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.

Irredeemable Rebooted

Hey, no updates last week due to holidays. However some good headway was made on rebooting the Ray Douglas "franchise," between sipping Rum and chilling out.

There are major changes to the story, but this time I have a plan so hopefully I can get more than two chapters done. However with University starting up this week, we'll have to wait and see how much writing I can get done. I may have to break up the chapters and only post a few hundred words a week.





- 1 -

The doors to the King's Arms Hotel flew open allowing the midday sun and country dust to enter, settling over the weathered patrons hugging their pints of draught. Ray Douglas moved towards the bar with the determination of a veteran, reaching the first port on the journey back into alcoholism, before the heavy wooden doors could swing closed.
“Scotch.” Ray hadn't uttered the word in just over six months now.
He sat in a booth along the back wall of the Pub, surrounded by wooden embellishments that looked out of place in a small country town. He rested on worn maroon leather, the kind that left a waft of smoky smelling dust when you sat down. The stifling heat, shifting against the creaky yellowed ceiling fan, left his scotch glass beading with condensation.
The cool golden liquor, ice cubes floating in the centre, was deceptive in its still, calm appearance. Ray Douglas knew the truth behind those refreshing drops of liquid. Ray knew the violent storm that brewed just out of sight, underneath the chill of the ice.
Blocking memories of past failures and relapses from his mind, Ray threw his head back and poured the liquid down his throat. The warmth of the scotch was the first sign of the violence and power that it held. Ray shook his head, placing the glass back on the table.
No, he thought, the liquid wasn't violent. It was just a key, a key to unlock the violence inside people. The rage floating around in his mind had been unleashed before, Ray thought, too many times.
He sighed, a heavy tired breath, harsh and dusty. Unfortunately he needed a drink, and that was the long and short of it. Right now, he thought, I just need a drink.

Ray reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a crumpled blood-spattered envelope. It had been delivered this morning, before he woke up. My last clear-headed morning for a while, he thought and sighed again.
The envelope was small and simple, uncomplicated, and unlike the alcohol; the envelope was not deceptive. Ray knew what it meant already before even opening it. The front simply had 'Ray Douglas' written in black marker, and on the reverse; 'Rachel Douglas.' Ray knew his sister would be in trouble sooner or later. He tried to remember the last time he had seen her, just under a year ago, but his memory of that night was foggy at best. Had he done something to cause Rachel to be in trouble? He couldn't answer that question despite the sinking feeling that it probably was his fault. For the last year he hadn't been able to shake the terrible premonition of Rachel getting hurt.
Ray slid a finger under the envelope flap and withdrew the note inside. The crumpled paper held the same distinctive specks of dried blood as the envelope that contained it. His eyes shifted across the handwritten text;
'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.'
Ray recognised the address as an abandoned warehouse at the port, back in Adelaide. The place had a reputation as a local hotspot for drug activity. Even the police were afraid of the fiendish night life at this warehouse, fearful of the violence that swelled in the fragile minds of its inhabitants. Ray hadn't been there personally but a good friend had told him to stay away, he had left that life a long time ago and there was no way he was going back.
But Rachel needs me, he felt a strong urge to jump in his car and drive back to Adelaide as fast as his battered Kingswood would take him. Ray sipped a fresh scotch as he imagined flying down the highway towards his sister, avoiding cops and sucking on cigarettes. But Ray wasn't that man, he never had been really.
Ray's mind flicked through scenes from his past; flashes of fists and flying bottles of bourbon. He saw his father's nose pissing blood, a gash across the bridge, and a matching gash across his seventeen year-old knuckles. Ray watched in horror as he saw, between flashes of blackness, images of himself being dragged across the ground in handcuffs. He swallowed a large gulp of the scotch as he saw himself surrounded by a wafting cloud of toxic, mind raping smoke, his lips covered in scratches from the broken light bulb he was using to torch the ice.
Ray closed his eyes and threw the last of the scotch down his throat, he hadn't thought about these things for at least a year but now he needed the alcohol to make them go away. It must have been the note that brought these images back, he thought.
In the darkness of his mind Ray pictured one last scene; he saw his sister Rachel, only eleven years-old, standing at the foot of his bed. He wondered what she was doing when he noticed the tube protruding from his mouth. She had a pained expression on her face and he realised he was in the hospital. This was a memory he always tried to forget, although the act of trying always caused it to become fresh in his mind. He saw a tear run down Rachel's cheek as their mother led her away. The doctors approached, stern yet indifferent in their demeanour. Ray's mind collapsed as they began to pump a litre of vodka from his stomach. He had turned sixteen only a few hours before.
Ray felt a wave of nausea rise up into his throat. He opened his eyes to see the shadow of the setting sun sweeping across his table, causing the empty scotch glasses to glisten violently. Ray closed his eyes and swallowed hard, leaving the nausea subdued in the bottom of his stomach. He quickly folded the note and shoved in into his pocket, gazing, glassy eyed around the room.
He was caught off balance when he stood, watching the front bar begin to crowd with local oil and gas workers who had just clocked off. The air in the hotel had become thick with heat and sweat, which caused Ray to gag. He made a step towards the restrooms and stopped, there was a pint of beer sitting on the corner of his table. Ray knew the pint wasn't his, he knew whoever owned it was probably just checking on his mates.
Before thinking too hard about it, Ray took the pint in his hand and sculled the entire beer. He knew the act would probably make him feel worse and he knew that somebody would be owed a beer. Ray felt a strange urge inside of him, something that he had forgotten. Something that he never quite understood. He felt the urge to see what would happen. He needed to know how far his actions could take him.
His stomach ached and throbbed and he saw a wiry man look over at him from the crowd. Ray realised, through blurred vision, that the whole bar was watching him. His head dropped until his chin hit his chest and he smiled.
“Who left this on my table?” Ray said, louder than he expected, as he held the empty glass in the air.
The wiry man stepped over to where Ray was standing. He wore a cap to hold back his lank brown and grey hair. His build matched his long goatee beard that stood off his chin like steel wool. The tank top that the man wore revealed his thick tanned skin. An inked snake ran up his left arm, the head resting in the man's neck, it's jaw hanging open.
“This yours?” Ray slurred at the man.
“Yeah, mate. You look like you've had enough already, eh?” The man replied, his thick accent revealed to Ray that he wasn't a South Australian native. Probably from Queensland, Ray thought.
“I don't think so,” Ray mumbled, smiling. “You shouldn't leave your mess on my table, mate.” Ray's imitation of the word 'mate' caused the wiry man to shift his weight.
“Orright mate, next rounds on you then.” The man stood his ground, but Ray sensed that he wasn't a bad person. Ray could tell by the man's attitude that he didn't want any trouble.
Ray sighed before swinging his hand at the man's face.
The pint glass grasped in Ray's fingers cracked and shattered against the wiry man's cheekbone causing him to clutch his face and stagger away from Ray.
The quiet crowd became suddenly silent and Ray locked eyes with every man who looked like he might want to step in.
The gasps and moans from the wiry man echoed through the main bar of the King's Arms Hotel and Ray dropped the fractured base of the pint glass to the floor.
“Shit,” the wiry man gasped from between his blood-coated fingers.
A large man emerged from the rear of the crowd and made his way over to the wiry man who had staggered away from Ray, clutching his mutilated face.
Ray noticed the crowd had thinned significantly and he had the sudden realisation that most people probably wouldn't want to be in this situation. He breathed heavily as he watched the crowd, remaining still and silent.
Ray watched as the large man inspected the face of the wiry man. When he took his hands from his cheek, Ray could see a large gash across his face, going from his brow down to his nose.
As the wiry man tilted his head back for the large man to inspect the wound, his eyes connected with Ray's. There was a flash of fear and confusion before he broke eye contact with Ray, who continued to stare.

“Okay, mate,” the words shot through Ray's head like a bullet. Ray noticed that a wiry man with blood on his face was sitting at the bar being tended to by a waitress, and that he had lost track of what had just happened.
Ray saw that a large man was standing very close to him but his hands were raised, as if he didn't want any trouble.
“Okay, mate,” the large man repeated. “The cops are on their way, so we're gonna need you to take a seat here. You okay with that, mate?”
Ray stood still, his eyes fixed on the wiry man at the bar. He had done that before to a man. Not with the pint glass, but he had snapped like that before. There was no cause, no catalyst that Ray could identify. One moment he was drinking a beer, and the next he was watching a man stagger away from him, his hands clutching his face, covered in blood.
“Orright, mate. I'm gonna need you to take a seat here.” The large man held his arm out to guide Ray to a seat. Ray didn't move, his eyes were glazed and staring in the direction of the exit.
Ray took a step towards the doors and felt a large hand softly pressed against his chest.
“I'm going home.” Ray said, his dull eyes still gazing at the doors.
“No you're not, mate.”
Ray took the hand by the wrist and twisted it around until it was upside down. He then took two steps until he stood behind the large man, still holding onto his arm. Ray pressed the man's arm up along his back smoothly, but firmly, until he heard a loud crack and a sudden pop. His eyes fixed glumly on the door the entire time.
Ray didn't hear the screams as he opened the heavy wooden doors and left the pub.

As he approached his car, Ray managed to hear a rushed shuffling coming from behind him. He turned his head, but before he could see who was there, his face was rocked back in the opposite direction by a seemingly unstoppable force.
Ray used the momentum to turn his body around the opposite way, where he came face to face with another man from the pub.
The man threw a punch which struck Ray across the side of the head, causing his drunken legs to buckle.
After collapsing to his knees, Ray was shoved onto his back by a firm boot to the chest.
“Ya don't get away that easy, mate.” A thin nasal voice came from somewhere above Ray.
“Go away.” Ray mumbled the words, his jaw tingled and he felt warm blood rolling down his brow.
“Whassat, mate? I ain't goin' away.” The man tried to punctuate his point by dropping his heel onto Ray's chest, but Ray reached out and grabbed the man's other leg, tripping him up.
The man lay stunned alongside Ray, who rolled on top of him and began throwing fists.
A few minutes later Ray stood up and walked over to his car. Unlike before, Ray could hear the gurgling moans of the man behind him. Also unlike before, this man didn't have the strength to hold his hands to his damaged face. Ray looked over his shoulder to see the man's body rocking slightly, his legs arching up and sliding back down, causing his heels to carve lines in the dry earth.
Ray thought he saw fragments of bone protruding from deep incisions in the man's cheeks and eye sockets, but it could have just been the light reflecting off the blood.
He got into his car, turned the engine on, backed out of the car park and began to drive home.

Rachel doesn't deserve this, Ray thought as he drove through the night. Rachel doesn't deserve this.
He decided to call the police in Adelaide about the kidnapping note and then stay as far away from Rachel, and alcohol, as possible. If he went near her in this state, he would only ruin everything.
Ray got a flash of Rachel yelling at him. She wanted him out of her life, he recalled. He could see her red face, her forehead beaded with sweat. Ray could see the tears welling in her confused and scared eyes as he approached her that night. That was just under a year ago now, the last time he saw Rachel.
Ray opened his eyes and jammed his foot onto the brake pedal.
The Kingswood went into a slide and Ray narrowly avoided the tree that the car was set to hit if he didn't react.
When the car had come to a smoking halt, Ray took a deep breath and imagined what his world would be like if he had hit the tree. Would Rachel be better off without me, he asked himself.
Ray looked at the note he had received and decided that as long as he was around her, Rachel would be in danger. Going to help her would be the worst mistake he could make. Sure, he could probably help her, but who knew what consequences his actions would have. Who knew who would come after her a year down the line. Five years later, ten? Ray couldn't account for his actions in the past few hours, and he had no idea what the consequences would be, but he didn't care.
He didn't care what happened to himself, but he couldn't let his actions affect Rachel, not any more.
Ray crumpled the note up and dropped it in the centre console.
He started the engine, that had stalled in the slide, and made his way home.

Romance Update

First off, apologies for no update last week, been busy with Irredeemable research.

This week's short is a bit of a prequel to the Jeff and Deb short that I posted a few weeks back, a bit of how they met. I wanted to make it more "romancy" but it ended up being a bit more "plotty," if that makes any sense. I'm doing some serious work on the updated Irredeemable so hopefully I'll be working on that next week.


I just wrote this and haven't edited it, so please disregard any mistakes.

Jeff and Deb Meet
By Tim Harvey

Deb jerked her head forward, the rush of tequila sliding down her throat, warm and dangerous, made her eyes water.
“Woo!” Sally choked and threw her fist into the air.
Deb laughed at her friend and threw an arm around her shoulder, “best night ever?”
Sally nodded, coughing. A few other girls standing at the crowded bar of the nightclub exchanged glances, smirked and stepped away from Sally.
“Fuck em,” Deb whispered to Sally, noticing they were being made fun of. Sally nodded, trying not to cough, her throat burning with the tequila. She wasn't quite sure what Deb was talking about, but she smiled and nodded anyway.
“Hey, let's sit down... somewhere.” Sally's head was spinning, she had major trouble keeping up with Deb, who could drink her under the table on most occasions.
Deb nodded and grabbed Sally by the elbow, guiding her towards a booth near the dance floor. Deb slid easily through the crowd, she was used to navigating the flood of drunken elbows and feet flying around imitating dance. Her nostrils flared with the usual overpowering scent of sweat, cologne and perfume. Among those smells, her nose caught a whiff of something very sweet, something she had been looking for.
Halting abruptly and dismissing Sally, who had walked into her back, Deb stood still and surveyed the crowd, finally landing eyes on what she was after.
“There!” She exclaimed and Sally raised her head, nodding, her eyes closed.
Deb quickly sat Sally down in the nearest booth and made her way through the crowd again, back towards the bar. She had smelt this scent only once before and was determined not to miss her chance again. Deb twisted and turned as she made her way between people, all of them seeming to sweat profusely. Her high heels stuck to the floor as she walked, the soles of her shoes glued to innumerable spilt drinks. She felt if she stood still for too long she wouldn't be able to move at all. That's how she felt about most things in her life these days, she realised. Her skirt felt too short, she also realised. Her hairstyle felt... too young. She slowed her walk through the crowd. Her focus lost, she found herself waiting for people to move, instead of sliding gracefully past them. She felt old.
You're only twenty-three, Deb, she thought. What are you talking about feeling old? But as she looked around she got the eerie feeling that everyone in the club was younger than her. Hell, that guy over there couldn't be older than sixteen, she thought.
She realised that she was still deep inside her thoughts when she noticed that she was already standing at the bar.
“Finally,” she mumbled to herself. Finally, she could get what she was after. She could see it now, perfectly poised behind the bar. She had been waiting for this for quite some time.
Deb gave her best smile to the bartender and tucked her hair behind her ear. He looked over and smiled back, quickly finishing up with his customer, he headed straight towards her.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” he replied. “What'll it be?”
She had been waiting for this for so long and now it was finally happening.
“I noticed you had that new vanilla and cherry vodka. I'll take a shot of that.” She had done it.
The bartender chuckled, “that's popular stuff.” He shook his head and grabbed the perfectly poised bottle from behind the bar. It smelt just as Deb had remembered, and it tasted better than she could have imagined.
“Oh yeah, that's the stuff.” She smiled and reached for her purse to pay for the drink.
The smile faded as she realised she had thrust her purse into Sally's lap when she seated her in the booth.
“Problem?” The bartender raised an eyebrow.
Oh shit, Deb thought. You look like real idiot now, Deb. What? You must look like a real piece of trash now, Deb. Where is this coming from? She stopped the rush of negative thoughts as soon as they had started. She had never thought about herself like that before, and she didn't like it.
Deb put on her best smile and was about to explain her predicament when a tanned, smooth hand slid a twenty across the bar in front of her. The bartender gave the guy a crude look but accepted the money and disappeared.
Deb went to thank the guy for the generous act but stopped cold, it was the guy who looked as if he was sixteen. He was taller than her by quite a bit, his ashen blonde hair in medium length spikes and his skin was tanned. But he looked ridiculously young, she thought.
“Thanks, kid.” She scoffed before quickly leaving the bar.
Catching a quick glance at the boy over her shoulder as she walked back to her booth, she couldn't help but feel like a bitch when she noticed his slumped shoulders and nervous glances at the bartender. He didn't look at me though, she thought.

As she got back to the booth she gasped when she saw two guys hanging around Sally. Deb no longer felt like the oldest person in the club as she saw that one of the men was well into his thirties, and seated across from Sally. The other stood, leaning on the side of the chair, blocking Sally's ability to exit the booth. Not that Sally was in any position to make an escape, her head was in her hands and her elbows rested on the table.
“Heyyy... Deb-Bra!” Sally's eyes lit up as Deb rushed over to her.
“Hey I'm gonna get outta here, Debbb.” Sally slurred, the two men exchanged glances and chuckled.
“Yeah, okay let's go,” Deb quickly answered, her heart racing. She stood next to the table and grabbed her purse.
“Nooo, Deb. I'm... I'm going with these guys.” Sally waved her hand through the air, attempting to gesture towards the two men but instead indicating the entire club.
“No that's all right guys, I got this. Come on Sal, let's go.” Deb wanted to grab Sally but one of the men stood between them.
“No, don't worry about it Debs,” the seated man said. “We can give Sally here a ride.”
“We can give you a ride too, babe.” The other man said.
Deb took a step back from the man, just in case he went to grab her. He wouldn't want to grab you, Deb. Shut up!
“All right! Listen to me you fucking idiot. You'd better get out of here right now, or I'm calling a bouncer.” Deb stood, shaking, but with more than a hint of confidence in her voice. After all, what could they do to us in here?
The two men just laughed at her.
“Don't worry about that, Debs,” the seated man said, laughing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a beaten leather wallet. Deb shook harder as he flicked it open and she saw his security identification sitting right above his driver's licence.
He was the fucking bouncer? Should have thought of that, Deb. Stop it, I'm thinking.
She didn't know what to do, she couldn't hurt these two huge guys. There was no way out of this. Maybe if they went with them? Maybe she could call the police once they were outside? That sounds dangerous, Deb. What else can I do?
“Fine, you win,” Deb sighed. “Let's go.”
The two men exchanged cautious glances but eventually shrugged, realising they had the upper hand. The seated man stood up and grabbed Sally's hand. Sally just raised her head and smiled, her eyes closed. The man standing near the booth started walking towards the door and that's when Deb chose to strike. She threw her arm towards the man holding Sally's hand, her fist connecting with the side of his face.
“Hey, shit.” He wasn't quite sure what happened but he let go of Sally and that was all that Deb needed. She threw her arm around Sally's waist and guided her towards the exit. The two men stood confused for a moment then carefully followed the two girls through the club.
What now, Deb? There is a taxi rank outside, if we're quick, we can get one before those creeps can make it out of the club.
Before they could get anywhere near the door Deb's ability to glide through the crowd was suddenly thwarted by a tall, awkward young guy, who had obviously not spent enough time in clubs before.
“Hey.” He looked nervously down at Deb.
“Jesus, get outta the way idiot!” She almost yelled at him.
“Wha- Oh... sorry.” He shuffled out of the way but it was too late, the two men had caught up.
“Hey thanks for finding our girlfriends buddy,” one of the men smiled at the blonde guy.
“Oh... Sure,” the guy nervously looked away and began to leave.
“Wait!” Deb screamed.
People began to move away from the five of them, not concerned with getting involved. Most people in the club didn't even hear Deb's scream over the music.
The blonde guy stared at Deb, then shifted his gaze to Sally.
“Don't worry about it buddy,” one of the men clapped the blonde youth on the shoulder and began to guide the two girls towards the exit.
“Stop.” The blonde murmured, causing the two men to pause.
“I said, don't worry about it.” One of the men said sternly, his face now inches from the blonde guy's.
“I don't think these girls want to go with you.” The blonde youth stood his ground.
Jesus, they'll kill him, Deb thought. You got him into this mess, Deb.
She stood, mouth hanging open, and watched the three men square off. Well, two men and one kid. The blonde guy was tall though, as tall as the two men. He must play a sport, Deb thought and caught herself there. This wasn't the time or place for staring at guys. You should be getting Sally out of here while they're distracted, she realised. But, she couldn't take her eyes off the three of them.
Suddenly one of the men threw a fist at the boy.
The impact caused her to jump, it looked as if there was no resistance at all. The man's arm flew and the boy's head flew back. He was on the floor before she could take a breath.
Deb wrapped her arm around Sally's waist and the two girls stared at the crumpled body of the blonde boy, lying on the ground. The crowd shuffled and there was a collective gasp, audible over the loud music. Even drunken Sally looked concerned.
Deb stood in shock as a Police Officer grabbed the man who threw the punch, and shoved him to the ground. The other man stood by, and Deb noticed he was talking to another police officer.
The man who threw the punch was being escorted away in cuffs and paramedics stood over the boy.
A woman led the two girls outside and Deb didn't let go of Sally's waist until her mother arrived to take her home.
Deb blinked and took a deep breath. The boy sat on a stretcher being wheeled past her.
Flashing blue and red lights echoed their reflections against the brick buildings of the main street in the city.
“Wait!” Deb called.
The paramedics stopped wheeling the boy and Deb ran over to him.
“What's your name?”
The boy slid the oxygen mask down, away from his mouth. His left eye was swollen closed but he managed a small, pained smile.
“Jeff. What's yours?”
“Deb.”
“Cool.”

Little Update

Today's update is a just a little short. I'm currently working on "rebooting" the Irredeemable "franchise" so hopefully there should be some new Ray Douglas content next week.

Check out The Gift by The Velvet Underground. It's basically a short story read out to background music by the band. This song basically rekindled my love for listening to people read short stories. I think the video is just photos of the band, the story is the important part.

This short was just something I wrote after listening to that song, I was inspired by the writing style.


Frank Thornton
By Tim Harvey

Frank Thornton sat at a small wooden desk on the fifty-fourth floor of the Palm Sands Hotel, his fingers spread out over the keys of his typewriter and his eyes fixed on what he had just written; his suicide note. Of course Frank didn't plan to kill himself, but he had to make sure everyone else thought that he did, including his wife of ten years, the woman that he had once loved.
Gently sliding the sheet of paper from the machine, Frank gazed around the room. The smell of the cigar smouldering in the large clay ashtray on the night-stand caught Frank's attention. He fixed his gaze on the smoke curling its way from the tip of the blunt cigar and towards the ceiling. The brilliant sunset coming through the balcony doors washed the walls of the hotel room in a dull sepia tone, and Frank watched as the smoke trails caught the light.
Reading the last part of the note aloud, Frank chuckled to himself. 'And as I stand here on the balcony of my fifty-fourth floor room, I bid you all farewell. I hope the fall hurts less than my broken heart, but I doubt if there is any pain worse. Goodbye.' He had stopped short of adding 'cruel world' to that goodbye, but only just.
Frank continued to chuckle to himself as he sealed the note in an envelope, stepped over to the night-stand, grabbed his cigar, and made his way out onto the balcony. The plan was so simple, he thought. Hopefully not too simple. He would climb over the railing of the balcony, and wait until somebody saw him. Within minutes the police would be called and a negotiator would be sent to talk him down. When the dust had settled, he would be forced to undergo a psychiatric evaluation. This is where the plan got really clever, Frank mused. During his psychiatric assessment, he would let slip that his wife had been abusing him for the past few years.
The point of all this was to get an edge in the courts when he filed for divorce. It was so simple, Frank chuckled again. Of course the judge would see to it that his wife was punished, and it would take a fair bit of compensation to console a man on the brink of suicide.
Frank lifted his leg over the edge of the balcony railing and shifted his weight, flicking his other foot across, leaving him hanging on for “dear life.” Turning the bulk of his frame around, in order to face the ocean and the roaring sunset, Frank gripped the bars of the railing tightly. After all, he didn't actually want to fall.
Now, all there was left to do was wait. Frank thought about what he would do with his life once his horrible wife was out of the picture. He closed his eyes and imagined lying on a tropical beach on some hidden island, not like the trashy tourist beach just across the road, fifty-four storeys below. No, his wife was rich, he thought, she would have money for a lush tropical paradise. All that money, she was sitting on all that money, Frank thought, it wasn't fair. Sure he didn't work, but she only had all that money after inheriting her father's business. She did go national with the small business, but so what. It wasn't fair that Frank lived off of an allowance that she gave him. She treated him like a child, he thought, like some teenage outcast.
Frank heard voices down below, distant gasps, and what he thought was somebody yelling for him not to jump. He smiled, his eyes still closed. He only had to wait for the police now, they would come up to the room and he would “reluctantly” allow them to talk him into coming back in.
Returning to his daydream of the tropical beach, Frank smiled wider. He could almost hear the gulls squawking near his head. The waves were lapping quietly in the distance and Frank could hear the vivid wildlife of the tropical paradise.
The sounds of the birds were becoming disturbingly lifelike and Frank gently opened one eye to see a large white seagull flapping in front of his face.
The bird's feet tried to find footing on his chest, its beak lashing out and scratching his nose.
Frank Thornton instinctively raised his hands to cover his face.
Feeling his body topple forward, Frank reached back to grab the railing, but it was too late.
As the distant gasps and screams moved significantly closer, Frank thought; at least I left a note.

Slow Goings

This week's update won't be for Irredeemable, as it should be. While doing some research I recently stumbled upon this terrible, terrible thing and realised I have to do some serious thinking if I want to make Ray Douglas work as an original story. If you read the plot to that series of books in the link it is pretty similar to some stuff I had going on with Ray. I think that I have to really take him back to the basics and work on themes etc to build it up from the ground again with a clear vision for a unique and dynamic character. In the meantime I've whipped up something hopefully dryly comedic to take my mind off of it. Hopefully more Ray Douglas and Irredemable when I can get some ideas down on paper and a clear plot outline that I can follow and be happy that it hasn't been done before.

Also, Josh Pyke - Eat Me Alive is giving me some really good ideas for short stories, and some longer ones. (This is becoming more like an actual blog with each post.)

John Young
By Tim Harvey


John Young's left eye began to twitch as he sat limply on a medium sized office chair that felt too big for him. Drowning in his brown suit, surrounded by layers of musty cotton that hadn't been worn for years, John wondered if Principal Wright would notice his failure to control his twitching eye.
“Mr. Young, if you can't control your own eye, how do you expect me to hire you to teach these teenagers?” John looked up at Principal Wright in a panic and realised that he hadn't said anything, he was still busy reading through John's references. Blinking rapidly, he tried to disrupt the nervous flinching of his facial muscles. He felt they were flinching in preparation for the books and stationary that would presently be hurled at him at any moment.
Shifting in his seat John Young felt beads of warm sweat trickle down his forehead and drip into his left eye. 'Oh hell, just kill me now!' He exclaimed to himself.
“What was that?” Principal Wright flicked his attention to the small man seated across from him. 'Did I say that aloud?'
“Sorry... What?” John spat the words out, his pitch shifting as he forced a painful smile onto his face, awaiting an answer.
“I thought you said something.”
“When?”
“Just then,” Principal Wright answered quickly.
He was a man of action John thought as he shook his head; “No, I didn't say anything.” His pained smile stretched wider and he shifted his position again.
“Oh... Sorry then,” Principal Wright's face flushed and a wave of confusion flowed across his features, followed by a disinterested shrug as he continued reading.
“Oh, that's quite all right,” John Young answered, despite Principal Wright's shift in attention from the confused stuttering conversation to his reading.

John raised a shaking finger to loosen his tie and realised it was already hanging slackly around his neck. Stifling a cough, John yanked his tie up until it was choking him.
Principal Wright raised his eyes and from behind his glasses saw John sitting rather awkwardly, and smiling expectantly at him.
When Principal Wright's eyes settled back onto his reading, John loosened his tie marginally. He felt too cold whenever the oscillating desk fan faced him, chilling his sweaty forehead, and too hot whenever it neglected him. Reaching to turn the base of the fan slightly, John's arm shot back to his lap when he noticed Principal Wright was still looking at him.
“I... ju-” John's mind searched for words to explain his actions but halted when he realised he didn't know what or why he was trying to explain anything.
Principal Wright's eyebrows scrunched up in accusatory confusion, the rest of his face remained calm, but his eyes appeared to protrude from his head.
John felt his face flush; “Yeah, when...” He raised a limp finger at the fan and let out a nervous, undecided giggle; “And I just... With the- uh.”
Principal Wright glared at John, his eyes only shifting to the fan that John had weakly indicated after he managed to decipher the mumbling before him. Shifting the base of the fan so that it faced John, Principal Wright inquired; “Better?”
“Muc- Yes much... Thank you,” John stifled another cough as he forced the words out.
Principal Wright held his gaze, his eyebrows raised now. John held his gaze awkwardly and smiled at the Principal until he resumed reading.

John Young was too cold now. He wanted to leave, this was too much. Scanning the room for quick exit strategies John's mind created a myriad of excuses for a swift escape.
“If you'll excuse me, I have to use the bathroom, Principal Wright.”
“Certainly Mr. Young.”
“I'll be back in a tic!”

“Are those lilies over there?”
“Yes”
“Sorry I'm deathly allergic, I'll wait in the hall, okay?”
“Sure thing Mr. Young.”

“How old is that fire extinguisher, Principal Wright?”
“Well, I'm not sure.”
“It appears to be a pre-war model XT-3. They had a notoriously high malfunction rate, you know?”
“My God, I had no idea! We should wait in the hall Mr. Young, should a fire break out in here.”
“My thoughts exactly Principal Wright, you can thank me later. Let's go!” John Young declared as they ran dramatically to the door, pausing only for a moment before diving into the hall.

John Young noticed he was biting his nails now. The sweat on his forehead felt icy and his left leg was twitching along with the eye.
“Do you mind?” Principal Wright declared, indicating the nail-biting.
John's hand again shot into his lap.
“Thank you,” the Principal answered, returning to the list of references.
How many references did I have anyway, John asked himself. This is taking forever, and it's going nowhere, John groaned.
“Excuse me, Mr. Young. Would you prefer to wait in the hall?” Principal Wright asked, distracted by the deep, depressing groan that poured out of John Young.
“Wha- I... No, no, no. I'm here,” John struggled as Principal Wright eyed him suspiciously.
“I mean, I'm good... I'm all good... in here.” John fumbled with the words, before staring at Principal Wright, smiling, as always.
“All right then, could you please sit quietly, this will only take another minute.” Principal Wright glared at John and returned to his work.
John mentally slapped his face and continued to fidget and twitch, breathing heavily as he waited.

“All right Mr. Young.” Principal Wright declared suddenly after countless hours of scrutinising John's reference list, a list which only contained six names.
John snapped to attention, leaning forward in his seat eagerly; “All right!” He declared, also.
“Yes, well... I've checked through this list and your references appear to be in good order.” Principal Wright eyed John.
“Ah- Aha... Yes, good.” John nodded with sharp jerking movements.
“Yes...” Principal Wright nodded slowly, took one last look over the papers spread before him,sighed and offered his hand to John; “Well it looks like you've got the job.”
John Young raised his arm to shake Principal Wright's outstretched hand, but felt a sudden and violent tremor move through his body.
Principal Wright stood suddenly, his face flushed and he was clearly alarmed; “Are you all right, John?”
John Young nodded, slid off his chair and was dead.


NOTE: If the ending seems abrupt it's because I didn't really have a plan for the story and it wasn't really going anywhere...

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.