Steven Smith's Blog, page 25

Christmas Time

Wow! What a year 2020 has been. The pandemic has upended life as we know it. I have been working from home since March. I’ve saved a fortune in petrol costs but I have really missed the social interactions with my wonderful team. And to cap it off, my job was made redundant in July. Thankfully I’ve managed to secure a new role to really hit the ground running come January. And if all of that wasn’t enough, I’ve been enjoying a long-term back issue. With Christmas just around the corner, I still have a lot to be proud of and a lot to be thankful for too. I want to take a moment to thank some of those that have helped me. I’ll add links to their Facebook groups or websites at the end.

Lately I have been working on a short story. It’s my contribution to a collection of short stories that will be published next year. There are some fantastic authors involved. I cannot wait to share more information with you all nearer the time and actually see my work in print!

I’ve had a bit of a break recently in terms of As the Crow Flies. I needed to focus my efforts on Chasing Shadows. Having completed my second draft of it, I sent it to a couple of authors I have had the good fortune to become friends with over recent years. I met both Richard Dee and A.K. Alliss through reviewing their books and a mutual love of books and writing. Both have offered advice on my work and loads of encouragement. With their help I am now working on refining it into a third draft. Hopefully this will be finished in short order, then it’ll be off to an editor for final tweaks and formatting. All being well I will be able to publish it early into 2021!

Aside from these two there are some other wonderful people I’d like to name check with thanks for their support in my work. Author Lizzie Chantree runs a wonderful Facebook group full of enthusiastic and encouraging people. She runs writing sprints to help motivate with writing and shares hints and tips. This group has really helped keep me going with regular writing.

Then there is the wonderful Jen Parker of Fuzzy Flamingo. She can help with book cover design for print and digital, editing services, typesetting and formatting and all-round encouragement and morale boosting. Though I’ve yet to work with her in a professional capacity, she has always been generous with her time and advice. Jen is also the person responsible for organising the collection of short stories I am contributing to. I can only imagine trying to keep all of us writers in line is not too dissimilar to wrangling a bunch of manic cats! She also runs the Fuzzy Flamingo Book Lovers Facebook group. Its a place for book lovers to come together and talk books. There is even a book club where participants can read the same book and get together on a Zoom call to discuss it.

And what post of thanks would be complete without mentioning my wife, Vanessa. She has helped encourage and motivate me to complete things, rather than wade through a sea of part-finished ideas. She also listens to me ramble on about various thoughts and ideas in relation to my writing!

Here are some links to the various people I’ve mentioned in this post in case you want to check any of them out.

Websites and Facebook Groups
Richard Dee – author of cozy sci-fi, sci-fi and steampunk. You can find his website here. He is also on GoodReads
A.K. Alliss – author of cyberpunk and fantasy novels on GoodReads
Lizzie Chantree – author and owner of the wonderful Facebook group Lizzie’s Book Group full of advice and support
Jen Parker – editor, cover designer, formatter and all-round good egg that’s always happy to help! If you need her professional services, head to the Fuzzy Flamingo website, or head over to the Fuzzy Flamingo Book Lovers Facebook group

All that’s left for me to do is to wish you all very merry Christmas!

Hideaway Fall Writing Challenge Day 21

Today’s story takes us on a trip to the circus.

***

The Autumn Fair was the talk of the town as summer drew to a close. A week long celebration of the changing of the season that heralded the run towards winter. It was an event marked on every calendar in every home in town, something children and adults alike looked forward to. Out on the edge of town a huge green space was given over to acres of entertainment for all.

Bright lights and upbeat music filled the evening sky. Stalls selling candy floss, hotdogs and burgers enticed guests in with the delicious scents of food and treats. Carnival games rang out with laughter and bells and music. Grossly oversized stuffed toys hung tantalisingly as prizes for winning games almost impossible to beat. A rollercoaster, bumper cars and an enormous ferris wheel offered amusements to the assembled crowds. The chilly air did nothing to dissuade the people of the town from coming out to enjoy the fair. 

Something new had joined the fair this year. An attraction never seen before, and yet everyone acted as though it had always been there. A mysterious tent, vast in size, covered in a red and white striped canvas. Whimsical music played from inside as an enigmatic voice called out, beckoning to all who would listen!

“Roll up! Roll up! Enter the Big Top for an evening of jolly japes and laughs galore! Roll up! Roll up!”

And roll up, they did. For the enormous tent had plenty enough seating for the whole town beneath its colourful covering. And night after night, many filed in. They purchased their beers and boxes of popcorn and took their seats. But this night was different. The final night of the fair promised a show like no other. The tent was filled with noise as the audience chattered excitedly. A silence fell suddenly. A man in a top hat and tails stood upon a plinth in the centre of the sawdust covered space.

“Welcome one! Welcome all! Tonight we have a very special performance for you all. Something of a farewell from us to you. Now, without further ado, it’s on with the show!” He removed his hat and gave a theatrical bow. As he stood, few noticed something off about him. His eyes were entirely black, and his wide smile was filled with sharp, pointed teeth.

The tent was filled by exotic beasts, though each had something not entirely right. Winged monkeys, zebras with sharp teeth and rolling eyes, birds flying up leathery wings. Acrobats with red eyes and long tails swung, and swooped, and dived, and somersaulted through the air. 

And the clowns. The clowns frollicked about, with gags and laughs aplenty. The squirted mysterious liquid from dead looking flowers into the giggling faces of the onlooking audience. Their feet, too large, sprouted gnarled sharp claws from the toes of the beaten leather. Their big, jolly smiles carved into the flesh of their faces. The skin puckered and twisted with knots of scars. Gaping holes in their cheeks ran with spiders darting in and out.

Yet none of it troubled the audience. The murky smoke in the tent seemed to lift their laughter to the point of delirium. The ringmaster stood once more upon his plinth. Feeding upon the laughter. Feeding upon the happiness. Feeding upon the souls.

And as mysteriously as the circus had arrived in town, by morning it was gone. The only sign it was ever there, the disembodied clothes of the audience, littering an empty plot. An autumnal wind stirred the dying leaves in the trees, as the town was shrouded in silence.

Hideaway Fall Writing Challenge Day 18

This next collage inspired a story that felt like a logical follow-on from yesterday.

***

Things hadn’t been quite as rosy as he had first thought. Sure, California was sunnier than Chicago. Easier on the eye, too. But he hadn’t hit the big time. He could get a booking at a bar without any issue. Some of the clubs, too. He’d even secured a two-week stint in one place. Room and board were covered, and he managed to make a decent wage after that was taken out. But it wasn’t what he wanted. He could join the hundreds of entertainers jobbing from week to week in the bars, clubs and small-time venues all over California, and he’d do okay. But he came all this way to be something more. He wanted to fire up his beloved ‘57 Bel Air, drop the ragtop and hit the highway listening to the rumble of the V8 in front of him and his latest hit single blaring from the radio.

He wanted to pack the seats of the Hollywood Bowl, take on a Las Vegas residency and fill stadiums all over the country. He wanted a record deal. He wanted to sit in a studio and record the songs he wrote in shabby little motel rooms. Buy a place on each coast and somewhere between, with a home studio and a staff on hand to make his life comfortable. That was his dream coming out to the West coast. Nothing had quite turned out as he had hoped though.

Sat in his dimly-lit room above a biker bar in a little town of no consequence somewhere in California, he tried to focus on writing the one song that would change his life. A small desk was pushed up against the window. It was illuminated by the flickering neon glow from the gaudy electric signage. The roar of V-Twin engines and the shouts of leather vest-clad, barrel stomached bikers brawling out in the parking lot served as his soundtrack. Balls of paper, screwed up and tossed about littered the floor around him. Nothing was coming to him. No inspiration. No flash in the dark. The neon light flickered and flashed on and off as the evening grew darker. Pictures on the wall showed the gaudy, flashy Las Vegas strip. Maybe that’d be where he would make his fortune.

~ ~ ~ ~

It had been two years since he had hopped back in his Bel Air and driven through the desert to the bright lights of Las Vegas. Sin City. He had hope, getting gigs seemed easier. In the entertainment capital, people came from all over to make their fortune and be entertained. It’s like they always say: what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. He was playing bigger venues, in front of bigger crowds for even bigger paychecks. But that mythical record deal never materialised.

Seduced by the clinking of coins, the musical call of chimes and the bright lights, he eventually turned his hand and his earnings to the slots and the tables of the many casinos. The Golden Nugget became a frequent haunt. Some days he lost. Some days he won. The wins captivated him. Celebrated one win by placing another bet. But then he started to chase his losses, too. He caught the eye of the wrong people. Those who ran the casinos. A man making losses becomes desperate. A desperate man will keep coming back to win. A desperate man was good for business.

He visited with increasing regularity. Chasing loss after loss. Until he won. And then won again. And again. Something was certainly going his way. Had he found Lady Luck? Of course not. He’d learned how to count the cards. Unfortunately his hot streak had only made him more noticeable. After a particularly successful night at the roulette wheel, he skipped and danced his way out to his car, whistling a joyous tune. In fact, so jubilant was he, that he failed to notice the three men following him. He didn’t notice them right behind him as he stashed the briefcase filled with dollars in the trunk. And he certainly didn’t notice them as the tire iron was brought down across the back of his skull. He was tossed roughly in the boot with his ill-gotten dollars, and the lid shut.

~ ~ ~ ~

The moon cast a pale silver glow over the desert. The neon lights of Las Vegas blazed in a sea of darkness. He came to, wrists and ankles bound, a throbbing sensation in his head. The sound of shovels carving into the dry, arid ground shook the mist from his mind.

“Wakey wakey, Mister Sleepy Head.”

“Wha-?”

An unpleasant chuckle chilled him. The man before him, dressed in a fine suit sat on the hood of his car, checking the chambers of his pistol.

“Shh shh shh! It’s okay. You’re confused. I’ll help. You got greedy, didn’t you?”

A pitiful effort at a denial caught in his throat.

“Oh come now, don’t play us for fools. We know you been tricking us. Counting the cards. How else does a man lose so much, then make such incredible wins? We been watching you.”

He was picked up roughly, dumped at the edge of a pit under the blazing glare of car headlights.

“Problem is, we just can’t let that shit slide. We let you go, every other sorry bastard’ll think they can play us for fools. No, that’ll never do. Gotta set an example.”

The suited man pushed up off the car, walking behind the kneeling, weeping figure by the crude pit. 

“After all,” he said, raising the gun, not an inch from the back of his head, “didn’t you know? The House always wins.” 

A deafening boom echoed across the desert. The body tumbled into the pit, already being covered with dirt. The man leant down, polishing sand off of his expensive shoes. He sat himself behind the wheel of the Bel Air and turned the key. As the V8 rumbled, he pulled onto the highway, headed towards the city, singing along as the radio played loudly.

“I fell into a burning ring of fire. I went down, down, down, and the flames went higher. And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire. The ring of fire.”

Hideaway Fall Writing Challenge Day 17

Today’s collage theme caught my eye. Please enjoy my short story that came from it.

***

It was an unusually sunny morning in Chicago. Typical. The sun would make an appearance on the day he was leaving. He had grown up there, knew it like the back of his hand. But it wasn’t for him. It’s not where he saw himself staying. No prospects there for him. He was heading out west. There, he was going to make it big. Make a name for himself. Not in Hollywood though, no, he was not an actor. Music, that was his life and soul. That, and his car. 

A 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air ragtop. Seafoam green they called the colour. It was huge. Long and wide, it had a presence. When he bought it, it was in a bit of a state. A few dings and scratches along its flanks needed beating straight. The engine sounded like it hadn’t seen an oil change in its life. Even less so, a good clean. He put what little money he had after buying it a year ago, into getting it back to better than showroom condition.

She was an absolute beauty. The paint was pristine. Under the sun that seafoam green colour was stunning. And the chrome, it seemed to continue for miles. Every individual piece was stripped off, polished and cleaned like never before and lovingly replaced. He took the wheels off and fully polished them until he could see himself. Then he polished them some more. To finish, he fitted white walls. The car was a work of art. And under the early morning sun in Chicago, it looked like a million dollars.

He dropped the ragtop, making the most of the sun and tossed his belongings on the backbench. Two medium duffle bags represented his entire life to date. He carefully placed his worn guitar on the passenger seat, buckling it in. It was going to be his ticket to success. He hopped in behind the wide steering wheel, pulled the collar of his jacket up against the wind and donned a pair of shades. Turning the key, the big Chevy V8 engine roared to life, growling as it idled. He looked at the house he was leaving behind one last time, shifted to drive and took one last spin through the city he had called home, before joining the road to his future. US Route 66.

~ ~ ~ ~

He was in no hurry. The gorgeous weather made the journey a dream. And the comfort within his car made it a pleasure. The long miles disappeared under the big white-walled tires, as the radio filled his world with music. Elvis Presley. Chuck Berry. Johnny Cash. Buddy Holly. Little Richard. Jerry Lee Lewis. Music had changed a lot. Gone were the clean-cut crooners, replaced by the edgy, sexy strains of rock and roll. It’s what fuelled him. By day he sat behind the wheel of his Bel Air belting out country classics and rock and roll hits from the last couple of decades. By night, he rolled up at the nearest roadside diner or bar. He’d rent a room and pay his way by playing a show for the late-night crowds. Who knows, he might even get noticed. But more importantly, he got to be up on stage, his guitar slung over his shoulder.

With every night he performed, he knew this was the life for him. The audience, the stage, the music. Leaving Chicago he was a little nervous, but every mile he drove his concerns faded. After days of driving, he pulled the car to the dusty shoulder as he approached Lake Havasu. He checked his map. California wasn’t too far off. He’d almost made it to the West Coast. He put his map away, turned on the radio and tuned the dial. He kicked up a rooster tail of dust as he rejoined the road as Johnny Cash sang Ring of Fire from the speakers.

Hideaway Fall Writing Challenge Day 16

Things have changed a little bit this week so I am finding my way again a little bit with the themes. No words to work with this time, just a small collage of images to take inspiration from. I’ve kept it short and simple, more of a story of thoughts, for this first run at a new challenge.

***

He had lost count of how many years it had been since he left home. Though he did remember it well. It was a grey, wet autumn morning. The sun was barely up. Waves crashed upon the shore, casting spray into the air. He had been outside by the harbour, looking out toward the Irish Sea, since the early hours. He was wet to the skin, and cold. Finally, he saw it. Setting anchor, way off the coast, an enormous merchant ship. Only the faintest glimmer of light from lanterns lining its sides. He got into a small, patched up rowing boat and pushed out into the dicey waters. 

The sky lightened, though only marginally as he rowed slowly and laboriously towards the ship. If it set off before he got to it, that would be it, his chance gone. He saw no prospects for him if he stayed in England. He knew he had to get away. A life at sea was the life for him. Whenever he worked in the bar, the stories the visiting sailors told captivated him. Tales of adventure, and rough seas, and enormous sea monsters, and the enchantingly beautiful mermaids. His reverie was broken by a shout. He’d made it. A rope ladder was dropped and he was hauled aboard.

“What the hell are you playin’ at lad?” A gruff sailor yelled as he sprawled on the rough timber deck. “You could’ve died! The ocean’s no place for a lad!”

“The land is not much better, sir. I can help. I’ll do anything.”

“Not my call, the captain’ll have the final say lad.”

~ ~ ~ ~

That day many years before changed his life. He hopped from ship to ship, jobbing for any crew that would have him. He travelled all over the world. But he could never have imagined that he would be living in paradise. The Caribbean had become his home, and had been for many years. He captained his own vessel, roaming the tropical waters, sometimes as far as the Gulf. He had a crew at his beck and call, ready to follow him no matter what. 

And his belief all those years ago as a boy, well they were right. A life at sea was the life for him. He had earned the kind of education he would never see back at home. He likely would have died in an accident in one of the many mines littering the countryside. He had learned how ships work, he had seen parts of the world that many wouldn’t. He’d had incredible adventures, and survived some of the diciest of scrapes.

And he and his crew, well they all wanted for nothing. They worked hard, and played harder. But for all their risks, the rewards were more than worth it. They were very fortunate in that respect. As he stood here now, he couldn’t help but find the amusement in how his story had played out. He had heard tales and shanties about the monsters of the ocean waiting to pounce. As he steered his ship around the cliffs, a Royal Navy ship flying the Union Jack came into view. As his men hoisted the black flag with white skull and crossbones and readied the cannons, it finally dawned on him. There were monsters lurking in the oceans. And he was one of them.

Hideaway Fall Writing Challenge Day 13 – Harrowing

I’m still playing catch up, but here is my offering for day 13. Somewhat disturbingly, I really enjoyed creating this short story!

***

“Micah Andrews! Come in please.” The doctor called, his head and torso appearing through the open door. No sooner had he appeared, he was gone again. Micah Andrews, deep, dark circles around his eyes, a grizzled salt and pepper stubble covered his face, hair unkempt, trudged into the doctor’s office. The kindly-faced doctor indicated he should take a seat. He didn’t need to be asked twice, slumping down into the chair.

“How can we help you today, Mister Andrews?” The doctor had a warm, soothing voice. Relaxing almost.

“I’m not sleeping.”

“I see. Poor sleep can be the result of any number of factors. Exercise. Diet. Caffeine intake. Stress. Your sleep environment. Some easy changes that will aid you greatly would be to take more exercise if you can. Drink water later in the day. Try to limit caffeine or alcohol heavy drinks later. Don’t eat a heavy meal before bed. And, of course, there’s blue light. Turn off the TV and phone a few hours before bed. Read a book. It will help tire your brain before you try to sleep.”

“Sorry Doctor, you misunderstand me. I’ve tried all of those. And believe me, I am so tired by the time I go to bed it is a chore to open my eyes, harder still to climb the stairs. I lay down and nothing. It’s not so much a case of poor sleep, or only a few hours. I am not sleeping at all.”

The doctor frowned. This sounded a little more serious. He sat back and considered his options carefully.

“There is one option. I’d rather not prescribe it, but in your case I am not certain I have many options left open to me.”

“At this point, I’m willing to try just about anything. I’m loath to admit it, but I am getting desperate.”

“I understand. Firstly, we need to cover some very important points. Do you drive, or operate heavy machinery?”

“I’m a writer, I work from home. Occasionally the coffee shop in town. I haven’t driven since the sleeplessness started, not worth the risk.”

“Very well. Now, there can be side effects, much like any medication. This particular medication can present a somewhat troubling side effect. It can manifest incredibly lucid hallucinations or dreams. We are hearing from some patients they are far more intense than anything previously seen. If you experience anything of this sort, and I must stress there is no guarantee you will, they will feel more real than anything else.”

“I understand, Doctor. But right now, I really need to try something. I need some sleep. Right now, a couple of hours will be huge for me.”

The doctor sighed heavily. He weighed the pros and cons, arriving at his decision. He pulled out his prescription pad. “Okay. I will prescribe you a one week course. Come back after that and we can review. I want to make sure it is right for you before I consider making it a longer term solution.” He scrawled out the details in an untidy script, handing it to Micah.

“I wish you all the best with this Mister Andrews. And do call if you experience any problems.”

“Thank you Doctor, I will.”

Micah headed out to get his prescription with more hope than he had felt in sometime.

~ ~ ~ ~

Micah had come to dread the late evening, anticipating laying in his bed, staring up at the ceiling until the alarm on his phone went off. Tonight was different. He took the pills as prescribed. Though he did wash it down with a shot of bourbon, hoping for the added, though ill advised, sleep boost. Dragging himself off to bed, he was asleep almost immediately.

~ ~ ~ ~

A bright light, not unlike a camera flash, caught his attention. He was in a nondescript room. Bland white walls, almost sterile. A stainless steel trolley occupied one corner of the room. A table stood next to it littered with all manner of unpleasant-looking implements. Scalpels, forceps, grips, bonesaws, butchery knives. They were tarnished and rusted. They looked as if they were caked in dried blood. Something on the trolley was covered in a once-white sheet, now stained a deep red. He walked over to the trolley, reached out his hand to remove the sheet. He stopped dead. His hands were slick with warm, sticky blood. He didn’t think it was his own. Another flash and he sat bolt upright in his bed. Drenched in sweat, he frantically checked his hands. Though there was no blood, he bolted for the shower. Micah scrubbed himself raw under scalding hot water.

~ ~ ~ ~

The bourbon. That must have been where he went wrong last night. But he slept. No, more than that. He had the best night’s sleep he could remember. The dream terrified him though. He could do without that. Forgoing anything alcoholic this time, he drank only water from mid-afternoon. That night, he took the pills and headed to bed with renewed hope. The bright flash visited him once again. This time the metal trolley was uncovered. Unidentifiable human remains and viscera covered the surface. Metal bowls held what looked like organs. He scrambled backwards knocking over the table of tools in his haste to get away. It was only now he noticed the translucent plastic sheet colouring the walls, floor and ceiling. It seemed as though blood had managed to get everywhere in a violent display. The second flash came, waking him from the gory scene.

~ ~ ~ ~

Gruesome dreams aside, Micah definitely noticed that he was sleeping more. He woke up feeling fresher, happier and more invigorated than he ever had. He was able to really focus on his writing. He was more productive than he had been for some months. He was ready for bed by the end of a long day. Once again, no sooner had his head touched the pillow than he was deeply asleep. The ominous flash came. He walked through a gap in the plastic sheet covering the room. A joyous tune caught his ear. Whistling. He was whistling. Looking down he wore a surgeon’s smock, apron and boots. His sleeves were rolled up. His right hand held a sharp, glistening scalpel. The trolley was empty this time. In the centre of the room was a large operating bed, with bright lamps positioned immediately above it.

Upon the bed was a body. He could not seem to make out who it was, the head covered with a coarse hessian sack. The figure, male, was bound ankle and wrist to the bed. He made no sound, but Micah could see the slow, shallow rise and fall of his chest. On the small table beside the bed stood a radio. He turned it on, as it started blaring out rock music. He felt buoyant, happy. He set to work. Two incisions – from shoulder to mid chest, then a straight cut from there down to just above the groin, a neat, precise Y. The figure suddenly shrieked and wailed in agony, even though it sounded as though he was gagged. 

Frowning deeply at the rude interruption, Micah turned the radio up louder. He flayed the flesh apart, clamping it back and exposing the ribcage. For a moment he could not help but marvel at the wonder of the human body. The rapid beating of the dark read heart. The frantic expansion and contraction of the pinkish lungs. So many delicate components, with so little protection. He continued in a methodical fashion, cracking open the ribs and exposing the organs. He hummed along with the music as he set about slowly removing every organ in turn. The agonised screams subsided the more Micah worked, until they fell silent. And then, another flash.

~ ~ ~ ~

Micah sat bolt upright, bathed in sweat again. He ran a hand through his messy hair. Something felt odd. Looking down at his hand, he saw it was covered in blood. Both his hands were. He leapt from the bed, sheets stained with blood. Stripping himself, he frantically searched for where the blood had come from. It became apparent it wasn’t his. A shower. He needed a shower. As he entered the bathroom, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. His face was coated in blood, still tacky. He showered, washing himself over and over and over. He felt as if he would never rid himself of the blood on his skin.

The doctor. He needed to speak to the doctor. Nothing was worth these dreams. Micah barely dried himself before he bolted for the phone, dialling the Doctor’s office.

“I am sorry, Mister Andrews. Doctor Michaels hasn’t been in for two days.”

“Can you try him at home? It really is critical I speak with him. It’s a matter of urgency.”

“We have, Mister Anderews. His wife hasn’t seen him in two days. He made a house call three nights ago and hasn’t been seen since.”

A cold dread filled his veins. He looked at the towel he had dropped on the floor, stained with the faintest tinge of blood. He dropped the phone with a clatter to the floor.

Hideaway Fall Writing Challenge Day 12 – Scintilla

A few days late, but here’s a dark story for day 12.

***

The shrill call of the phone tore through the dark bedroom. Its incessant noise dragged him from his slumber, and earned a groan of annoyance from his wife. A phone call at this frankly ungodly hour could never be good.

“Yeah? Uh huh. Send me the details.”

He didn’t sit up or even open his eyes. He put the phone back on his bedside table and rested his head once again. Wordlessly his wife pushed and shoved him out of the bed. He stood, waiting until he was certain he had awoken sufficiently for his feet to convey him to the en suite bathroom. Jumping in the shower, he scrubbed himself under the scalding water. Still not entirely awake, he turned the faucet all the way to the coldest setting. He gasped as it took his breath away. More awake now, he stepped out of the shower. He could hear the coffee maker doing its thing. Damn he loved modern technology. Though his wife would be irritated no end at the rude awakening, she had used the app on her phone to brew him a strong, black coffee ready for when he headed out. No detective enjoyed a late night call. Another murder. It made him question his faith in humanity.

As he dressed, he kissed her cheek and headed for the kitchen. Shoes on, he shrugged on his heavy winter coat, filled a flask with piping hot, black coffee and far more sugar than could be healthy, and headed out the door.

~ ~ ~ ~

The heavy snowfall of the previous day had not let up at all throughout the night. The roads were treacherous – covered with slush and unseen patches of black ice waiting to spin him off the road. The flask was clasped between his knees for easy drinking. The dome light, magnetically stuck to the roof, bathed the tree-lined road in a wash of red strobing round and around. It always struck him on the way to the scene of a murder, the red strobing light almost seemed distasteful, washing the area around his car in an ominous red colour, much like the blood he would almost inevitably be faced with.

He rode on through the darkness, the stereo turned up loud filling the car with the vocals of Brian Johnson and the heavy guitar riffs of Angus Young. It was his ritual. Blaring AC/DC at full volume helped him clear his mind. It left no room for thinking about anything. Turning into the residential road, the house was already secured. Yellow and black crime scene tape cordoned off the property. Marked cars filled the street with a kaleidoscope of blue and red light. Neighbours stood on their doorsteps in dressing robes and slippers. The cold, snowy weather and the early hour did nothing to deter them. This would be by far the most interesting thing discussed over coffee in the office.

As he stepped out of his car, coffee in hand, his long time partner, Detective Anderson joined him. 

“Another wonderful start to a wintry morning Mark.”

“It’s too early for that chirpy bullshit, Anderson. What do we have?”

“One occupant, forty seven. Lives alone. Chris Roberts. Wife has been called, but they separated years back. Two kids, both at college. Someone’ll call them.”

“So what are we thinking, home break-in gone wrong?”

“Come on in and see for yourself.” Anderson lifted the tape and waved Mark Kovacs under.

“He’s in the dining room,” Anderson offered.

The two detectives paused part way up the pathway, Kovacs casting the intense light from his LED flashlight across the lawn. It was a mess. Any prints were useless. The patchy lawn was torn to shreds, whether by first responders, paramedics, or officers setting up the cordon. Kovacs shook his head in disappointment, then stashed his light in his pocket. There would be no need for it under the eye-wateringly bright crime scene lamps that would be all over the property.

Blue slip-on boot covers on, the two detectives entered the house. The front room off to the left seemed untouched. It could use an introduction to a vacuum cleaner but otherwise, nothing seemed suspicious. The bathroom to the right likewise, a clean would not go amiss but everything seemed in place. Proceeding through the house everything seemed similar. Two bedrooms and a utility room all showed no indication they’d been ransacked by an opportunistic thief, or some lowlife looking for a way to pay for his next fix.

But the small kitchen-diner was a different story. The space was in disarray. Playing cards and poker chips scattered the table and floor. Cartons of chinese take-out and cans of cheap beer were littered all over the place. And right in the middle of all the chaos was the victim. Sprawled across the table dressed in a well worn Broncos jersey bearing the moniker MANNING across the shoulders and a huge number 16 on the back, and a tatty pair of sweatpants, was the now-cold corpse of Chris Roberts. Blood pooled under him, thick and sticky. A kitchen knife was wedged in his neck. The body was riddled with stab wounds. But that didn’t seem to be the cause of death. His head was a mass of swelling and bruises. He had clearly been bludgeoned with something sturdy.

“This is an angry, rage filled assault. I’d say he knew his attacker. The place is too neat for a burglary. And the level of trauma doesn’t stack up.” The ME offered an opinion unrequested.

“Thanks Doctor. Do we have any suspects yet, Anderson?”

“Not yet. We’re working through the usuals though – wife, lover, coworker, that kind of thing.”

“Anyone else live here? Who found him?”

“You’ll want to speak with Officer McNicholls. He’s out on the cordon.”

Detective Kovacs headed back through the house. He stopped at the door. There were signs of force on the door frame, but puzzlingly on the inside of the property. Bloody marks showed where hands had touched, though no prints would be lifted. It looked like gloves had been worn. Something didn’t add up.

“McNicholls. What happened here? Do we know who called it in?”

“Detective Kovacs. Well, yes, it was me.”

“You? What do you mean?”

“I was patrolling the area. There’s been a higher number of break-ins than usual. As I drove by everything looked off to me. I was certain something had happened, so I called it in and awaited back up. The garden, the front of the property, nothing looked right. As I approached the front door, there was evidence the door had clearly been forced.”

“Excellent work Officer. Were there any signs of the attacker still here?”

“Nothing I’m afraid.”

Kovacs nodded his understanding before heading back inside. A deep seated sense of dread settled in the pit of his stomach, and the first cold fingers of suspicion and worry reached into his brain. Anderson came over.

“McNicholls give you anything worthwhile?”

“Hmmm? Oh, no. Nothing.”

“What’s eating you partner?”

“He said he called it in. Saw that the garden and front of the house looked like something had gone down.”

“Huh? But there’s nothing odd that I saw out there.”

“Yeah and get this. He said he radioed it in the minute he saw signs of forced entry around the door.”

“Seems reasonable.”

“Nope. Come see this.” He led his partner to the door and showed him the signs of forced entry on the inside of the door frame.

“That’s not right. Should be on the outside, no?” Anderson went to open the door, clearly to look at the outside of the frame. Kovacs stopped him dead.

“No. Leave it for now.”

“Why not?”

Kovacs only shook his head.

“Wait. You don’t think McNicholls is somehow involved?”

“Follow the evidence. Let’s not say anything just yet. But keep in mind, you said yourself the outside looked normal. And the door has no sign of forcing on the outside.”

“Shit, what next?”

“I’m going with the ME. I need to know what was used to bludgeon Mister Roberts. That will give me more of a steer. I need someone to keep an eye on McNicholls. Something doesn’t feel right about this, nor him.”

“Man, I don’t like this. You got me worried now.”

“It may be nothing, Anderson. But right now, I got the beginnings of a bad feeling coming on.”