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I've been writing and changing this for a bit
Posted it ages ago, now putting newer version in the forum it belongs in - Creative writing
Enjoy - and try and read all ;)
* * *
It had been on a stiflingly hot morning at the office, the day of my first big assignment. That was a memory now, more than a week ago. The memory is still fresh in my mind though….
There was nothing for it; I was going to have to open the window. The Chicago air was choking me, as the air from my Computer swilled it round, sucking the cool out of it, turning it into a sickly dry annoyance. The air smelt of sweat and chewing gum as it wafted into my nose. I choked. I definitely had to open the window. Putting my hands on the desk, pushing off like an Olympic sprinter at the start block, except there was absolutely no adrenaline in this. My wooden chair grudgingly pushed back across the hard floor; creating a rasping scraping sound. I stood up and collected my familiar black jacket from across the back of the chair and shimmied it up onto my back; it reeked with the stench of sweat. I bounced the chair back into the desk with my stomach; collecting my bagel from the top of my computer’s monitor (still one of those old thick ones) I resignedly decided to go to the toilet on the way back from the window; to freshen up a little. I strode over the low-budget office floor to the big window and creaked it open; it was an old and stiff window.
I turned into Drako Samuels’ office, and through it to the toilet. I nodded to Drako on the way but he didn’t return it, he looked very stressed; running his hands through his balding brown hair and squinting through his thick black glasses; which emphasised his bushy eyebrows; and he looked like a squirrel.
Pushing open the toilet door I was greeted with that familiar stench of Urinal cakes and stale Urine. I eased my way across the suspiciously wet floor, to the sinks and greasy mirror. I had to use my hand to clean the dirty glass, which was showing its age; just like the face that I was greeted with when the mirror was clean. I splashed some cold water over my face and stared tiredly at my reflection. I tenderly poked at a purple bruise that I had gained in a chase a week ago. The bruise had faded now and was obscured by a wall of thick black stubble. I forlornly admired the ‘laughter lines’ spreading from my eyes and the grey lines which peppered my otherwise jet black hair. I was really starting to show my age.
As I was trudging back to my desk the annoying hawk-like Mrs. Brennan intercepted me. Mrs. Brennan was the ageing secretary to my Boss, Mr Davies. Mrs. Brennan was sixty but still dressed like that of a twenty year old, just plain wrong.
“Mr. Davies wants to see you in his office, now” she emphasised the ‘now’ for extra effect
Oh well I thought. “Ok” I said, my attention drawn by the fluorescent Kitten top Mrs. Brennan was sporting.
I knocked on the door of Mr Davies office. It’s all right for some I thought as I stared at the newly installed ornate brass plate on his door, inscribed with:
Mr B Davies
Manager
K – Kleaning Services ltd.
Well that was a laugh. K-Kleaning, our disguise against the outside world. We are spies pretending to be cleaners, pathetic.
“Come in” called a bored sounding voice.
“Good morning, sir”, I said brightly to Mr. Davies
“Is it?” he replied, “Have a seat” he said gesturing to a black leather chair.
Then he turned towards his seventh floor window view; which looked out across central Chicago. I decided to content myself by looking round his office. Beside me was a desk that had a Dell computer on it and a jar containing Cuban Cigars, they somehow made the room look classy. To my left was a bookcase up against the wall; it held a selection of Sherlock Holmes and Stephen King novels stacked haphazardly. His desk was littered with files and family pictures, a girl on a beach, a dog at a porch….
“So, do you know why you’re here?” He fired the question at me suddenly, as he swivelled from his window view.
I jumped slightly, jogged from a trance “No, sir”
“Cigarette?” he asked me, to my annoyance
“I quit a few weeks back.”
“Oh yeah, I remember now. Sorry” he replied, not sounding sorry at all.
“Its about your latest mission”
“Oh?” I said inquisitively
“It’s your first out of state mission, and it’s a big one”
“You mean a murder case? Where?” I said excitedly – this being my first murder case
“The ‘Big Apple” – NY city, you’re going to be investigating the murder of Toni Barker; she was there on her own waiting for a connecting flight to her weeks holiday in Philadelphia”
Mr. Davies handed me the pictures of this Toni Barker, why is it always the pretty ones? I thought. By the looks of things I was taking on the mission as Phil Penbrook, a tourist visiting New York City on his holidays. By the look of the wounds in Toni’s photo, she had been shot.
…That was nine days ago now, and here I am investigating one of the main suspects. I am currently progressing down the busy, world famous, Fifth Avenue, on a cold, crisp Tuesday morning. Everywhere I look there are yellow taxis whirring and humming around the streets like frantic worker bees returning to their Queen. Fencing in every street are majestic goliaths, the skyscrapers. Don’t get me wrong; of course I’d seen skyscrapers before, living in Chicago. Just never like this. The skyscrapers are giants, and I mean GIANTS. Skyscrapers in New York City majestically block your view in every direction, acupuncture needles piercing the morning air. The skyscrapers formed a sort of ethereal city in the sky; whilst on the ground I had to use all of my concentration to dodge the huge knots of people filling the streets in droves like Bison migrating. All of these people seemed to be going against me and I had to fight my way through the jostling crowd. The street was buzzing with the sound of voices filling the air, like chattering monkeys at the Zoo. The air smelt of warm peanuts wafting deliciously from vendors’ carts and a smoky, claustrophobic air associated with cities.
As I walked down the street I couldn’t help but notice Armani window displays, inwardly groaning with the price tags on some of their ‘50% off range’. I saw a café to my left as I was walking down the street ‘Café Europa’, and I thought that would be as good a place to plan my route as any. I pushed my way through the crowd once more and turned through the swinging doors that marked the entrance to ‘Café Europa’ and was grateful towards the rush of warm air that greeted my arrival. I was very happy to go into a place with central heating on this cold morning. I picked an unoccupied seat a couple of rows in front of the door, to my left. I brushed the crumbs of the last occupants breakfast off the tatty silver chair and sat down heavily. Overall the place was very clean; there was just some of the dirt synonymous with budget cafés. Deciding that I was hungrier than I thought, I signalled a waitress (an attractive brunette who looked like she was in her late twenties) and asked for a Bagel. The waitress acknowledged my order and went off to give it to the chef. I unfolded my New York City map that Mr. Davies had given me back at his office. Looking in the index I found the place I was looking for, Grand Central Station, flicking to the page indicated I looked for noticeable landmarks around it and found one; the Chrysler building. I waited for my Bagel to come then I thought I would make my way to the Chrysler building.
Two hours later I arrived at Grand Central Station, this was because I had underestimated the distance of the walk and because the Chrysler had not been as near to Grand Central as I first thought. I walked past a noisy crowd of workers, on strike, due to something about oysters; I wasn’t particularly interested anyway so I strode briskly past them (ignoring their petition) and through the large glass doors that were the entrance to the station.
I had just entered the grandest train station I’d ever seen in my life. The walls were lined with gold and there was a solid marble replica floor that squeaked joyously to each new foot that trampled over it. There was a giant clock in the centre of the hall, with a large staircase to either side of it. Everywhere was a network of escalators, electronic train timetables and little shops. There was a massive crystal chandelier sparkling from its vantage point hanging down from the ceiling and an intricate pattern which looked vaguely like a sun etched out in a brown colour in the centre of this massive hall. (To me it looked like an ‘x marks the spot’ for the chandelier to fall onto should it evade its harness)
I made my way to where my main suspect was usually sited. I walked down a small staircase to my right, to get to a little isolated café off the main plaza. I knew as I started to approach this why Bertie Jones always went here; there was no one else around; and for a hectically busy place like Grand Central’ that’s saying something. I replayed the information about Bertie Jones in my head. Son-in-law to the late Toni Barker; it was reported that he had always loved her and when I met him it wasn’t hard to see why; she was the perfect younger woman, whereas he was a middle-aged balding man with an annoying squint and permanent limp. Bertie Jones was also not an innocent man; he was convicted of rape charges two years previously and accused of sparking off a pub brawl which killed one man and seriously injured two others (he was never convicted of this however)
I saw Jones sitting at the café, squinting at a newspaper that was held only inches from his face and with a cigar (wafting smoke) clenched between his teeth. Jones was wearing an expensive looking pair of shiny Armani shoes and a maroon knitwear jumper, presumably with an expensive brand name. Jones was wearing a thick pair of glasses, trimmed with gold; another item of his clothing that looked like it was worth my year’s wages. Jones was nearly bald except for brown curly hair coming out either side of his head, making him look like a clown. Jones face had the impression of a very battered suitcase; like tough wrinkly leather.
I sat down opposite the man and he did not acknowledge my presence. The man before me looked like a very passive man; the sort that looked like everybody walked all over him, it was only from his profile that I knew this man was actually very dangerous. The thing that most people overlooked when they picked a fight with was that he was a high-ranking member of the IRA. He carried a gun and was very quick to use it. When Jones finally acknowledged my presence he spoke with a smug sounding Irish accent.
“Hello” he said in an almost sarcastic way
“Mr. Jones, I’m here about the death of Toni Barker, I was hoping you would shed some light on this mystery,” I said in a toneless voice, brandishing my police badge and a picture of Toni
“That’s nice,” he said, stunning me, he didn’t look at the picture
“Look at the picture” I persisted
“Nice looking woman”, he replied “She your girlfriend?”
“No she is a murder victim in a case you aren’t taking very seriously”
“Sorry I wasn’t listening” he retorted dryly
“Stop S******g with me” I said very clearly to him
His face became serious “It’s not very professional to lose your cool….officer”
“I know about your latest offence, particularly serious I gather; triple life sentence isn’t it?”
His accent lost its sarcastic tone “Bombings what the IRA is famous for, get used to it”
“I was going to offer you a deal to lower your sentence considerably”
“If I tell you anything and they find out my life will get a lot worse than prison”
“So your not interested?”
“Lets not be hasty, I didn’t say no, depends what you need to know…”
“Hard facts, who did it, why and under who’s order?”
“I can’t tell you that, but I can refer you to someone who you might call an ‘eyewitness’”
“Go on”
“The name Shane O’Leary mean anything to you?”
He had been on the Chicago wanted list for a very long time “Yes, where can I find him?”
“You’ll need to head over to Dublin for that”
I knew we could find out where he lives so I simply ended the conversation with “You’ve been very helpful, we’ll contact you on your new sentence times soon”.
With that I simply stood up and walked back towards the staircase I had come down, as deserted as ever. I know knew where the next part of this mission was…Dublin.
* * *
There you go
Discuss,
Jon
Posted it ages ago, now putting newer version in the forum it belongs in - Creative writing
Enjoy - and try and read all ;)
* * *
It had been on a stiflingly hot morning at the office, the day of my first big assignment. That was a memory now, more than a week ago. The memory is still fresh in my mind though….
There was nothing for it; I was going to have to open the window. The Chicago air was choking me, as the air from my Computer swilled it round, sucking the cool out of it, turning it into a sickly dry annoyance. The air smelt of sweat and chewing gum as it wafted into my nose. I choked. I definitely had to open the window. Putting my hands on the desk, pushing off like an Olympic sprinter at the start block, except there was absolutely no adrenaline in this. My wooden chair grudgingly pushed back across the hard floor; creating a rasping scraping sound. I stood up and collected my familiar black jacket from across the back of the chair and shimmied it up onto my back; it reeked with the stench of sweat. I bounced the chair back into the desk with my stomach; collecting my bagel from the top of my computer’s monitor (still one of those old thick ones) I resignedly decided to go to the toilet on the way back from the window; to freshen up a little. I strode over the low-budget office floor to the big window and creaked it open; it was an old and stiff window.
I turned into Drako Samuels’ office, and through it to the toilet. I nodded to Drako on the way but he didn’t return it, he looked very stressed; running his hands through his balding brown hair and squinting through his thick black glasses; which emphasised his bushy eyebrows; and he looked like a squirrel.
Pushing open the toilet door I was greeted with that familiar stench of Urinal cakes and stale Urine. I eased my way across the suspiciously wet floor, to the sinks and greasy mirror. I had to use my hand to clean the dirty glass, which was showing its age; just like the face that I was greeted with when the mirror was clean. I splashed some cold water over my face and stared tiredly at my reflection. I tenderly poked at a purple bruise that I had gained in a chase a week ago. The bruise had faded now and was obscured by a wall of thick black stubble. I forlornly admired the ‘laughter lines’ spreading from my eyes and the grey lines which peppered my otherwise jet black hair. I was really starting to show my age.
As I was trudging back to my desk the annoying hawk-like Mrs. Brennan intercepted me. Mrs. Brennan was the ageing secretary to my Boss, Mr Davies. Mrs. Brennan was sixty but still dressed like that of a twenty year old, just plain wrong.
“Mr. Davies wants to see you in his office, now” she emphasised the ‘now’ for extra effect
Oh well I thought. “Ok” I said, my attention drawn by the fluorescent Kitten top Mrs. Brennan was sporting.
I knocked on the door of Mr Davies office. It’s all right for some I thought as I stared at the newly installed ornate brass plate on his door, inscribed with:
Mr B Davies
Manager
K – Kleaning Services ltd.
Well that was a laugh. K-Kleaning, our disguise against the outside world. We are spies pretending to be cleaners, pathetic.
“Come in” called a bored sounding voice.
“Good morning, sir”, I said brightly to Mr. Davies
“Is it?” he replied, “Have a seat” he said gesturing to a black leather chair.
Then he turned towards his seventh floor window view; which looked out across central Chicago. I decided to content myself by looking round his office. Beside me was a desk that had a Dell computer on it and a jar containing Cuban Cigars, they somehow made the room look classy. To my left was a bookcase up against the wall; it held a selection of Sherlock Holmes and Stephen King novels stacked haphazardly. His desk was littered with files and family pictures, a girl on a beach, a dog at a porch….
“So, do you know why you’re here?” He fired the question at me suddenly, as he swivelled from his window view.
I jumped slightly, jogged from a trance “No, sir”
“Cigarette?” he asked me, to my annoyance
“I quit a few weeks back.”
“Oh yeah, I remember now. Sorry” he replied, not sounding sorry at all.
“Its about your latest mission”
“Oh?” I said inquisitively
“It’s your first out of state mission, and it’s a big one”
“You mean a murder case? Where?” I said excitedly – this being my first murder case
“The ‘Big Apple” – NY city, you’re going to be investigating the murder of Toni Barker; she was there on her own waiting for a connecting flight to her weeks holiday in Philadelphia”
Mr. Davies handed me the pictures of this Toni Barker, why is it always the pretty ones? I thought. By the looks of things I was taking on the mission as Phil Penbrook, a tourist visiting New York City on his holidays. By the look of the wounds in Toni’s photo, she had been shot.
…That was nine days ago now, and here I am investigating one of the main suspects. I am currently progressing down the busy, world famous, Fifth Avenue, on a cold, crisp Tuesday morning. Everywhere I look there are yellow taxis whirring and humming around the streets like frantic worker bees returning to their Queen. Fencing in every street are majestic goliaths, the skyscrapers. Don’t get me wrong; of course I’d seen skyscrapers before, living in Chicago. Just never like this. The skyscrapers are giants, and I mean GIANTS. Skyscrapers in New York City majestically block your view in every direction, acupuncture needles piercing the morning air. The skyscrapers formed a sort of ethereal city in the sky; whilst on the ground I had to use all of my concentration to dodge the huge knots of people filling the streets in droves like Bison migrating. All of these people seemed to be going against me and I had to fight my way through the jostling crowd. The street was buzzing with the sound of voices filling the air, like chattering monkeys at the Zoo. The air smelt of warm peanuts wafting deliciously from vendors’ carts and a smoky, claustrophobic air associated with cities.
As I walked down the street I couldn’t help but notice Armani window displays, inwardly groaning with the price tags on some of their ‘50% off range’. I saw a café to my left as I was walking down the street ‘Café Europa’, and I thought that would be as good a place to plan my route as any. I pushed my way through the crowd once more and turned through the swinging doors that marked the entrance to ‘Café Europa’ and was grateful towards the rush of warm air that greeted my arrival. I was very happy to go into a place with central heating on this cold morning. I picked an unoccupied seat a couple of rows in front of the door, to my left. I brushed the crumbs of the last occupants breakfast off the tatty silver chair and sat down heavily. Overall the place was very clean; there was just some of the dirt synonymous with budget cafés. Deciding that I was hungrier than I thought, I signalled a waitress (an attractive brunette who looked like she was in her late twenties) and asked for a Bagel. The waitress acknowledged my order and went off to give it to the chef. I unfolded my New York City map that Mr. Davies had given me back at his office. Looking in the index I found the place I was looking for, Grand Central Station, flicking to the page indicated I looked for noticeable landmarks around it and found one; the Chrysler building. I waited for my Bagel to come then I thought I would make my way to the Chrysler building.
Two hours later I arrived at Grand Central Station, this was because I had underestimated the distance of the walk and because the Chrysler had not been as near to Grand Central as I first thought. I walked past a noisy crowd of workers, on strike, due to something about oysters; I wasn’t particularly interested anyway so I strode briskly past them (ignoring their petition) and through the large glass doors that were the entrance to the station.
I had just entered the grandest train station I’d ever seen in my life. The walls were lined with gold and there was a solid marble replica floor that squeaked joyously to each new foot that trampled over it. There was a giant clock in the centre of the hall, with a large staircase to either side of it. Everywhere was a network of escalators, electronic train timetables and little shops. There was a massive crystal chandelier sparkling from its vantage point hanging down from the ceiling and an intricate pattern which looked vaguely like a sun etched out in a brown colour in the centre of this massive hall. (To me it looked like an ‘x marks the spot’ for the chandelier to fall onto should it evade its harness)
I made my way to where my main suspect was usually sited. I walked down a small staircase to my right, to get to a little isolated café off the main plaza. I knew as I started to approach this why Bertie Jones always went here; there was no one else around; and for a hectically busy place like Grand Central’ that’s saying something. I replayed the information about Bertie Jones in my head. Son-in-law to the late Toni Barker; it was reported that he had always loved her and when I met him it wasn’t hard to see why; she was the perfect younger woman, whereas he was a middle-aged balding man with an annoying squint and permanent limp. Bertie Jones was also not an innocent man; he was convicted of rape charges two years previously and accused of sparking off a pub brawl which killed one man and seriously injured two others (he was never convicted of this however)
I saw Jones sitting at the café, squinting at a newspaper that was held only inches from his face and with a cigar (wafting smoke) clenched between his teeth. Jones was wearing an expensive looking pair of shiny Armani shoes and a maroon knitwear jumper, presumably with an expensive brand name. Jones was wearing a thick pair of glasses, trimmed with gold; another item of his clothing that looked like it was worth my year’s wages. Jones was nearly bald except for brown curly hair coming out either side of his head, making him look like a clown. Jones face had the impression of a very battered suitcase; like tough wrinkly leather.
I sat down opposite the man and he did not acknowledge my presence. The man before me looked like a very passive man; the sort that looked like everybody walked all over him, it was only from his profile that I knew this man was actually very dangerous. The thing that most people overlooked when they picked a fight with was that he was a high-ranking member of the IRA. He carried a gun and was very quick to use it. When Jones finally acknowledged my presence he spoke with a smug sounding Irish accent.
“Hello” he said in an almost sarcastic way
“Mr. Jones, I’m here about the death of Toni Barker, I was hoping you would shed some light on this mystery,” I said in a toneless voice, brandishing my police badge and a picture of Toni
“That’s nice,” he said, stunning me, he didn’t look at the picture
“Look at the picture” I persisted
“Nice looking woman”, he replied “She your girlfriend?”
“No she is a murder victim in a case you aren’t taking very seriously”
“Sorry I wasn’t listening” he retorted dryly
“Stop S******g with me” I said very clearly to him
His face became serious “It’s not very professional to lose your cool….officer”
“I know about your latest offence, particularly serious I gather; triple life sentence isn’t it?”
His accent lost its sarcastic tone “Bombings what the IRA is famous for, get used to it”
“I was going to offer you a deal to lower your sentence considerably”
“If I tell you anything and they find out my life will get a lot worse than prison”
“So your not interested?”
“Lets not be hasty, I didn’t say no, depends what you need to know…”
“Hard facts, who did it, why and under who’s order?”
“I can’t tell you that, but I can refer you to someone who you might call an ‘eyewitness’”
“Go on”
“The name Shane O’Leary mean anything to you?”
He had been on the Chicago wanted list for a very long time “Yes, where can I find him?”
“You’ll need to head over to Dublin for that”
I knew we could find out where he lives so I simply ended the conversation with “You’ve been very helpful, we’ll contact you on your new sentence times soon”.
With that I simply stood up and walked back towards the staircase I had come down, as deserted as ever. I know knew where the next part of this mission was…Dublin.
* * *
There you go
Discuss,
Jon
The name isn't really the be all and end all of the story though. I agree, on contemplation, I may change the name to a more 'Irish sounding' name, on the inevitable next outing of the story
Any other comments?
Any other comments?
It's not really. I don't know any Irish Joneses.
Try Rafferty or O'Connor or something.
Try Rafferty or O'Connor or something.
That's part of my style though, description. I agree though, sometimes it can be a little too descriptive, a problem I'm gonna try and change - to make the stories a little faster
Murphy is the name of the Irish guy on t.v and is too stereotypically Irish, Jones is an Irish name and is a little different.
Murphy is the name of the Irish guy on t.v and is too stereotypically Irish, Jones is an Irish name and is a little different.
Meh.
Some of it was good, others, like the start and the inward struggle to open a window, too descriptive. It felt like we weren't getting anywhere.
Oh and Jones? That's more Indian than Irish.. Try Murphy or something instead. It wasn't that bad though.
Some of it was good, others, like the start and the inward struggle to open a window, too descriptive. It felt like we weren't getting anywhere.
Oh and Jones? That's more Indian than Irish.. Try Murphy or something instead. It wasn't that bad though.
I've been writing and changing this for a bit
Posted it ages ago, now putting newer version in the forum it belongs in - Creative writing
Enjoy - and try and read all ;)
* * *
It had been on a stiflingly hot morning at the office, the day of my first big assignment. That was a memory now, more than a week ago. The memory is still fresh in my mind though….
There was nothing for it; I was going to have to open the window. The Chicago air was choking me, as the air from my Computer swilled it round, sucking the cool out of it, turning it into a sickly dry annoyance. The air smelt of sweat and chewing gum as it wafted into my nose. I choked. I definitely had to open the window. Putting my hands on the desk, pushing off like an Olympic sprinter at the start block, except there was absolutely no adrenaline in this. My wooden chair grudgingly pushed back across the hard floor; creating a rasping scraping sound. I stood up and collected my familiar black jacket from across the back of the chair and shimmied it up onto my back; it reeked with the stench of sweat. I bounced the chair back into the desk with my stomach; collecting my bagel from the top of my computer’s monitor (still one of those old thick ones) I resignedly decided to go to the toilet on the way back from the window; to freshen up a little. I strode over the low-budget office floor to the big window and creaked it open; it was an old and stiff window.
I turned into Drako Samuels’ office, and through it to the toilet. I nodded to Drako on the way but he didn’t return it, he looked very stressed; running his hands through his balding brown hair and squinting through his thick black glasses; which emphasised his bushy eyebrows; and he looked like a squirrel.
Pushing open the toilet door I was greeted with that familiar stench of Urinal cakes and stale Urine. I eased my way across the suspiciously wet floor, to the sinks and greasy mirror. I had to use my hand to clean the dirty glass, which was showing its age; just like the face that I was greeted with when the mirror was clean. I splashed some cold water over my face and stared tiredly at my reflection. I tenderly poked at a purple bruise that I had gained in a chase a week ago. The bruise had faded now and was obscured by a wall of thick black stubble. I forlornly admired the ‘laughter lines’ spreading from my eyes and the grey lines which peppered my otherwise jet black hair. I was really starting to show my age.
As I was trudging back to my desk the annoying hawk-like Mrs. Brennan intercepted me. Mrs. Brennan was the ageing secretary to my Boss, Mr Davies. Mrs. Brennan was sixty but still dressed like that of a twenty year old, just plain wrong.
“Mr. Davies wants to see you in his office, now” she emphasised the ‘now’ for extra effect
Oh well I thought. “Ok” I said, my attention drawn by the fluorescent Kitten top Mrs. Brennan was sporting.
I knocked on the door of Mr Davies office. It’s all right for some I thought as I stared at the newly installed ornate brass plate on his door, inscribed with:
Mr B Davies
Manager
K – Kleaning Services ltd.
Well that was a laugh. K-Kleaning, our disguise against the outside world. We are spies pretending to be cleaners, pathetic.
“Come in” called a bored sounding voice.
“Good morning, sir”, I said brightly to Mr. Davies
“Is it?” he replied, “Have a seat” he said gesturing to a black leather chair.
Then he turned towards his seventh floor window view; which looked out across central Chicago. I decided to content myself by looking round his office. Beside me was a desk that had a Dell computer on it and a jar containing Cuban Cigars, they somehow made the room look classy. To my left was a bookcase up against the wall; it held a selection of Sherlock Holmes and Stephen King novels stacked haphazardly. His desk was littered with files and family pictures, a girl on a beach, a dog at a porch….
“So, do you know why you’re here?” He fired the question at me suddenly, as he swivelled from his window view.
I jumped slightly, jogged from a trance “No, sir”
“Cigarette?” he asked me, to my annoyance
“I quit a few weeks back.”
“Oh yeah, I remember now. Sorry” he replied, not sounding sorry at all.
“Its about your latest mission”
“Oh?” I said inquisitively
“It’s your first out of state mission, and it’s a big one”
“You mean a murder case? Where?” I said excitedly – this being my first murder case
“The ‘Big Apple” – NY city, you’re going to be investigating the murder of Toni Barker; she was there on her own waiting for a connecting flight to her weeks holiday in Philadelphia”
Mr. Davies handed me the pictures of this Toni Barker, why is it always the pretty ones? I thought. By the looks of things I was taking on the mission as Phil Penbrook, a tourist visiting New York City on his holidays. By the look of the wounds in Toni’s photo, she had been shot.
…That was nine days ago now, and here I am investigating one of the main suspects. I am currently progressing down the busy, world famous, Fifth Avenue, on a cold, crisp Tuesday morning. Everywhere I look there are yellow taxis whirring and humming around the streets like frantic worker bees returning to their Queen. Fencing in every street are majestic goliaths, the skyscrapers. Don’t get me wrong; of course I’d seen skyscrapers before, living in Chicago. Just never like this. The skyscrapers are giants, and I mean GIANTS. Skyscrapers in New York City majestically block your view in every direction, acupuncture needles piercing the morning air. The skyscrapers formed a sort of ethereal city in the sky; whilst on the ground I had to use all of my concentration to dodge the huge knots of people filling the streets in droves like Bison migrating. All of these people seemed to be going against me and I had to fight my way through the jostling crowd. The street was buzzing with the sound of voices filling the air, like chattering monkeys at the Zoo. The air smelt of warm peanuts wafting deliciously from vendors’ carts and a smoky, claustrophobic air associated with cities.
As I walked down the street I couldn’t help but notice Armani window displays, inwardly groaning with the price tags on some of their ‘50% off range’. I saw a café to my left as I was walking down the street ‘Café Europa’, and I thought that would be as good a place to plan my route as any. I pushed my way through the crowd once more and turned through the swinging doors that marked the entrance to ‘Café Europa’ and was grateful towards the rush of warm air that greeted my arrival. I was very happy to go into a place with central heating on this cold morning. I picked an unoccupied seat a couple of rows in front of the door, to my left. I brushed the crumbs of the last occupants breakfast off the tatty silver chair and sat down heavily. Overall the place was very clean; there was just some of the dirt synonymous with budget cafés. Deciding that I was hungrier than I thought, I signalled a waitress (an attractive brunette who looked like she was in her late twenties) and asked for a Bagel. The waitress acknowledged my order and went off to give it to the chef. I unfolded my New York City map that Mr. Davies had given me back at his office. Looking in the index I found the place I was looking for, Grand Central Station, flicking to the page indicated I looked for noticeable landmarks around it and found one; the Chrysler building. I waited for my Bagel to come then I thought I would make my way to the Chrysler building.
Two hours later I arrived at Grand Central Station, this was because I had underestimated the distance of the walk and because the Chrysler had not been as near to Grand Central as I first thought. I walked past a noisy crowd of workers, on strike, due to something about oysters; I wasn’t particularly interested anyway so I strode briskly past them (ignoring their petition) and through the large glass doors that were the entrance to the station.
I had just entered the grandest train station I’d ever seen in my life. The walls were lined with gold and there was a solid marble replica floor that squeaked joyously to each new foot that trampled over it. There was a giant clock in the centre of the hall, with a large staircase to either side of it. Everywhere was a network of escalators, electronic train timetables and little shops. There was a massive crystal chandelier sparkling from its vantage point hanging down from the ceiling and an intricate pattern which looked vaguely like a sun etched out in a brown colour in the centre of this massive hall. (To me it looked like an ‘x marks the spot’ for the chandelier to fall onto should it evade its harness)
I made my way to where my main suspect was usually sited. I walked down a small staircase to my right, to get to a little isolated café off the main plaza. I knew as I started to approach this why Bertie Jones always went here; there was no one else around; and for a hectically busy place like Grand Central’ that’s saying something. I replayed the information about Bertie Jones in my head. Son-in-law to the late Toni Barker; it was reported that he had always loved her and when I met him it wasn’t hard to see why; she was the perfect younger woman, whereas he was a middle-aged balding man with an annoying squint and permanent limp. Bertie Jones was also not an innocent man; he was convicted of rape charges two years previously and accused of sparking off a pub brawl which killed one man and seriously injured two others (he was never convicted of this however)
I saw Jones sitting at the café, squinting at a newspaper that was held only inches from his face and with a cigar (wafting smoke) clenched between his teeth. Jones was wearing an expensive looking pair of shiny Armani shoes and a maroon knitwear jumper, presumably with an expensive brand name. Jones was wearing a thick pair of glasses, trimmed with gold; another item of his clothing that looked like it was worth my year’s wages. Jones was nearly bald except for brown curly hair coming out either side of his head, making him look like a clown. Jones face had the impression of a very battered suitcase; like tough wrinkly leather.
I sat down opposite the man and he did not acknowledge my presence. The man before me looked like a very passive man; the sort that looked like everybody walked all over him, it was only from his profile that I knew this man was actually very dangerous. The thing that most people overlooked when they picked a fight with was that he was a high-ranking member of the IRA. He carried a gun and was very quick to use it. When Jones finally acknowledged my presence he spoke with a smug sounding Irish accent.
“Hello” he said in an almost sarcastic way
“Mr. Jones, I’m here about the death of Toni Barker, I was hoping you would shed some light on this mystery,” I said in a toneless voice, brandishing my police badge and a picture of Toni
“That’s nice,” he said, stunning me, he didn’t look at the picture
“Look at the picture” I persisted
“Nice looking woman”, he replied “She your girlfriend?”
“No she is a murder victim in a case you aren’t taking very seriously”
“Sorry I wasn’t listening” he retorted dryly
“Stop S******g with me” I said very clearly to him
His face became serious “It’s not very professional to lose your cool….officer”
“I know about your latest offence, particularly serious I gather; triple life sentence isn’t it?”
His accent lost its sarcastic tone “Bombings what the IRA is famous for, get used to it”
“I was going to offer you a deal to lower your sentence considerably”
“If I tell you anything and they find out my life will get a lot worse than prison”
“So your not interested?”
“Lets not be hasty, I didn’t say no, depends what you need to know…”
“Hard facts, who did it, why and under who’s order?”
“I can’t tell you that, but I can refer you to someone who you might call an ‘eyewitness’”
“Go on”
“The name Shane O’Leary mean anything to you?”
He had been on the Chicago wanted list for a very long time “Yes, where can I find him?”
“You’ll need to head over to Dublin for that”
I knew we could find out where he lives so I simply ended the conversation with “You’ve been very helpful, we’ll contact you on your new sentence times soon”.
With that I simply stood up and walked back towards the staircase I had come down, as deserted as ever. I know knew where the next part of this mission was…Dublin.
* * *
There you go
Discuss,
Jon
Posted it ages ago, now putting newer version in the forum it belongs in - Creative writing
Enjoy - and try and read all ;)
* * *
It had been on a stiflingly hot morning at the office, the day of my first big assignment. That was a memory now, more than a week ago. The memory is still fresh in my mind though….
There was nothing for it; I was going to have to open the window. The Chicago air was choking me, as the air from my Computer swilled it round, sucking the cool out of it, turning it into a sickly dry annoyance. The air smelt of sweat and chewing gum as it wafted into my nose. I choked. I definitely had to open the window. Putting my hands on the desk, pushing off like an Olympic sprinter at the start block, except there was absolutely no adrenaline in this. My wooden chair grudgingly pushed back across the hard floor; creating a rasping scraping sound. I stood up and collected my familiar black jacket from across the back of the chair and shimmied it up onto my back; it reeked with the stench of sweat. I bounced the chair back into the desk with my stomach; collecting my bagel from the top of my computer’s monitor (still one of those old thick ones) I resignedly decided to go to the toilet on the way back from the window; to freshen up a little. I strode over the low-budget office floor to the big window and creaked it open; it was an old and stiff window.
I turned into Drako Samuels’ office, and through it to the toilet. I nodded to Drako on the way but he didn’t return it, he looked very stressed; running his hands through his balding brown hair and squinting through his thick black glasses; which emphasised his bushy eyebrows; and he looked like a squirrel.
Pushing open the toilet door I was greeted with that familiar stench of Urinal cakes and stale Urine. I eased my way across the suspiciously wet floor, to the sinks and greasy mirror. I had to use my hand to clean the dirty glass, which was showing its age; just like the face that I was greeted with when the mirror was clean. I splashed some cold water over my face and stared tiredly at my reflection. I tenderly poked at a purple bruise that I had gained in a chase a week ago. The bruise had faded now and was obscured by a wall of thick black stubble. I forlornly admired the ‘laughter lines’ spreading from my eyes and the grey lines which peppered my otherwise jet black hair. I was really starting to show my age.
As I was trudging back to my desk the annoying hawk-like Mrs. Brennan intercepted me. Mrs. Brennan was the ageing secretary to my Boss, Mr Davies. Mrs. Brennan was sixty but still dressed like that of a twenty year old, just plain wrong.
“Mr. Davies wants to see you in his office, now” she emphasised the ‘now’ for extra effect
Oh well I thought. “Ok” I said, my attention drawn by the fluorescent Kitten top Mrs. Brennan was sporting.
I knocked on the door of Mr Davies office. It’s all right for some I thought as I stared at the newly installed ornate brass plate on his door, inscribed with:
Mr B Davies
Manager
K – Kleaning Services ltd.
Well that was a laugh. K-Kleaning, our disguise against the outside world. We are spies pretending to be cleaners, pathetic.
“Come in” called a bored sounding voice.
“Good morning, sir”, I said brightly to Mr. Davies
“Is it?” he replied, “Have a seat” he said gesturing to a black leather chair.
Then he turned towards his seventh floor window view; which looked out across central Chicago. I decided to content myself by looking round his office. Beside me was a desk that had a Dell computer on it and a jar containing Cuban Cigars, they somehow made the room look classy. To my left was a bookcase up against the wall; it held a selection of Sherlock Holmes and Stephen King novels stacked haphazardly. His desk was littered with files and family pictures, a girl on a beach, a dog at a porch….
“So, do you know why you’re here?” He fired the question at me suddenly, as he swivelled from his window view.
I jumped slightly, jogged from a trance “No, sir”
“Cigarette?” he asked me, to my annoyance
“I quit a few weeks back.”
“Oh yeah, I remember now. Sorry” he replied, not sounding sorry at all.
“Its about your latest mission”
“Oh?” I said inquisitively
“It’s your first out of state mission, and it’s a big one”
“You mean a murder case? Where?” I said excitedly – this being my first murder case
“The ‘Big Apple” – NY city, you’re going to be investigating the murder of Toni Barker; she was there on her own waiting for a connecting flight to her weeks holiday in Philadelphia”
Mr. Davies handed me the pictures of this Toni Barker, why is it always the pretty ones? I thought. By the looks of things I was taking on the mission as Phil Penbrook, a tourist visiting New York City on his holidays. By the look of the wounds in Toni’s photo, she had been shot.
…That was nine days ago now, and here I am investigating one of the main suspects. I am currently progressing down the busy, world famous, Fifth Avenue, on a cold, crisp Tuesday morning. Everywhere I look there are yellow taxis whirring and humming around the streets like frantic worker bees returning to their Queen. Fencing in every street are majestic goliaths, the skyscrapers. Don’t get me wrong; of course I’d seen skyscrapers before, living in Chicago. Just never like this. The skyscrapers are giants, and I mean GIANTS. Skyscrapers in New York City majestically block your view in every direction, acupuncture needles piercing the morning air. The skyscrapers formed a sort of ethereal city in the sky; whilst on the ground I had to use all of my concentration to dodge the huge knots of people filling the streets in droves like Bison migrating. All of these people seemed to be going against me and I had to fight my way through the jostling crowd. The street was buzzing with the sound of voices filling the air, like chattering monkeys at the Zoo. The air smelt of warm peanuts wafting deliciously from vendors’ carts and a smoky, claustrophobic air associated with cities.
As I walked down the street I couldn’t help but notice Armani window displays, inwardly groaning with the price tags on some of their ‘50% off range’. I saw a café to my left as I was walking down the street ‘Café Europa’, and I thought that would be as good a place to plan my route as any. I pushed my way through the crowd once more and turned through the swinging doors that marked the entrance to ‘Café Europa’ and was grateful towards the rush of warm air that greeted my arrival. I was very happy to go into a place with central heating on this cold morning. I picked an unoccupied seat a couple of rows in front of the door, to my left. I brushed the crumbs of the last occupants breakfast off the tatty silver chair and sat down heavily. Overall the place was very clean; there was just some of the dirt synonymous with budget cafés. Deciding that I was hungrier than I thought, I signalled a waitress (an attractive brunette who looked like she was in her late twenties) and asked for a Bagel. The waitress acknowledged my order and went off to give it to the chef. I unfolded my New York City map that Mr. Davies had given me back at his office. Looking in the index I found the place I was looking for, Grand Central Station, flicking to the page indicated I looked for noticeable landmarks around it and found one; the Chrysler building. I waited for my Bagel to come then I thought I would make my way to the Chrysler building.
Two hours later I arrived at Grand Central Station, this was because I had underestimated the distance of the walk and because the Chrysler had not been as near to Grand Central as I first thought. I walked past a noisy crowd of workers, on strike, due to something about oysters; I wasn’t particularly interested anyway so I strode briskly past them (ignoring their petition) and through the large glass doors that were the entrance to the station.
I had just entered the grandest train station I’d ever seen in my life. The walls were lined with gold and there was a solid marble replica floor that squeaked joyously to each new foot that trampled over it. There was a giant clock in the centre of the hall, with a large staircase to either side of it. Everywhere was a network of escalators, electronic train timetables and little shops. There was a massive crystal chandelier sparkling from its vantage point hanging down from the ceiling and an intricate pattern which looked vaguely like a sun etched out in a brown colour in the centre of this massive hall. (To me it looked like an ‘x marks the spot’ for the chandelier to fall onto should it evade its harness)
I made my way to where my main suspect was usually sited. I walked down a small staircase to my right, to get to a little isolated café off the main plaza. I knew as I started to approach this why Bertie Jones always went here; there was no one else around; and for a hectically busy place like Grand Central’ that’s saying something. I replayed the information about Bertie Jones in my head. Son-in-law to the late Toni Barker; it was reported that he had always loved her and when I met him it wasn’t hard to see why; she was the perfect younger woman, whereas he was a middle-aged balding man with an annoying squint and permanent limp. Bertie Jones was also not an innocent man; he was convicted of rape charges two years previously and accused of sparking off a pub brawl which killed one man and seriously injured two others (he was never convicted of this however)
I saw Jones sitting at the café, squinting at a newspaper that was held only inches from his face and with a cigar (wafting smoke) clenched between his teeth. Jones was wearing an expensive looking pair of shiny Armani shoes and a maroon knitwear jumper, presumably with an expensive brand name. Jones was wearing a thick pair of glasses, trimmed with gold; another item of his clothing that looked like it was worth my year’s wages. Jones was nearly bald except for brown curly hair coming out either side of his head, making him look like a clown. Jones face had the impression of a very battered suitcase; like tough wrinkly leather.
I sat down opposite the man and he did not acknowledge my presence. The man before me looked like a very passive man; the sort that looked like everybody walked all over him, it was only from his profile that I knew this man was actually very dangerous. The thing that most people overlooked when they picked a fight with was that he was a high-ranking member of the IRA. He carried a gun and was very quick to use it. When Jones finally acknowledged my presence he spoke with a smug sounding Irish accent.
“Hello” he said in an almost sarcastic way
“Mr. Jones, I’m here about the death of Toni Barker, I was hoping you would shed some light on this mystery,” I said in a toneless voice, brandishing my police badge and a picture of Toni
“That’s nice,” he said, stunning me, he didn’t look at the picture
“Look at the picture” I persisted
“Nice looking woman”, he replied “She your girlfriend?”
“No she is a murder victim in a case you aren’t taking very seriously”
“Sorry I wasn’t listening” he retorted dryly
“Stop S******g with me” I said very clearly to him
His face became serious “It’s not very professional to lose your cool….officer”
“I know about your latest offence, particularly serious I gather; triple life sentence isn’t it?”
His accent lost its sarcastic tone “Bombings what the IRA is famous for, get used to it”
“I was going to offer you a deal to lower your sentence considerably”
“If I tell you anything and they find out my life will get a lot worse than prison”
“So your not interested?”
“Lets not be hasty, I didn’t say no, depends what you need to know…”
“Hard facts, who did it, why and under who’s order?”
“I can’t tell you that, but I can refer you to someone who you might call an ‘eyewitness’”
“Go on”
“The name Shane O’Leary mean anything to you?”
He had been on the Chicago wanted list for a very long time “Yes, where can I find him?”
“You’ll need to head over to Dublin for that”
I knew we could find out where he lives so I simply ended the conversation with “You’ve been very helpful, we’ll contact you on your new sentence times soon”.
With that I simply stood up and walked back towards the staircase I had come down, as deserted as ever. I know knew where the next part of this mission was…Dublin.
* * *
There you go
Discuss,
Jon