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.

Big Update

Ok Big Update time! I've finished off Chapter 2 of Irredeemable, to be posted here, also I feel I might as well post my exegesis that was done for the first chapter here too.

Just another note; while I'm on exegesises (exegesi?) while writing this story I've been listening to the scores for the films Kick-Ass and Requiem for a Dream (totally not for the easily disturbed). Two completely different films, and scores, but both equally effective at really stimulating the story to move. If anyone is actually going to check them out in relation to this story, I'd recommend listening to "Big Daddy Kills" from the Kick-Ass soundtack, it was a massive motivator for Ray's action style (along with the corresponding scene in the movie.)
Also on the note of music, another quirky find was the song Kryptonite by the band Three Doors Down. I never got into the band and this is the only song of theirs that I know but I found the lyrics pretty interesting and the idea that a person that people see as a superhero-type character can be insecure. I use that song when thinking about the relationship between Ray and Rachel as they both judge his actions (past and present) in different ways and how they both sort of see him as an occasional superhero/anti-hero.

Well enough chat, first the exegesis-



Exegesis

Ray Douglas is genre fiction. He is Philip Marlowe from Raymond Chandler's “The Big Sleep”, but more violent. He is Jason Bourne from Robert Ludlum's “Bourne Trilogy,” except he remembers his past. Ray Douglas is a comic book hero, a walking cliché similar to the heroes in Frank Miller's “Sin City.” Initially inspired by Mark Millar's comic book; “Kick-Ass,” and the violent character Big Daddy, Ray Douglas emerged from a need to create a flawed hero. A hero so beat and broken, like Rambo from David Morell's “First Blood,” that he sees himself as irredeemable. Unlike Rambo however, Ray Douglas is today's broken man; living in today's world, fighting today's wars and dying tomorrow.

Choosing to write a genre fiction piece was the easy part. Choosing to make it a modern pulp crime story was also easy. Deciding how to write it was the hard part. Originally the character appeared in a weekly serial form, kicking-ass and getting cornered by the villains at the end of each page. This lasted three weeks before I had to get serious. Ray Douglas evolved from there, his past was inspired by David Simon's television series “The Wire,” with equal parts “Generation Kill” thrown in for good measure. “The Wire” is a show that follows the stories of many characters and each of the five seasons provides a systemic analysis of a specific area of Baltimore. Ray Douglas needed this audience objectivity, we weren't reading Ray's thoughts, we needed to read what happened to Ray. From a third-person perspective Ray's actions could be seen and judged. By the end of the proposed novel, the audience should be able to make up their own minds whether or not he is irredeemable.

Original drafts of irredeemable were punchy and fast paced. The first draft of the chapter here was initially eight hundred words. Even without the flashback sequence, that moves fairly quickly from start to finish. I found myself reading each sentence then immediately filling in the blanks in my head. I needed to slow Ray down, let him take his time in some parts and let him begin to remember his past,which plays an important role in the overall plot. For a thriller, setting up signs early on is a key strategy. The mystery and the thrills have to be planned and methodical, not relying on deus ex machina to save the day. Building the story from the ground up was the biggest challenge in writing Ray Douglas.

Pulp noir and crime has moved from bus station book racks and airport gift shops into the gritty and vivid lairs of comic book stores and video games. Miller's “Sin City” is a prime example along with characters like chain-smoking John Constantine in the “Hellblazer” series and the star of the self-titled video games series “Max Payne.” These are today's heroes, these are the Philip Marlowes and Sam Spades for Generation Y. The same generation who is facing the new century with apathetic stares and awkward, aimless shuffling. Ray Douglas is an escape from drudgery. His gritty corrupt world mirrors our own, but Ray does what he wants as he unravels the mystery.




- 2 -
Part 3 of 4


Taking a heavy drag from his cigarette as he pulled a U-turn, Ray made a right and pulled the Cadillac up in front of a three-storey red-brick warehouse. The grimy brickwork was familiar although the signs had changed since he last saw the place, five years ago. 'Self Storage!' was emblazoned across the doors, 'We sell boxes and packing supplies,' scrawled across the wall. Ray knew they hadn't gone out of business because he kept getting the monthly rent on his storage unit sent to him in Ottawa. Before leaving the car, Ray opened the glove compartment and pulled a grey, dusty wallet out from beneath empty cigarette packets and unopened packets of chewing gum. He pulled the brown leather wallet from his back pocket and made the switch.
Ray took a moment to inspect the street around him as he finished his cigarette, standing outside the glass double doors that led into the warehouse. As he squashed the cigarette butt under his shoe he got a sudden jolt and rushed back to the caddy. Reaching back into the glove compartment, from the passenger side, Ray pulled a dusty pair of reading glasses out, blew on them and wiped them on his shirt.
Putting the glasses on as he entered the Self Storage office and approached the counter, where a young teenage boy with a lip piercing and blonde hair swept over his eyes sat fidgeting with his cell phone, his white trainers resting on the counter.
“Hey, I'd like to go get some stuff from my storage unit,” Ray smiled at the boy who looked vaguely aware anyone was standing there.
The boy looked up at Ray and blinked. “Sure,” he mumbled and went right on playing with his phone.
Ray looked around and cleared his throat. “Don't I need to sign something... or show some I.D?”
“Nope,” the boy said without looking up, “self-storage...” He shrugged and continued to fiddle with the phone.
Ray stood silently watching the boy, holding his gaze. “Hah, alright.” Ray sighed, taking the glasses off and heading over to the elevator.
In the elevator, Ray pulled the grey wallet from his pocket and flipped open the I.D compartment. He looked at the photo on the New York driver's licence. It was himself, only five years thinner and decidedly more alert than he felt right now. The glasses he was wearing in the photo were now old and dusty. The name on the licence read Anthony Thompson. Ray put the wallet away and held his hand to his forehead where beads of sweat had began to form. His eyes darted to the warning signs on the elevator control panel; 'No Smoking!' and 'In case of fire do not use!' His fingers twirling his lighter and a loose cigarette in his pocket.
When the elevator door slid open on the third floor, Ray stepped out into the hallway, lined with red roller doors, numbered in white. He scanned the ceiling for smoke detectors before lighting up. Ray noticed the security camera in the corner of the hall but gave it the finger and preceded down to Anthony Thompson's storage unit. Pulling the key out from a pocket in the grey wallet, Ray unlocked the padlock on Unit 3-12's roller door.
The rush of dust hit Ray square in the lungs as he yanked the red roller skywards. The tiny storage space contained some old furniture and two piles of cardboard packing boxes. The units were supposed to be climate controlled and dust-proof, but Ray knew they weren't meant to be left untouched for five years as he staggered into the space, wheezing. He flipped the light switch on and crumpled onto the stained and battered armchair wedged near the door. Coughing and choking Ray felt the mangled hand clawing at his throat, just as he had earlier today standing over the police officer. He leaned over and grabbed the strap dangling from the roller door and dragged it down, sealing himself in the unit with the dust.


Part 4 of 4


The dry air was the first thing he felt as he stepped through the door of the Boeing and onto the rickety steel stairs that had been pushed up to the side of the plane. The second thing was the heat, so tangible, so real... So fucking hot.
Before he had even finished descending the stairs, (the stairs to hell, he thought), he had already polished off the remaining bourbon from his hip-flask.
“Fuck me,” Ray exclaimed, looking around the military airfield in disgust. While soldiers were running around into formation, Ray watched as a black Mercedes sedan pulled up in front of him.
The door swung open and a chill of air-conditioned luxury wafted over him and evaporated into his white surroundings.
“Hop in, Ray.” Ash Idris said as he slid over to the other side of the car, offering Ray the seat he had just occupied. Picking up on the split-second moment of hesitation on Ray's part, Idris patted the seat gently with his hand.
Ray slid into the Mercedes, his duffel bag resting on his lap.
“There's a good boy,” Ash Idris said. “Let's go,” he added, to the driver, his eyes fixed on Ray, his grin set permanently on his face.
“So glad you could join us Ray,” Ash said, crossing one leg over the other and resting his arm along the back of the car seat, his body angled unnaturally towards Ray, who sat still facing forwards.
“How was the flight, Ray? Turbulent?” Idris inquired.
“Would'a preferred Business Class, but hey,” Ray shrugged and turned to Idris, who was gazing at him intently.
“Oh, I know what you mean! I know exactly what you mean. But we got a pretty good deal getting you on a military flight... I pulled a few strings.” Idris giggled and he angled his head downwards as if he'd done something naughty.
“But still, we're sooo much closer to HQ here. Ready to get to work, Ray? I doubt you'll have trouble fitting in with the other boys.” Idris raised his eyebrows and added; “we've got a few drinkers like you, Ray.” Turning his head forward, Ash Idris squinted is eyes to see where they were through the windshield. “You should get along just fine,” he mumbled almost to himself as he searched for any signs of life.

Ray's eyes shot open for the second time that day. Again, his first visible image was that of a loaded gun clasped firmly in his hands. He quickly checked his watch and was relieved again to find he had only been out for a few minutes. The cigarette still smoking between his lips should have given it away, but that was pretty standard for Ray Douglas.
He stood up and rested the gun on the armchair, surveying his unit. Stepping over to a large bookcase, he smiled as he realised that he didn't remember how he got it into the tiny area. It was a mahogany bookcase with a cupboard making up the bottom third. Ray opened the cupboard doors in what limited space he had available and felt around inside. Popping a false bottom out of the cupboard Ray pulled a small crumpled brown paper bag from the enclave.
The bag contained about eighty thousand dollars in cash, bundled into piles of ten thousand dollars each. Ray counted out five bundles and pocketed them, then drew a few hundred dollar notes out of another pile and pocketed them as well.
After replacing the rest of the money and closing the cupboard Ray set the alarm on his watch for six o'clock that night and curled up on the tiny armchair.
Within a minute Ray Douglas was asleep, for the first time in over two days.

More Words

Howdy, a few quick words, before the update. I'm totally getting into researching this story, using Google Maps, Wikipedia, etc. Baltimore reminds me of Adelaide, if Port Adelaide was much more prominent and wrapped itself around the city. A big image used in the following passage, which is Chapter 2 Part 2, is the USS Constellation, a civil war ship docked at Baltimore and used as a museum. Here's a great photo I found on Flickr by a guy called Steve, so full credit for that. Without spoiling too much, this is a great image and for the first time writing Irredeemable I totally stole a childhood memory for the story. Also this update is longer than the last, I was on a roll and hopefully all future updates can be about this length.




- 2 -
Part 2 of 4


By nine o'clock, Ray had exhausted the Expressway and crossed onto South President Street, well and truly in the heart of Baltimore. A few blocks to his right Ray knew the USS Constellation was moored in the docks. He remembered his father taking him and Rachel there when they were only little, he was about five or six and Rachel was still in the stroller. It was a magnificent old civil war sloop, probably about two hundred feet long and immediately Ray thought it looked like a pirate ship.
“No, not pirates, Ray. The Constellation sailed around the Mediterranean and Africa stopping slave ships and setting the slaves free, during the Civil War.” His father's voice echoed around his head and he took a deep drag of his cigarette.
“It was the good guys sailing this ship, son.” His father beamed proudly up at the rigging, his infant daughter nestled in his arms and his son by his side as they stood on the deck, waiting for the tour guide to usher them along.
“But Daddy, aren't pirates good guys?” Ray looked up at his father, blocking the sun from his eyes with his hand.
Ray's father looked down at his son, a brief wave of confusion sweeping his face, then he let out a big chuckle. “No Ray, the pirates are the bad guys. Don't you remember Peter Pan?”
Ray scratched his head, deep in thought. “Oh yeah...”
His father got down onto one knee, his head level with his son's, so he wasn't looking into the sun. “Pirates steal, and kill, and... and drink rum, Arrr!” He let out a mighty pirate roar that made Ray giggle. “They're definitely the bad guys,” his father said as Rachel began to squirm, horrified by the noise her father had made. “See, kiddo, even Rach doesn't like pirates.” His father smiled and stood up again, rocking Rachel gently until she calmed.
Ray took a deep drag of his cigarette as he turned a corner in the rain. After driving for a few more minutes, the rain cleared slightly and Ray caught a glimpse of Baltimore, a sight he hadn't seen in five years. The rows of brickwork buildings that lined Boston Street looked different, but to Ray they felt the same. He got a pang of nostalgia, like a punch to the gut, the unmistakable feeling of working-class, East-coast America swallowed him in waves, like an anaconda. The docks were only a block over, the ghosts of steel and rail-road men haunted his senses. The Stars and Stripes hanging from a tidy business-front held his gaze through the storm. This is what had been missing in Ottawa, stupidly, he hadn't realized it. America was missing from Canada, in Ray's eyes. Sure, not for everyone else there, but for Ray, who woke up every day, an expatriate, an ex-patriot. The urge to pull-up at a pub and order a shot and a brew, flew through his mind. The urge to eat hot dogs at an Orioles game at Camden Yards, even thought the Orioles weren't the team they once were, when he was a boy. Ray even had a sudden urge to do a U-turn and head back to the Constellation.
His memories of the Constellation however threw him into the future of those two kids, on the deck with their father. In his mind the image of baby Rachel shifted to an image of grown-up Rachel being showered in glass, screaming at him.
“Get out!” She screamed, pointing at the door of the apartment. His eyes fixed on hers, his gaze endless and never shifting, but she didn't flinch and she didn't back down.
“Ray, seriously get the fuck out! Now!” She lowered her voice but remained in her position, arm outstretched towards the door.
“Sure,” Ray nodded, getting up off the couch. While he couldn't scare her with his eyes alone, she began to visibly shrink as he stumbled towards her. He stopped only a foot from where she was standing and she cupped her elbows in her hands, across her chest as she looked to the floor. Her thin frame engulfed by his solid build, heavier then ever because of the booze, she stood a foot shorter than him.
“I'm fresh outta bourbon, anyway.” Ray growled into her ear and she shuddered. He held his gaze, inches from her face, his head swaying with the drink. It made him appear to her like and animal sniffing its next meal.
Suddenly, after what seemed too long to be anything but a nightmare, Ray stumbled back from his sister, tripping on his own feet, laughing at himself.
“Bitch,” he mumbled as he fell out of the door and disappeared into the street.
He didn't know it at the time, but she had cried as she swept up the broken bourbon bottle that had hit the wall inches from her face. He didn't know that she had waited the entire night for him to come home, sitting in her bed with a kitchen knife shaking between her hands. She told him this later, in an email to Iraq, although he barely remembered the details as this was when he was still drinking.

Ray's eyes shot open and he saw the police-issue Glock in his hand, a pile of ashes resting on his thigh. He jerked his head up, he was sitting in the Cadillac, parked awkwardly out the front of a Tavern on O'Donnell Street that he knew well. He quickly hid the pistol and scanned the side-walk for anyone who might have seen him, but was relieved when he saw the rain had kicked up again and the streets were deserted. Checking his watch provided more relief when he saw that it was only nine-thirty in the morning, he couldn't have been asleep for longer than fifteen minutes. Wiping his eyes, Ray lit a cigarette and forced the caddy to life, he was close to where he needed to be.

It begins...

Ok, it's on! More Ray Douglas coming up. Hopefully I'm over a recent slump in motivation, probably due to finishing uni recently.

Just a few quick notes on the first chapter of Irredeemable posted already. I'm not sure if it's the formatting of the Blogger site or what, but the paragraphs and dialogue etc are supposed to be indented but I'm not sure how I can do that, hopefully I'll figure it out, if not, oh well.
Also after extensive research (Wikipedia) I found out that the Pennsylvania State Police, which is what the character Officer James is, actually don't carry "service revolvers." Maybe it's just the nostalgic noir image of a revolver that I was drawn to, but in actuality they carry a .45 Glock 37 pistol. This has been changed in the draft saved on my PC and all future references to that pistol in the story will have it as a .45 Glock.
I probably should take this opportunity to mention it was probably fairly reckless of me to set the story in Baltimore as I've never been there. So far I'm using every scrap of knowledge I learned from HBO's The Wire and whatever I need from Google Maps to make it work but for a Baltimore native it may be pretty unrealistic.

The following is Part 1 of 4 for Chapter 2, I find that this format makes the word count quite manageable for weekly updates.




- 2 -
Part 1 of 4


Violent raindrops pounded directly onto Ray Douglas' windshield as he drove along the Jones Falls Expressway into Baltimore. The large swooping gusts of wind outside the vehicle propelled the rain intermittently at Ray, while rocking his car around in the black storm. Ray could barely make out the dilapidated brickwork of the Baltimore skyline through his furiously swaying windshield wipers which did nothing to clear the rain. Occasionally a bright blue pulse of lightning would illuminate the road ahead, otherwise Ray relied on the busted headlights of the caddy to see his way. Checking his watch, Ray felt a pang of confusion as he realised it was only eight-thirty in the morning. Ray blinked, rubbing his eyes, trying to remember where he was. The lack of sleep was getting to him, affecting his concentration. That, and the lack of sunlight today was making Ray's mind scramble to make sense of what was happening. Ray lit a fresh cigarette with the one dangling from his lips and flicked the old butt out of the tiny gap in the window. Despite the occasional raindrop shooting in, Ray left the window wound down a crack as an exhaust for his smoke.
Digging around in his pocket Ray felt the crumpled letter he had received two days earlier. 'Douglas, little sis needs fifty grand before midnight. Friday. You know the deal. You know who this is. You know what happens if you don't.' Rachel was in trouble. While the letter was deliberately vague, it was accurate, Ray knew exactly what it meant.
He remembered how happy Rachel looked as she saw him off at the airport, when he went to Iraq. The image surprised Ray, not because Rachel never appeared happy, but because of how drunk he was at the time. Iraq changed both Ray and Rachel; while he swore of booze over there, she lost her job at an inner-city accounting firm due to the downturn in the economy. She soon found herself with another job though, working to books for a local businessman named Bryan O'Reilly. Ray knew the name from his time as a cop and through their back-and-forth e-mail exchanges, pleaded Rachel to quit. The guy was dangerous and allegedly linked to several drug-related murders in the Baltimore Projects. Ray's new-found sobriety gave him a sense of duty to his family and he knew he had to put a stop to this before Rachel wound up in trouble. Rachel saw it differently however, Ray wasn't sure what her issue was, but he remembered getting the vibe that Rachel hated the idea of taking advice from a brother which she had taken care of for so long. A brother who never listened to her and threw empty bottles of bourbon across the room when she yelled at him for living on the couch. Eventually Rachel stopped contacting him and when he finally got home the first thing he did was confront Bryan O'Reilly.
Ray lit another cigarette with the one in his mouth and again threw the butt out of the crack in the window. He rubbed his eyes, which burned and itched from waking life. Catching a glance of himself in the rear-view, Ray noticed that his swollen and bloodshot eyes looked as if they would drop out of his skull with the next bump in the road.
Outside of the car, Ray noticed a bird flying into the wind. The bird appeared suspended in the air, not making any progress, it's life put on-hold as it repeated the mistakes of the past. Ray shook his head and slapped his cheek, repeating the mistakes of the past. Ray Douglas lost his train of thought as he blinked wildly, focussing on the road ahead.