully all the background and build up pays off here.

Enjoy.




- 4 -
Part 2 of 2

Ray Douglas stood, his legs trembling. His hands shook violently but he took a deep breath and they steadied slightly. It would have to do, for now.
Jack woke up that morning to the dull idle of Ray's Kingswood outside his window. There was a low knock on the door of his room, followed hesitantly by another.
Jack sat up in his bed, “Ray?”
“Yeah.”
“Come in.”
The door creaked slightly and Jack saw Ray's face peer through the crack.
“Heading off?” Jack raised his eyebrows apprehensively, he wasn't sure if he had gotten through to Ray, or if Ray had figured things out by himself.
“Yeah,” Ray mumbled.
“Okay Ray.”
The silence between them was heavy with regret, the fringes of which flickered with sparks of excitement. Jack could see an energy in Ray's eyes and he knew where he was going.
“Jack?”
“Yeah, Ray?” Jack shifted in his bed, Ray still stood outside of the room, only his head visible.
“Help me Jack.”
Jack let out a deep breath. He had hoped Ray wouldn't ask him, he was hoping the kid had too much pride to ask. The corner of Jack's mouth curled into the faintest smile and he looked away from Ray and out of the window.
“You have to do this by yourself.”
“Okay.” Ray's head dipped a little and he knew that Jack was in no state to go rushing around, dragging his old arse all the way back to Adelaide. Jack had given him more help than he could ever have hoped for. Jack had certainly helped him more than he deserved.
“I'm going now.” Ray's face remained in the doorway.
“Then go.”
“Jack... why?” Ray's eyes were now focussed on the window too.
Jack let out a tired chuckle and wiped his forehead, “You remind me of myself, Ray. Helping you felt like... It felt like I was helping myself.”
“I understand.” Ray nodded, he knew exactly what Jack was thinking.
“Goodbye, Jack.”
“Hell, Ray. You'll be back.” Jack's voice trembled and he cursed himself under his breath for allowing Ray to hear that.
Ray nodded, “Sure.” He didn't know what was going to happen but he knew it would involve trouble. If Jack was right, it could be a set-up. An old friend of Burgess trying to get even once the heat had died down. It could have been Cook, that guy had it in for Ray.
It could have been Richardson, Ray thought.
He shuddered suddenly and closed the door to Jack's bedroom leaving the old man staring out of the window.
Standing in the hall Ray's hands shook violently at the thought of Detective Nicholas Richardson. He closed his eyes and a trickle of sweat rolled down his brow. He said a quiet prayer to whoever would listen that Richardson wasn't involved and then left the house, possibly for the last time.

The roar of the haggard V-8 echoed through the desolate countryside. Ray admired the simplicity of the flaking white paint, revealing patches of old rust. He admired the lines of the road ahead of him and the simple nature of the drive.
Within a few hours silent Ray, on his silent drive, had reached the coast.
The engine, heated and worn finally gave up as Ray drifted through a small isolated town. He parked at the beach and let the car rest. A quick walk through the town and Ray returned to the Kingswood just before sunset with a bottle of bourbon, hiding in a paper bag, in his hand.
Ray started the car and despite a painful squeal from the fan-belt got back on the road. He was only a few kilometres from society when he turned off the road and drove down onto the beach. Being careful to keep the Kingswood from the water at first, Ray got a shot of energy from the liquor and gunned the beast as hard as it would go.
The wind ripped over the dust-flecked windshield and Ray pushed his monster up to just over one hundred kilometres per hour. The flat white sand held comfortably under the old tires and Ray felt confident he could avoid being bogged.
Pink tinted clouds stretched along the sky capturing Ray's gaze. He swigged bourbon and pushed the car gently.
He spent the night on the bonnet of the car, looking up at the stars again. His mind was clear this time, and he didn't even feel like finishing the bottle. His body however urged him to complete what he had left and he was a slave to its desires. He dropped the bottle off the side of the bonnet before finishing the last drink.

Ray woke to the sounds of gulls flapping around above him, the sun rising over the land caused their shadows to spread across the beach. He was lying on his stomach on the sand, next to the car. Ray stood shakily however his head didn't ache as he thought it would. His body was returning to its old ways.
The last of the bourbon lay in the sand next to him and he managed to get the last of it down. It would ease the shakes that he felt coming on.
Rachel didn't need him to be drunk, but if was going to do anything to help her, he would have to have a drink. Just a little one.

The sun beat down on the car as Ray pulled back onto the road and headed for Adelaide. The day went quickly and Ray had to stop at another town to inquire about the date.
Standing in the rural deli at nine in the morning, Ray realised he looked out of place. His white shirt was crumpled and stained with sweat, not to mention coated in sand. His navy trousers looked the same and he sighed as he looked down at his shoes, which were hidden under a thick layer of dried crusty sand.
The shopkeeper watched him as he brought the newspaper to the counter.
“Dollar-fifty, mate.”
Ray fished through his pockets and dragged out a few coins. He placed them on the counter, determining how much money he had as he went.
“You're forty-five short there,” the shopkeeper, a grey elderly man in a worn maroon cap, said as he counted the change.
Ray stood motionless, feeling the morning's drink warming his body.
“Couldn't let me get away with it?”
“Sorry mate, dollar-fifty.”
Ray's hands began to tremble and he cast a quick glance around the store. There was nobody there on a Friday morning.
“How far would you say I am from Adelaide?” Ray changed the subject, folding the paper in half and placing it under his arm.
The shopkeeper scratched his head, raising the maroon cap and revealing his balding scalp, “Fair way still. Probably get there by night if you're quick,” he said, eyeing Ray.
Ray pulled the blood-spattered not from his pocket and re-read the details to himself;
'Ray. I regret to inform you that Rachel may be in a bit of a tricky situation. If you want to enjoy her company again, you might want to be present at the following address by Friday night. All the best.'
The sight of the note made the shopkeeper shift uncomfortably and he scratched his head again.
Ray shrugged and flipped the note over nonchalantly, “we'll have to see how I do then, eh?”
“Sure.” The shopkeeper had stepped back from the counter, he wasn't sure about this strange man and his quick movements made made him nervous.
Ray nodded and began to walk for the door.
He was almost there when he heard, shakily, over his shoulder, “dollar-fifty for the paper.”
Ray froze, he had almost gotten away with it, but he was caught.
He felt a wave of nausea rise in his stomach and he turned to the shopkeeper.
His hands trembled and he stared at the man. He wanted to walk over to him, he should walk over there.
Ray dropped the paper on the floor of the deli and marched to the door as fast as he could.
“Hey!” Ray heard the call behind him and slowed his pace, he had to stop.
Ray's head began to swim, his balance became undone and he grabbed the handle of the door.
The glass door was covered in stickers and signs advertising everything from soft drinks to petrol and motor oil.
Ray was about to turn around when one card stuck to the door caught his eye. He saw a young woman smiling as she held a bottle of some brand of lemonade. The card must have been fifty years old but the dark sheen of the girl's hair and the soft warmth of her grin brought images of Rachel into Ray's mind.
He threw the door open and ran to his car.
When the Kingswood was finally started Ray roared out of that town as fast as he could.
He would be in Adelaide before nightfall.



For any curious readers, this is a picture of Ray's car. It is a photo of a car my parents bought before I was born. So this can aid in imagining the driving scenes for anybody that wants that.

A bit of Ray

This took a fair bit of work to get done. I've decided to split chapter 4 into two parts because I've already posted this week and I'm running low on creative juices.

Again it's backstory heavy and I feel it's time to just jump into some action, so the next part will be fairly speedy. I think overall, once I've finished the story, I may have to rearrange some of these opening chapters as my initial layout is pretty lax on action. But that's all part of the learning experience.

Hope you enjoy.




- 4 -
Part 1 of 2

A hunched figure sat guard on the porch of the old colonial homestead, he sat watch as the sun rose across the plains. Ray Douglas watched the shadows swim across the red earth, moving and dipping through small drifts of sand. The wind moved the sand quietly and the shadows plays amongst the drifts.
Ray looked out, deep into the scrub and bushland that filled the quiet property. He watched as the shadows of the clouds moved along the ground. The orange tinted burn of the clouded golden sky caused Ray to breathe calmly, he felt warmth in the glow of the sun.
The land before him faded in and out of view as his eyes drooped and sprang back open. Sleep didn't come easy to men like Ray. The dangers of sleep were fresh in his mind as he recalled the nightmares his mind would create. But sleep was upon him now and his nightmares burst forth into his waking life.
The dust and dirt of the reddened earth swirled violently and Ray saw droplets of blood in the sand. He trained his tired eyes on an old burnt and dead tree far in the distance. As the sun rose, Ray saw the tree shimmer and sway. The dance of the tree turned violent as it jerked readily under his gaze.
Ray shifted his vision onto a rabbit that appeared near the horizon. The hare stood rigid, petrified at being seen in the light. Waves of terror rolled from the rabbit and Ray absorbed its fear. His thoughts wandered to Burgess and the rabbit darted violently away, dodging imaginary bullets as it went.
Maybe the bullets were imaginary, Ray thought. Maybe they were all imaginary. Burgess would never have shot the kid. Ray had killed him for nothing.
What had he heard about Burgess anyway? Was there any reason to shoot him? Ray knew nothing of the man. He had only spent about an hour with him and they said little to each other in that time.
Burgess had said nothing in the last hour of his life.
Had he? Ray couldn't tell anymore. His imagination ran wild when he remembered anything. His mind ran through every possible scenario hundreds of times every day. He remembered every detail of Burgess but he couldn't trust the memories. There was not truth anymore, there was no real answer. Of the three people who witnessed the scene; one was a drunk, one was never identified and one was dead. There was no justice that night, and no chance of redemption.

Ray released a heavy sigh. He needed a drink.
He had the taste back, after a year sober. For that whole year, when he lived with Jack, working on the farm, he never thought of alcohol. Until everything came crashing down, Ray never even wanted to drink. Now he needed the stuff. It wasn't even a matter of want now, he needed it. How easily his body remembered his old ways.
What brought it back? Ray knew the answer.
It was Rachel.
It wasn't her fault, of course. He could see that, but the memory of her shut him down. But how could he even trust the memory of his sister. He had killed a man, and he had no idea how it happened. Ray felt it impossible to know for sure what Rachel meant to him anymore.
She was always very smart as a child, he knew that. He remembered going to her High School graduation just after he himself had graduated from the Police Academy. She wore a broad grin on her delicate features as she spotted him standing at the back of the auditorium. Ray never got a high school graduation, he was expelled earlier.
Ray held his head in his hands as a flood of bad memories drifted through his head. After being refused bail by his parents for a vicious assault, Ray managed to avoid a jail sentence if he cleaned himself up.
Ray's hands eased off of his head as he allowed the memories to flow, cautiously at first. The court had organised for his rehabilitation. Ray remembered living in a halfway house for juvenile offenders. He spent his eighteenth birthday sober.
The memories and images flowed easily now and Ray invited them in. He completed his certificate of education and his social work certificate. Ray remembered living and working with other kids like himself.
Ray's face twitched and his mouth shifted as he let in the deluge of past experiences.
He hadn't seen or heard from his family for a few years after he was arrested. The halfway house wasn't entirely the court's idea. Ray's parents abandoned him. But Rachel found out where he was and she called him the night of her first day at High School.

Seated on the porch of the old house, in the middle of the countryside, Ray Douglas released a wave of pressure. His shoulders relaxed and he could feel each and every muscle of his body contract and generously release.
Ray's mouth formed the slightest smile as he began to know his sister.
He had always loved it when she called him. She called him asking for advice about High School, there was a new problem every week or so it seemed to him. But the sudden and unexpected realisation made Ray tremble.
Rachel was calling to see how he was. She was scared for her big brother. The issues that seemed so real to Ray at the time were just made up, just an excuse for her to hear him; not yelling, not breaking things, not hurting anybody.
She cared for him.

Writer's Block and a quick short

I sat at my computer all morning trying to do some homework but managed to get only a measly 500 words or so down. I'm glad I started early becasue i have a feeling that this semester might get pretty hectic.

Getting tired of doing reading, I tried to begin chapter 4 of Irredeemable but to no luck. I fear the dreaded writer's block may have struck me again. Even with my story plan and character backgrounds, I just couldn't start.

But in an effort to cheer myself up I quickly wrote up this short in only about 15 minutes. It was a quick experiment about just trying to get into a flow and put some ideas down. I'm feeling pretty confident about writing and am going to absolutely get that new chapter done tonight, after work. Wish me luck.

The Dreaded Wait
By Tim Harvey

I walk for hours and I write a sentence. I miss the feeling of walking quickly, a lap of the block, and rushing home to write for hours. I think for hours and pace around the house quietly. When I look at the clock, only a few minutes have passed but it feels like hours. I wait to go to work, and I wait to do some homework. When I am not writing, I am waiting.
I revisit old projects and I read all of my old stories. Some of them are good, some are terribly written. Some are full of charm and some are just boring. Most are long but unfinished.
I lapse back into old habits and I miss the Summer. I feel tired and worn out, but the short sentences I manage to write are full of optimism. There is a flow there, coming from somewhere. As I write one sentence, I am thinking of the next one. Sometimes I can write it and sometimes I have to give up and walk again.
But when I come back to the computer, to the writing station, I find it hard not to put a new idea down. The issue is with over-focus and over-concentration. When I forget what I am doing and finally stop thinking I can lose myself in the writing. I read short stories and watch short films. I have so much to do but I still spend time waiting.
I sit at the computer, the word processor, the typewriter, holding the pen in my hand, and I follow my thoughts. I chase them around my head like a game of snake on a long-forgotten mobile phone, trying to avoid getting into a loop. When I get on a roll, I am unstoppable. But it is hard to get onto a roll if you spend too much time trying.
When I can get a good sentence down I feel happy. When I struggle with the next I feel sad. If I worry too much about that next sentence, then the first one makes me feel bad too.
I think about new projects and wonder if it is fair to start something new and probably abandon an old favourite to the wastes of my desktop. The folders, of which, are crowded with the skeletons of past endeavours. I know that I probably won't get around to finishing any of those old stories. I hope that one day I get a spark, a massive surge of energy that forces me to go through each and every one of my old stories, editing, re-drafting, making good.
I probably won't do that, but one day I will try. One day, when I'm not busy waiting.

More Ray Douglas

Here is a bit more Ray. This chapter is a bit heavy on backstory and slightly light on action. I tried to keep the mood a little tense in parts though, hopefully it works to keep the reader interested.




- 3 -

The two men sat at the small kitchen table of the colonial homestead, Jack Welsh chewing a piece of buttered toast while Ray Douglas sipped a strong coffee. They sat in silence, Jack's elbows resting on the table, his eyes far away; observing the shadows of the morning sun streaking across his land through the open windows. Ray held the warm mug in both hands between his knees, his shoulders were so hunched that he was practically sitting in the foetal position.
Jack cast a quick glimpse at the man sitting across from him and took a slow bite out of his triangle of toast. He had wondered what Ray was up to last night, rooting around in the cellar. The idea of him stealing some port to get loaded never crossed his mind.
Ray was only in his late twenties, if Jack remembered correctly. He looked nearer to forty these days, well he had ever since he got out of jail. He wasn't a big man, Ray, but when he cracked he was pretty frightening. He had an agile grace about him that made his movements so disturbing. It was a only minor assault charge, but Ray was inside for twelve months. His history as a law-man saw to that, should have known better, Jack mused. He recalled meeting Ray for the first time, he had heard the kid had a history of alcoholism, but the clean cut young recruit standing before him showed so much promise.
Jack remembered hearing the news that his star recruit had shot and killed a fellow officer in the line of duty. He remembered freezing, perfectly still. It was uncanny, but for a good five minutes, he was paralysed; no thinking, he couldn't hear, he just stopped. Jack shook his head at the memory, wondering if that happened to anyone else when they heard something horrible.
After that, Jack finally got to see Ray the alcoholic. What was it? Six years sober, or something like that, the kid was a full blown alcoholic in his teens for Christ's sake. Well, there was a bloody good reason for picking up the bottle again, Jack thought. Poor kid, he thought, and still did. Jack knew Burgess well and made sure to defend Ray as best he could.
After the investigation and the eventual discharge, Ray socked his therapist, Jack never really found out why. I probably would have given him a thump too though, Jack suppressed a smile. Shouldn't have gotten twelve months for it but then again, you should have known better, Ray.
Jack didn't hear much from Ray after he was released, apparently he spent a year living with his sister, getting loaded every day and probably scaring the hell out of her. Jack had trouble keeping Ray's sordid history in check, he never quite knew why Ray came here, only that he needed help. In fact, Jack wasn't quite sure of much these days, maybe Ray never went to prison, or maybe he did a hell of a lot more to that therapist. Jack noticed Ray sigh, a deep breath of shame, and quickly returned to surveying his patch of dirt through the window.

Ray raised his eyes slightly and saw Jack staring intently out the window. The rising sun shone through the kitchen of the old house and illuminated every crevice and dent on the old man's face. He was only in his late sixties but Ray thought he looked at least eighty. The top of his head was bald with stringy grey hair flowing out of the sides. Since he had retired, he hadn't shaved once and his face was home to a long grey beard that rested on his chest.
Ray couldn't remember Jack looking so old, and so fragile. Jack was a big man, tall and solidly built, but his spine was weak now. His stomach protruded out and his large shoulders tiredly hunched forward, giving him the appearance of an ageing gorilla. Ray guessed that he didn't actually look that fragile, but compared to what he was in his youth, Jack might as well be rotting.
A great pain rested, thumping, behind Ray's eyes. He shut them but felt the floor begin to sweep away from under his feet. There was another pain too; his eyebrow had a small gash through it from something that happened the night before.
Ray closed his eyes and endured the sweeping floor, to try and remember clearly what had happened. He remembered a wiry man insulting him and a large man throwing a punch. They hadn't given him the gash though. No, it was the men in the car park. Ray saw boots flying at his chest and tried to recall rolling away.
He scrunched his face up until his eyes hurt and his temples pounded from the inside out. They were beating me, I ran. The ideas floated through a haze of pain and darkness.
I punched and kicked, fighting them off.
I ran.
I ran?

“Ray, what happened last night?” Jack's voice was soft and subdued.
Ray's face remained scrunched up, his head almost level with the edge of the table, “don't know.”
Jack sighed, “uh-huh.”
“Seriously.”
“Fair enough.”
The two men sat in silence for a while.
“Rachel is in trouble!” Ray's body jerked up, his eyes wide and alert as the memory struck him.
“What?”
Ray reached into his pocket and thrust the crumpled note across the table at Jack.
As Jack slowly read, Ray tried to explain, “I got this yesterday, I...” he trailed off.
“You needed a drink,” Jack murmured, his eyes never leaving the blood-spattered sheet of paper.
Ray sighed and his head fell to his chest. As Jack read, Ray rested his head on the table and tried to ignore the feeling of vertigo that arose when it was still. He gazed lazily out of the window and his eyes began to flicker and droop.
“I don't blame you.” Ray heard the words, far away, comforting his aching head.
“Ray?” There was a bird on a tree, hopping gently from branch to branch. The golden warmth of the sun fell onto Ray's face, the bright glare through the tree's branches, vibrant yet gentle, eased Ray into unconsciousness.
“Wake up!” Jack's loud voice sounded like a thunderous clap above Ray's head and as he jerked up in his seat he realised Jack had actually clapped his hands as he said it.
“What?”
“What do you mean 'what'? Don't sleep on my bloody table.” Jack stood by the window and Ray was suddenly unsure if he had dozed off.
“Sorry,” Ray murmured.
“What are you going to do about this?” Jack held the note up and all of a sudden a wave of nausea swept over Ray.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit, what are you going to do?” Jack shook the note as he said his piece.
“I already called it in.” Ray scrunched his face up again and held his head in his hands, the headache was worsening by the second.
“Really? Who'd you get?”
“Cook,” Ray said behind his hands, his eyes tightly shut.
“Shit, Ray. That bloke's an arse hole.” Ray nodded, his head still in his hands. “What did he say?”
Ray shrugged, “he told me to have another drink.”
“What did you say to him?” Jack stepped over to the table and rested his massive hand on Ray's back.
“Nothing.”
“Come on Ray.”
“He asked if I was going to kill him too, you know, like Burgess.”
“Jesus, that prick. What did you say?” Jack held his hand on Ray's back as he rested his head on the table again. “What did you say to him, Ray?”
“I told him that wasn't a bad idea.” Ray felt a sharp crack across his back and yelped.
“You're an idiot Ray. Do you know that?” Jack walked back to the window.
Ray shrugged and remained still, his head still resting on the table. “Fuck him.”
“Ray, you're an idiot.” Jack picked up his bare plate from the table and reached for Ray's coffee.
“No, wait!” Ray snatched the mug and slurped the rest of the thick liquid down. Once he was done, he rested his head back on the table and held the mug up in the air.
“Did I ever tell you you're an idiot?” Jack said as he grabbed the empty mug and walked over to the sink.
“Maybe, once or twice.” Ray became groggy again and passed out, his head resting on the kitchen table, the sun warming his throbbing face.

“Wake up idiot. Feeling better?” Ray opened his left eye a fraction and was almost blinded by the amazing light that filled the room. He quickly shut it and held his arms over his face.
“Come on now. Wake up.” Ray realised he was lying on Jack's couch, wearing something warm. He opened his eyes slightly and saw he was in a dressing gown and pyjamas. He couldn't remember if he was wearing them at breakfast just before.
“What? Leave me alone.” Ray murmured the words through his arms.
Jack looked at the crumpled man lying on his sofa. He had reverted to being a child. Maybe Ray never really did grow up, Jack thought as he watched him writhe about, trying to get comfortable. The kid was drinking at such a young age, maybe it stopped his development, or something, Jack wondered. He wasn't really sure, although Ray always did seem to have an immaturity about him, even when he was sober. Jack recalled the amazing fit of rage Ray flew into when he first arrived here. He began to yell and scream about Rachel, all the while throwing his fists around and putting holes through the wall.
It took an incredible amount of coaxing and patience to calm him down, but somehow Jack had managed to turn the raving animal into a blubbering baby. Jack frowned as he remembered carrying Ray to his bed, listening to his incoherent moans and cries.
“All right. I'm being fucking serious now, Ray. Get up, you've got work to do.” Jack's voice boomed through Ray's head and he knew what it meant.
Immediately Ray lowered his arms and sat up on the couch. He took a deep breath and forced his eyes open despite the blinding light.
“You have to make this deadline,” Jack said the words, holding the note out in front of Ray;s face.
“It's a fake, gotta be.” Ray looked up at Jack, his eyes still trying to adjust.
“No. I took a good look at this. Trust me Ray, it might not be true about Rachel but somebody wants you Ray.”
“Why?” Ray continued to stare at Jack.
“Ray, what happened the night you left Adelaide and came here?”
Ray broke his stare and looked down at the floor. He paused for a moment and looked back up, “I couldn't say, Jack.”
Jack shrugged his heavy shoulders, “well Ray you've done a hell of a lot to piss people off and now I think somebody wants payback.”
Ray froze at that last word.
Payback, an answer for his past.
“Payback?” Ray asked.
“Yeah, answering for yourself and all that. Ray who knows who sent this but if they know about you and your past, they sure as hell know about Rachel. You can't risk her safety Ray.”
He knew it, answering for his actions.
No, answering for his sins.
“I can't go.” The words struck Jack and he stared at Ray, dumbfounded. Ray shrugged his head and curled back up into a ball on the couch.
“What? What the hell do you mean you can't go?” Jack's voice became louder and Ray rolled over to face the back of the couch.
“Ray! Look at me!”
Ray rolled back towards Jack, who noticed his eyes were glassy and his face red. “You said it yourself, Jack! I can't risk her safety.” Ray's voice broke as he let it out. “Look at me!”
Ray rolled back over and looked as if he was trying to bury himself between the cushions and the back of the sofa. Jack stood, still dumbfounded.
“I'm no help to anybody.” Ray muttered the words, his voice strong again and he felt sure of what he was saying.
“You're not the man you used to be, Ray.” Jack's soft words echoed around the room, bouncing off of Ray's back.
“Leave me alone, Jack.”
“No. I-”
“I said leave me alone!” Ray shouted into the cushion and Jack quietly left him there, curled up on the couch where he slept.

“Leave me alone, Jack” Ray mumbled at the hand resting on his back.
The fingers poking into his side gently felt too small to be Jack's.
Ray rolled over and saw Rachel standing across the room.
“Leave me alone, Rachel.”
“Get out.”
Ray saw a pile of broken glass beside Rachel's feet begin to quiver and shift.
Suddenly the glass flew into the air, the pieces connecting and reforming against the wall.
A bourbon bottle flew across the small inner-city living room and into Ray's hand.
Rachel stood with her mouth open, her hands clasped tightly, resting on her stomach.
“Go away.”
“Get out.”
The dialogue bounced back and forth, both of them taking turns at a new line.
Ray looked to the floor and saw a piece of paper lying beside the couch.
The paper read; 'get out' and 'go away,' the words printed below each of their names, typed out in all capitals.
Ray lifted the script and flipped it over to see a spatter of blood.
He looked up to see Rachel gagged and tied to a chair, a ghoulish man standing over her dragging a knife repeatedly across her bare arm causing droplets of blood to spill forth.
“Get out!”
The man turned and Ray saw Burgess smiling at him.
“Go away!” Ray yelled the words, but there was no sound except for the crack of his pistol.
Ray felt the jerk of his hand and watched as his bullet flew across the room.
Burgess grinned and stepped aside, calmly allowing the bullet to enter Rachel's cheek in a violent eruption of blood.

Ray's heart echoed through the large, old living room. He felt his pyjamas and dressing gown were sticky with sweat and he panted as he sat in the dark, afraid to fall asleep again.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2 up and running. Not quite edited yet so bare with me. Trying to find time to write when uni heats up may be a bit tricky but I'll roll with a chapter a week for as long as I can.




- 2 -

Ray Douglas fell through the screen door of his small portable home, located deep within a farm owned by one of his closest friends. Jack Welsh was a detective back in Adelaide before he retired. The farm that he owned was passed down through the Welsh family for generations. The homestead, a large colonial style building stood dilapidated and unwanted until Jack had retired. He packed up and moved out here the day after quitting the Police, living in the small portable while he renovated the main house. Jack Welsh had been retired for only three years before Ray showed up and much to Ray's surprise, allowed him to stay.
Ray stood shakily and lurched towards his kitchenette, kicking off his shoes as he went. He shook violently throughout his whole body, his hands twitching the worst.
Ray ripped the door of the refrigerator open only to realise that there was no alcohol here. He had been sober before tonight. He had quit drinking for the second time in his life on this farm, under Jack's watchful gaze. What would Jack think if he saw this, Ray thought. He would kick me out, he must kick me out.
Swallowing hard, Ray tried to organise his thoughts. He needed alcohol, now.
No, he needed to get help.
He needed to get help, for Rachel.
Ray held his head in one hand and leaned against the open fridge door with the other. The cool mist rising out of the unit chilled Ray and surprisingly, eased his terrible shakes.
Resigning himself to the notion that Jack would probably kick his arse out of the farm before sunrise, Ray set about trying to secure help for Rachel while he still had the ability to. He knew Jack would be harsh on him, he had seen him back in his police days. Jack Welsh had no time for drunks, and when Ray first arrived, off of his face on cheap bourbon, Jack had to knock him unconscious just to stop him tearing the place apart.
Swallowing the sadness of letting Jack down was made easier by the immediate distraction of helping his sister.
Ray shut the fridge and picked up the cordless phone from his kitchen's wall. In his drunken state he began dialling triple zero but stopped himself. There was no emergency here, at least not yet. Ray needed specialised help.
He dialled the number of another Police Officer he had known from before. Ray knew that John Brett would be at his desk still, even though it was past midnight. Brett had a knack for working all hours of the night.
“Hello,” a crackling voice erupted from the speaker in Ray's ear after only three rings.
“John, it's Ray.”
“Hello?” The voice erupted again, the signal wasn't strong.
“John, you there?”
“No, this is Detective Andrew Cook.”
“Shit,” Ray wiped his face with his hand before resting it on his hip. He knew Cook too, and remembered how much of an arse he was.
“What? Who is this?” Cook murmured over the line.
“Ray Douglas.” The line went silent, but eventually Ray could hear laboured breathing. “Hello? Cook?”
“I'm here.”
“It's Ray Do-”
“Yeah. I heard you.” Cook sounded nervous. Although, he sounded like he had long since accepted the fact that Ray would one day call him. “Jesus Christ, Ray do you have any ide-”
“Shut up and listen to me Cook. My sister Rachel is in trouble.”
“Oh, okay,” Cook hadn't anticipated this and the information left him stunned.
“Shit.” Ray rushed for the door of his house, remembering he had left the blood-spattered note in the console of his car.
“What? Ra-”
As he stepped out of the door, the phone crackled and Cook's voice disappeared. Ray ran down the short dirt drive in his bare feet and slid across the gravel when he reached the Kingswood. Ray opened the door and grabbed the note from the console, giving no regard to the sharp rocks under his feet.
When he got back to the door of the portable, Cook's voice emerged once again from the cordless phone, “-the fuck?”
“You there?”
“What is going on Douglas!?” The crackling voice was hoarse and strained.
“Listen to me. My sister Rachel is being held hostage. Somebody needs to go to the Port and meet up with the kidnappers by Friday night.”
There was silence on the line again and Ray sighed as he realised how paranoid he must sound.
“Where at the Port?” Cook's voice returned, unsure and distrustful. But he's still asking about Rachel, Ray thought, and that was all he needed.
Ray gave Cook the address and there was another silence. Cook knew the place well, he had a major drug bust there early in his career, one that cemented his reputation as a no-nonsense detective.
“Are you fucking shitting me?”
Ray wiped his face again and sighed, he had expected this.
“Douglas do you have any idea of the shit you've given this organisation? Do you!?”
“Cook, I'm not asking you to give two shits about me, I'm asking you to help Rachel!” Ray's voice rose suddenly and he had to struggle to keep his hands from shaking.
“Bullshit Ray! Bullshit! I don't think Rachel is in trouble, I think you're coming back from the dead to stir up a fresh new shit storm for me! And I don't fucking appreciate it, Ray. What was it, Ray? Three months? Three months from being discharged from the force before I hear you're already arrested for assault. It's not fucking funny anymore!”
“Fuck you Cook!” Ray retorted. “Do you think it was fucking funny when I shot Burgess? Did you see me laughing then, you mother fucker!”
“No Ray, I don't think that was fucking funny. You killed a fellow officer Ray. Hello? Do you remember that, Ray? Because I remember Burgess. He was a good man Ray.”
“No he wasn't.” Ray muttered his fresh retort. His mind had slipped back to the night, four years ago when he had opened fire on a fellow officer. Ray swallowed hard, recalling how much pain he had gone through to get sober and join the Police, only to have it all thrown away less than a year after his graduation, when he met Officer Burgess.
“You shut your mouth you dirty little shit.” Cook's voice echoed deep into Ray's head, “you didn't know Burgess.”
“I knew what he was capable of,” Ray replied.
“Bullshit, you only met him that night. The night you killed him.”
“I knew what he was capable of and I stopped him. Do you know what happened that night, Cook?” The conversation had calmed slightly and Ray sensed that Cook was curious about finding out the truth from Ray directly.
“I read your report, Ray. You think Burgess was about to open fire on some kid.”
“He was.”
“Well guess what? I don't give a shit. The kid had a knife and Burgess felt threatened, too bad if the little fucker got his head blown off.” Cook's cold reply left Ray fuming.
Once, a long time ago, Ray had been in that kid's position. Ray remembered his violent youth, he remembered being arrested for street brawls and public intoxication. Ray saw himself in that teenager and he had to protect that kid.
When Burgess raised his pistol and began yelling, the kid froze.
The knife in the kid's hand shook, the fingers so loosely clasping the handle that it could fall at any second, clashing safely to the pavement. The kid's brow dotted with sweat, his cheeks streaming with tears. Burgess continued to yell, he stepped towards the kid, his gun drawn, the safety off.
Ray saw Burgess' thumb cock the hammer and before he could think, before he could breathe, Ray had put a bullet through the back of Burgess' skull.
“You don't know shit, Cook.”
“What are you going to do, Ray? Kill me?”
“That's not a bad idea.” Ray's hands trembled violently and he had trouble holding the phone. His hands reminded him of the kid he saved, that night four years ago.
“Go have another drink, Ray. That's all you're good for these days.”
The phone clicked in Ray's ear and he threw it across the room, the plastic shell cracking against the thin wall.

Ray knew there was no booze in his portable home, but Jack kept some old port in his cellar. Hunched over the steering wheel of his Kingswood, Ray drove up to the homestead, his lights illuminating the old brickwork when he arrived.
Ray unbolted the door to the cellar, the entrance of which protruded from the side of the colonial stead. He knew he would probably be waking Jack with his late night activity but he had resigned himself to packing up and leaving tomorrow anyway. For all the good that Jack had done for him, for all the generosity in taking him in, Ray couldn't expect Jack to allow him to stay. Especially not after such a strong breach of his trust.
The first condition of Ray staying with Jack was that he quit drinking.
Everything was going well too, until Ray got that note.
“Fuck you Rachel,” Ray muttered under his breath as he felt his way around the dank cellar, cobwebs clinging to his face and dust clogging his throat.
Ray slowly stopped his pace and stood still and silent. He just realised what he had said and it sent a shiver up his spine. He had spent so long avoiding his responsibilities that he began to resent them. Instead of wishing that he was never born he was beginning to wish that Rachel was never born, just so he could be spared the pain of dealing with her.
That wasn't fair, not even in Ray's book. He could live with hating himself but he had to make sure he never let himself hate Rachel.
His hands rested on a large glass bottle which he lifted and shook. He could hear the liquid inside splashing around and the bottle felt heavy. Ray knew Jack kept Port in the cellar and after a quick sniff and taste of the contents, Ray confirmed the bottle contained the sharp fruity tang of the alcohol.

Later in the evening Ray lay sprawled out on the bonnet of his Kingswood looking up at the night sky. The empty bottle lay in pieces nearby, smashed on a rock by Ray; angry that he had consumed all of the booze inside. He was peaceful now though as he watched the Earth turn.
He saw the deep dark purple and black sky. The stars vibrant and dancing through his impaired vision. It was a clear and perfect night, no clouds and only the slightest breeze.
The sky was so vast, so deep. Ray raised his hand, trying to pluck a star from it's tangled web, but he couldn't quite reach.
Ray could see the stars moving in formation in a huge arc across the empty swirling night. When he rested his head against the windscreen his body began to move in wide sweeping circles too, his head spinning with the stars.
They were free, Ray thought, the stars. They had no responsibilities, no consequences to their actions. Stars could move and sway wherever they wanted. Stars don't have to live with their past.
Stars don't need redemption from their sins.
Ray thought about the life of the stars. Billions of years of pure energy, they flicker and glow. They rage and flare and eventually they die. When a star dies, it grows and consumes everything around it in a raging inferno.
Before it goes out, a star must destroy all it has created.
Ray sympathised.
But unlike the stars Ray needed redemption. He didn't know why, how or when, but he knew deep down inside of him, in his soul, if there was such a thing, he needed to be redeemed.
He couldn't tell if it was a religious thing, he was never a strong believer despite his mother being a Christian. Ray felt that redemption must come from somewhere external though, from others.
It couldn't come from himself, he thought.
Ray rolled onto his side, his thoughts now on Rachel.
Was she really in trouble? Cook didn't seem to think so. But what if she was? What if he could save her? Would that be enough for redemption? Would saving Rachel, in turn, save him?
The questions floated lazily through his mind, each one a step towards a decision he didn't want to make.
He closed his eyes and tried to block out images of Rachel tied to a chair, or bound in the boot of a car. Her mouth gagged and her hands handcuffed.
Ray recognised the handcuffs as his own.
The ones he had carried as a Constable. He walked towards Rachel and she walked past him, she didn't see him.
He was walking backwards when he bumped into something soft.
He turned so see a wiry man clutching his face. There was blood on his hands and Ray grabbed them.
The man's face, freshly revealed, was that of his father, his eyes missing from his head.
Ray turned and tried to run away from the ghoulish image when he saw his gun drawn.
“Check this out, Douglas.” Ray saw Burgess, his gun drawn, looking back over his shoulder and smiling a maniacal grin.
Ray stepped over to see what Burgess was aiming at and he saw himself lying on a hospital bed, only sixteen years old, tubes protruding from his throat.
“No, don't,” Ray tried to scream but he couldn't stop himself from shooting Burgess.
He couldn't stop himself from shooting Burgess.

Ray woke up in the dirt next to his car. The sun burning his bare back was momentarily eased by a passing shadow.
Ray looked up to see Jack Welsh standing over him, shaking his head.