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Most of what I've written outside of songs has been third-person. Inspired by frogwoman I began something in first person. I'm not sure how long it's going to be but I like the beginning.

Top 100

Tonight, ladies and gentlemen – and our audience at home – is indeed the final, the very last top one hundred of twenty-seventy-two! Raucous cheers, gaudy brassy theme music is blaring all over it too, that fucking tune Bap Ba Baaa Ba, Bap-Ba-Ba-Baaa, Bap! They love it, those idiots. They actually go and watch these shows when they're--

Yes, tonight! The big reveal! After nearly a year's speculation – who will it be? Fucking fanfare again, and that idiot with his stupid cheesy grin pointing at pictures.

Fuck it, there I am. Piss and shit, I'm in the final. The final Top One Hundred. I've already heard it unofficially but now – well there it is. I'm fucking in. And now they're going to take everything from me--

--everything except the clothes they stand up in, yes indeed! And tonight is the night it all happens on-- Fuck that bloody fanfare again and again! --To-o-o-o-op One Hundred!

I can't stand it any more, I wave my hand and the screen goes dark and silent.

Dark and silent is no good, suddenly I'm in fills my mind. I'm in, in the top hundred! How? How did that happen when I fucking worked so hard to make sure it wouldn't? We had a plan – a fucking good plan! How the fuck did this happen?

I make some cry of rage – System asks, ''Lex, would you like me to call an emergency service?''

I laugh, proper laugh, but I say ''No thankyou, System--''

Fuck, am I going to lose System? I gasp, and System asks ''Are you certain, Lex? Your vital signs are--''

I shake my head, ''No, no!'' System powers down. Then I say, ''System – yeah, no, I mean, call Nembo, you know. Call now.''

''Of course, Lex.'' then System goes silent as it calls the number. Again that empty space and my mind kicks in, I'm in the top hundred. Clothes they stand up in, fuck I have to change. Put on something expensive. I get up, cross the room heading for the stairs. Up, up, bedroom, closet – best suit, all the trimmings. Clothes they stand up in, right – this lot should get me somewhere to live for a while at least – maybe even get me in somewhere--

Fuck, work. What did they say about that? Don't remember. Have to get a fucking job, shit!

''No answer from Nembo, Lex – should I keep trying?'' It's System, I'm already on the upstairs landing heading back down again, the voice makes me jump and I nearly fall down the stairs. I catch myself, curse myself and then jog down quick, best shoes clacking on the marble. I'll miss that sound. It'll be back one day.

''Try one more time, then call Bara – and keep trying Nembo regularly till the fucker answers!'' I laugh, but there's not a lot I can do if he won't speak to me in the next – how long? Way less than an hour, usually – sometimes only a few minutes. I shake my head, That bastard let me down, he's nowhere near top hundred – and I bet he takes a big wedge in fees for the transfers too--

A voice, young and female. ''Hello? Lex, that you? Shit, you're--''

''I fucking know!'' I interrupt, a bit too harsh really but this call could end any moment ''That's why I'm calling, now listen – I want you to remember this or write it down, ready?''

''Hold on--'' clicking noises.

''Fuck, Bara – just remember then, there's not time! Listen--''

''OK, got a pen, go on--''

Fucking Bara, fine. ''Fine – write this--'' I tell her the number, the name, the password. I listen to her do the transaction and she's just about finished when the line does dead, the lights flicker and fade, and I feel System powering down.

Fuck it – at least that lot is safe. It's fuck all, but it's something. When the time comes I can--

A movement alarm, sounds like a vehicle. I run to the window, pull the net to one side then let it fall back, peering through the fabric instead. It's a bit of a blur, but I can see enough to know what;'s happening. It's time. A van stopping outside, a big, dark blue monster of a fucking van. Sliding door on the side, roars open and figures jump out. Lights flicker on all around out there. Voices call.

They're here. Fuck, this is real, it's really happening.

Knock knock.

The door. They're at the fucking door now!

I have to fight them – someone has to, why not me! This isn't fair – I did everything, everything! They can't do it – someone has to stop it this time, every year people shout it has to stop. This year it will, it'll be stopped! I take a deep breath. Me? Can I be the one?

Knock knock knock.

Fuck. Last year it seemed so bloody easy. No problem, I thought, I'll manage. I've got a fucking team of accountants and number crunchers – shit, I even took on more of the parasitical fuckers – that alone should've taken enough from me to put me out of the way. Then there were the tutorials and the walkthroughs, that life coach drivel from Odo Senkai I paid thousands for, I followed it all--

Knock knock knock knock. Louder this time.

Knock knock knock knock again straight away after but it's like my brain freezes. Fight them? Run? I've seen how that ends – everyone's seen how that ends. I'm not ending like that – and live fucking streamed, too. Fuck that. See what happens next, at least.

So I walk to the door like I've got fuck all else to do – and there's no good reason not to, nothing good can happen if I don't. They smash it down, is what happens next – and then I just look like a snowflake. Fuck, that's really all I've got left then, my own fucking pride. Well, fuck this – let's do it then.

I reach out and pull open the front door, for the last time probably. Outside it's bright, four lights are flooding the whole terrace, and I can hear the drones moving about in the air. Shadows fleet across the light here and there, but what really hits home is the four shiny-armoured security guards, dripping with expandable weapons and hidden by dark visors. And the smile on the face of the shit fucker with the microphone. I hate that she's holding it, because I know it doesn't work, it's just a fucking prop. The sound drones are picking everything up better, and in wide-spectrum in four-jay. Fucking stupid microphone.

I peer into her eyes and yes, she's even got that VR glint in one. So now I'm on the show? And she still doesn't need the redundant antique mic as she steps up to me in the doorway of my beautiful home and pretends to speak into the absurd silver stick. ''Lex oh Lex, this year's number five! You know why we're here?''

I stare. She stares back and it's a harder stare than mine. She spits, ''Comrade, we are streaming, live. You know why we are here, yes?''

I nod. It's all I can manage. I feel like my heart is about to drop out through my fundament, if I try to speak out loud it probably will. Fight? Stupid to think I'd be the one to.

She says, "Then come, now!" and she reaches for my hand, flexing her fingers to grab. The silver-clad security stand aside and her hand fills my vision like something from a nightmare. I can't run. I can't fight. I have to take the hand.

I take it, and I'm lost. I take that hand and I'm agreeing to everything that happens next. I take that hand and it's all gone, everything's gone, everything I worked for, everything I made.

But I can't help myself. I don't want to die on a live stream. For the first time for as long as I remember, I'm not in charge. I'm having to do what they say – or die, right now.

The moment stretches out. I almost feel as if I could almost run, super speed they'd never catch me. I'd be halfway down the--

I must have raised my hand without meaning to, because she's grabbed it, and she's holding my fingers in a way I know I can't break out of without losing them.

No fight. No die. Not today – still, the life I know is over.
 
Here's another bit :thumbs:

* * *

''Look, Lex – if you're not careful it'll be you next time.'' She's talking to me like I don't even fucking know, I hate it when people do that.

They're not taking a fucking thing from me, I think, and I say so with a fine old sneer. ''Nah, not from me, there won't be a fucking thing left in my name by this time next year.'' Reconfiguring and re-routing income streams, creating the ID's who own the most expensive stuff, it's like second nature to us now. It's getting harder, but you know. We have resources, contacts.

Nembo's already explaining it to her, how he's on it, how he's been on it, what we're doing about it, always keeping the limit of wealth at bay. I can't be bothered to tell her how I fucking saw it twelve years ago when this whole fucked up Top Hundred shit started in the first place. I knew I'd have to get called up at some point – been getting richer very year since that first stake in Omni. Not called Omni back then, but that first blag – when we made it work – it hasn't stopped growing since, just up and up and up.

It's not even about Omni though – it's really about me. Me as the owner of it all. That's why there's all the rest – the community fronts and the liquid turnover fucking squeaky clean money laundries – shops, bars, cafes. There's the land trusts, the social enterprises and collective growers and housing associations to make it all look polite. But still, even with all the changes since Omni began, families live and generations work all in or on my fucking property.

Vacant places too, plenty of them. Keeps values up. Got to be careful these days with the ownership and vacancy laws – but we've got so many links in with community groups and social enterprises that we get all kinds of overlooked at audit time. Just stick a charity number on something – better still, a local council Greenstamp – and the dull fuckers at the tax office just move right on by.

Then there's the debt management, and they ignore that because we buy debt from state-funded enterprises! Fucking ridiculous – housing co-ops, community banks, councils, social service providers – we keep them afloat by buying their fucking debts off them, and we get state-backed payment guarantees, subsidized up the fucking backside!

Ah the fucking subisdies, yes – there's the infrastructure investments too – travel and transport syndicates working roadways, railways, airspace, oceans. Subsidies make it – them and the fucking deniability of everything. Crew not working, striking, sick? Let the schedule slide. Missed a shipping berth? Scuttle the ship. We save on wages and fees, we get insurance payouts – dwarfs the fucking compensation we give out. It's not even a fucking secret, it's there in every fucking news stream.

But what are the chavs going to do? Quit? Protest? We own half the fucking jobs they do and we keep the money in their pockets. I love it when they quit, like, See y' again when you need another fucking job! I love it when they protest, it makes them look like the ungrateful shits they are. The only concern is when they sue – but so far nobody's gone beyond a settlement, not with Omni. Our lawyers are the fucking best.

Anyway, what we lose there – and some of the settlements have been big – we get back and then some because of all the extra attention we get. In the news, every fucking channel! People gossip about us, joke about us – we get mentioned on panel shows and in fucking comedy routines – in all honesty that kind of social capital can't even be got legally. I fucking swear, every court case is a goldmine in the end because it's all fucking tax deductable too. The best things in life are tax deductable .. who said that? Was it me? Well fuck it, I'm a fucking guru now.

''Anyway – it's all coming down quick now,'' I finally break in over Nembo. He nods, acquiesces immediately. I love that, nobody fucking tells me to shut up, back off, anything. I go on, ''Everything, mind – no half measures. No building down this time, no more hiding behind fronts. Every connection gone, revoke all the old aliases and phase in the new ones, backdate the offshoring, liquidate and reinvest everything.''

''We can't just buy up our own this time though,'' He answers. He looks and sounds sharp today, and he goes on, ''We'll need to buy from outside the net now. Friendlies only, of course. but we have to. We have to cast some off too, and for real, it's the only way to cut enough, quick enough.'' Everyone's nodding at this, so it must be a good idea. Fuckers nod whatever I say – when Nembo talks they only agree if he's talking sense.

I'm thinking I want to do whatever it takes, even lose a lot – when the alternative is lose everything. I say this and Nembo nods. They all fucking nod, even the new girl – see? Whatever I fucking say. But what fucking bothers me isn't giving up ownerships – what I really hate is breaking Omni up in the process, it's a fucking travesty. Omni isn't just a business net, it's a fucking work of art, it's the tenth fucking wonder of the world – and so far we've managed to hold it together. We've built it all down, year by year – we've had to – but the ownerships and relationships have basically stayed intact and the net's kept its shape if not its size. But building down isn't an option any more, we have to lose some of the net.

Fuck. And every year I've been hiding my parts of it a little deeper, and and I fucking hate the trouble that comes with all that. I hate the fucking worry and insecurity, the negative fucking energy through my world every fucking year as we fix up for the next. The shit I've been through, ducking and diving and wrangling everything smaller, again and again, for what? Now we have to fucking cut it all up anyway?

Fuck this top hundred business. It's the same as taxes have been for fucking ever, it's a fucking scam that just lets the chavs take what leaders, strivers like me make. Fuck, I wasn't born into money – what I've got, I made. I worked for it, I earned it. Why are they allowed to take it all away? Stupid, lazy pigs. Fucking useless eaters.

They don't even understand what someone like me does for them. What I run, my net – what it all actually does. Without me, without my people, this country'd be a fucking mess. Well, a bigger fucking mess than it is now with these thieving commie scumbags in charge.

I'm too angry to talk so Nembo goes on for a while longer, then a few of the others. Plans slowly come together for the sorry fucking pathetic dismantling of Omni and my drop to not even the top thousand, if the figures are right.

Well, they'd fucking better be, because if this is all for nothing then I might just fucking kill somebody over it.
 
(While that grows and ferments, something else .. basically a true story)



"I fuckin' hate it," he says, "When they ask me How are ya, J?" J's voice was slurred from his two severe strokes, and as he sits he leans to his left, towards his weaker side. His left arm lies slack on his lap, but with his right he's holding my hand like something precious as he goes on bitterly, "How d'ya fuckin' think I am? I'm fucked, is how I am." He pauses, and a tear seeps from his right eye; but not from his left; he wipes his face and sniffs, then repeats, softly and with a shake of his head, "Fucked."

J's a good looking bloke, tall and in his day he was big. It's just over two years since his second stroke; not as bad as the first, a few weeks before, but it certainly broke whatever the first hadn't touched. He used to drink, ride a bike, play football. He liked a fight; he regrets it now, but "That's how I was," he shrugs with his right shoulder only, "My dad was a cunt, my mam was a cunt, everyone I fuckin' grew up with was a cunt. Except Ron."

"Ron?" I shake my head. "Who was Ron?" Jay here is more or less a stranger to me, I'm at work in the unit where he lives, I've come from an agency. This place is always understaffed, and it shows. J has the smallest, shittiest room in the place, ground floor, overlooking a bit of car park and we're sitting there after I've helped him shower and dress.

He nods, and for a moment his blue eyes gleam with some happy thought, though only half his mouth can turn up in a smile. "Ron," he explained, "Taught me how to fish. And how to drink. Bastard." He chuckles, wheezes, then coughs with a grimace and says no more. An awkward silence grows; the work with Jay is done, and normally at this point the staff would leave him to his radio or TV - all he has of his own in this room, apart from two drawers of clothes and his Manchester United football shirt.

I'm overcome with sudden grief; I see J's day stretching out, all his days stretching out full of pain and boredom. The company that owns the unit he lives in is large; one of those property companies that makes money from its portfolio by 'providing care to vulnerable adults' in its properties because the sums of money it earns from care contracts is vast. The company pays for the minimum staff legally allowed, which means anyone without specific, funded one-to-one hours gets basic care and nothing more. J spends his days wheeling himself around, sitting in one chair or another just watching life go by, or lying in bed with his radio on. He still watches football sometimes, but since his strokes he doesn't enjoy football as much as when he used to play. He can get in and out of a chair by himself, but when he does this he finds nobody ever spends any time with him. He pretends to need more help than he really needs, so he gets a little bit of company during the days.

But slowly, he really does need more help. "They fuckin' hate me here," he growls, "They call me a useless cunt."

"J, I've never heard anyone call you a useless cunt." I frown and shake my head; actually I have heard him referred to inside the unit office as a miserable cunt, but I decide against adding that.

In any case he sighs and insists, "They fuckin' hate me, that's why they ignore me. I piss myself and they hate it." He pauses again and then adds more quietly, "I fuckin' hate it."

I'm just listening to him, watching the sadness and loss and loneliness wrack his eyes; their blue deepens as they become redder and redder, and he finally asks, "D'you believe in God?"

I shrug. "Not really, J. Not when I look at the state of the world, I find it hard."

He nods, as if agreeing, but then replies, "I do." Then after a pause, adds, "I've got to, haven't I? Look at the fuckin' state of me. The only hope I've got is God, now."

* * *

"Yeah he's as religious as a brick," the senior chuckles when I tell her. "Don't worry about him - he's made his choices and now he's living with them."

I frown, sad as I reply, "But he's devastated - he says fucked - he just feels his life is over."

She laughs, "Oh, the life where he used to start fights and beat people up - that life? Yeah well, that's terrible."

I take a long breath, and let it go. Actually I'm lost for words and for a while I gaze at her. I think I'm looking for some sign that this is the dark humour of the unit office; where staff often debrief and decompress in safety among frequently challenging circumstances. But nothing comes back, this is evidently how she really feels. Finally, keeping it professional, I ask, "Does he have any physio at any time? I think he might feel a lot better if he got some physical exercise, I mean he's obviously a physical man, and you say he used to fight, I can see how being stuck like he is would be - well, incredibly difficult for him. He seems very depressed, honestly."

She stares at me for a moment without answering, then eventually replies in a tone that tells me this conversation has already gone on too long. "He opted out of physio when he came here."

Again, I expect more, but there is no more. Belatedly I nod. "Alright, fair enough. Is that in his care plan?"

She raises a brow, and suspicion sharpens her voice. "It may be, it was a couple of years ago now." And she turns back to her own paperwork. "When are you doing obs on Andrew?"

I take another deep breath, gently, and take my notebook from my pocket to check. "In half an hour - I'm just doing J's notes."

The senior makes a noncommittal Mmhmm, then after a short pause as I write a bit more about the personal care and conversation with J, I add, "Does he ever go fishing? You can hire boats for a few hours down at the harbour - does he ever do that, does anyone do it with him?"

She turns, and there's definite annoyance in her eyes now, as she snaps, "He used to have one-to-one time with a support worker but he didn't engage with that so he lost it. If you want to come and volunteer, and try and get him out, feel free." Then she gives me a tight-lipped smile, and returns to her work.

I return to my notes and soon they're finished. I leave the office quietly, and I don't say any more about J for the rest of the day.

* * *

The next day I get a phone call from my manager. The unit are reporting inappropriate conversations with service users and staff, and they don't want me back any more.
 
The latest chapter from part 3 of my dystopian story I've been writing for years lol. the only thing I'm happy enough so far to think it will definitely go in the book :cool:
mojo pixy DotCommunist

‘Za zdorovye,’ I say, placing our cocktails down on the table. It’s still warm enough to sit on the balcony of the 8th-floor bar in Moscow. ‘Happy anniversary my love.’

‘Yeah, ‘appy anniversary, Tal,’ Lou says. ‘Ow many years is it now? 16 or summink?’

‘Something like that.’ I sit down. ‘How was the first day at the new job?’

‘It were all right,’ Lou says. ‘Pretty good, like. The kids are great. Like 8 to 9 year old so like second year of school. They knows how to read an' that in Russian better than what I was in English back then. Today were just like gettin’ to know the class, doin’ introductions an’ that.’

She grins., takes out a cigarette from the packet. Everyone smokes here and they cost almost nothing, a few hundred roubles. These days we’re maybe getting through a pack every two weeks between us. Not great, but an improvement on the punishment our lungs were taking when we arrived on the tarmac at Domodedovo airport, exhausted, traumatised and dirty. I’ll stop at some point, I ’m not exactly planning on dying any time soon.

‘Proud of you too, sweet. ‘Ow was your day?’

‘Work was fine, you know, the usual. They want to send me on an upholstery course. So many babushkas coming in with chairs that need fixing and sofas. I can do it but itd be good to be a pro.’

‘You'll smash it, babe,’ Lou says, taking a sip from her cocktail. ‘If you become like a trained...like a trained upholsterer I’ll tell everyone in our flats and at the old college to come get theirs done cos I dunno if you seen the state of some of beds an' settees and that.’

‘Well, forget the neighbours, everything in Mark’s apartment needs replaced. That place is a house of horrors.’

‘You knows when like, Svetlana's uncle died like. They inherited that stuffed bear an’ all them military helmets an' that from that lil farm. An’ Trace won’t visit cos she says it gives ‘er the creeps. Surely Svetlana’s gonna get rid of it? She got to. It’s like two years since he died. Maybe she likes seein' that. I wouldn’t. Maybe Mark likes it.’

‘That map of Kosovo she’s got on the fridge. Mate, it’s not coming back.’

‘Tell me bout it, fuckin’ seriously. She’s so nice though, you don’t wanna say nothin' cos you’ll just upset ‘er for no reason, an’ I get it like, it’s cos of ‘er family history.’

‘Oh, I would,’ I say, remembering the ‘discussion' I had about Balkan politics when Lou and I visited Belgrade three years ago. Having fled the horrors of Franjo Tudjman's regime as a child, Lou's sister in law can be something of a Serb nationalist, although she would deny this. We tease her she’s one of the kinder, gentler variety who arent into idolising war criminals from the 90s. Her and Mark have two little girls, Darica and Sharon. Their second kid's named after Lou's mum.

‘She's not that bad. But yeah, tread carefully I guess.’

‘How's Trace?’

‘She's all right, yeah. Fed up with livin' in Serbia. Still misses the UK like. It’s cos she got housed in some lil town far away from anythin' an' they ain’t been able to move, but honestly? She don’t always help herself. Three of her kids are supportin' her cos she ain’t workin', dont know the language after like, twelve years. Cos they got there with Mark an' Svetlana just after Mum’s suicide.’ Lou swallows. ‘Like, I worry bout ‘er, Tal. She don’t cook, she dont eat properly. She just eats like burekas and pizzas an' ice cream.'

‘Speaking of which, where’s our food?’ Lou shrugs. ‘Yeah. That’s bad.’

‘She still ain’t been vaccinated,’ Lou lowers her voice. ‘An' I were like, sorry sis but if you won’t do that it ain’t no surprise you can’t travel nowhere.’

‘Against Nipah?’ I say. The Nipah Virus outbreak last year was pretty well contained, and wasn’t much of a pandemic, not like the one in 2020, most countries never had a case. But with a 25% infection fatality rate I wasn’t taking any chances, got the vaccine as soon as it was available. Dug out a stash of FFP3 face masks. There were 400 cases in Moscow and out of those, 100 people died before it was contained. We never went into full lockdown and we never had a case where I live but a few blocks of flats in the city were literally sealed shut for months.

‘Nah, not just against Nipah. Against Covid. Against anythin'. She don’t believe in it. She told me she never had it, even when Mum were still alive.’ Lou shakes her head. ‘I love me sister but it’s such a bloody nightmare gettin' er to do anythin'.’

‘Well, then,’ I shrug. ‘Guess she won’t be coming here.’

The waiter comes over and finally brings us the pizzas. This bar has the best pizza I’ve had in Russia by a long way. I took Lou to a cheap hotel in Moscow for the weekend; options are limited in Orekhyevo-Zuevo. ‘Pazhalusta, devushki,’ he says.

‘Spasibo,’ I say, hoping my accent won’t give me away as someone to be treated with suspicion or pitied. It invariably does though.

‘You from England?’ he says in heavily accented English.

‘Po-russky, po-russky,’ I say, not wanting to draw attention to myself. ‘Da.’

‘How long have you lived in Russia?’ he says in Russian. ‘You were refugee in this country? You’re working here?’

‘Eight years,’ I say, my voice guarded. ‘Yeah, I was, but this is my home now. I’m working.’

‘I was in England once before their new government took it over and the war started,’ the waiter says. ‘I went to London. It’s very sad. I didn’t expect such a thing to happen there. But hey, you like it here? You like Russia?’

‘I love it,’ I nod.

‘Oh, I’m glad. Well. Enjoy your food, ladies,’ he says cheerfully. Once his back is turned I slide my fingers into Lou’s hand across the table. She gives me a blissful look and we start eating. Fuck this pizza is good. I’m on 66,000 roubles per month, Lou's on 59,000, we can afford this sort of thing semi regularly now. We might manage to go to Lake Baikal next year if I get this qualification and my salary goes up accordingly.

‘Thanks for takin' me out, babe,’ Lou says. ‘I needed this, like.’

‘No worries,’ I say. ‘Do you want a drink somewhere else before we get back to the hotel? Theres a place opened up at Kievskaya that isnt so bad.’

‘Why not. We ain’t done this in how long. I don’t wanna get trashed tho like. Ain't we meetin' like, Kadeem an' that tomorrow?’

‘I don’t think he will care,’ I shrug. Kadeem ended up in Russia just after we did. He’s now teaching in one of the mosques, training to be an imam like his dad, and working part time as a security guard for a supermarket. Life hasn’t been easy for him. As a Muslim refugee he was treated with suspicion when he got here, he was followed by the FSB, monitored endlessly, treated as a flight risk. It doesn’t matter that he saved my life when I was kidnapped by Daesh eight years ago. The fact he had seen combat in any capacity made it worse, no matter who it was against.

‘Be good to see ‘im,’ Lou says, as a Russian rap song from the mid 2000s comes over the speakers. ‘Lookin' forward to ‘im doin' ‘is chicken biryani for us. That’s what he said he were gonna make.’

‘Sick,’ I say as we pay up and leave the bar. Kadeem is a great cook. We pick up our coats, call the lift and wait to walk out into the street. General Moroz, the Russian winter, is coming. But he’s not here yet.

‘I’m so, so proud of you,’ I say to Lou as we walk down the escalator to the metro.

‘Couldna done it without you,’ she says. ‘We got this.’
 
Our heroes are former fighters in an antifa militia, the uk having been taken over by a fascist party, and I'm setting up their 'normal' life which is about to go completely wrong, having fled to Russia during the civil war lol. I'm not expecting it to be published but mostly writing it for myself and people who read the first 2.
 
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Thought I better introduce the new villain :D

'Da?' I says.

'Oh, good afternoon. Is that Lou?' Kinda like, thrown by her asking me that in English. Sounds like she's from back home, from the southeast. Like, if they knows, they knows, so why ask me? I just goes, 'Um, might be?'

'Lou, I hope you don't mind me contacting you. My name's Hayley Squires. I'm a journalist from Gonzar, an independent news site. We're working on a story about the English civil war. I wondered if you would be able to give me a few minutes of your time?'

'No,' I says. My blood run cold. I puts her on speaker so Tal and everyone can hear. I puts me forkful back on the plate. 'Nah, sorry. I'm busy. 'Ow did you get this number?'

She don't reply. 'Tell me, 'ow'd you get this number?'
 
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This is a scene with one of the main villains from Book 1 and a woman who is a Jewish spy acting as a Nazi. He's not happy with the Nazi leadership...


Ante is lying in a luxurious looking double bed. He's sitting up but looks tired and ill. His hair is longer and untidier than I remember it, and he's without his dark glasses. It's more than he gave his victims, I remind myself, imagining 10 year old Svetlana Markovic running for her life as her village burned behind her.

'Hey, Ante,' I say. 'How are things?'

'You know, you're the first one who came. The first one.' Ante coughs and grasps at a glass of water on the table. He really doesn't look well.

'Yeah, I should have been in touch sooner,' I say, pulling up a chair by his bed. I have a text from someone; the reporter. Task 2 can rest for now; the thought makes me queasy and every day I have to think about it, the horror becomes worse.

Ante shakes his head. 'You know, these BPF so-called leaders are like Jews with their double agenda. They treat you the best, they wine and dine you, they say here is a place where the white man will be king. But they lie. If you're not born in England, after one or two years, they don't want to know about you. It don't matter what you believe and what kind of sacrifice you made for the Aryan race. They are like Jews, they use you for a while and...cast you out.'

I nod, as Ante laughs, 'You think Duncan Stone is a Jew? Look, this fucking nose he has.'

We might be being recorded. A disaffected foreign Party member is going to be a target for hostile intelligence activity, no matter how 'Aryan' he is, how passionately he believes in the 14 words. Someone's going to be watching him. I make a non committal noise. 'Oh. Come on. You can laugh, Penelope. They don't care about order and purity. Let homosexuals walk through the street together if they are both white? Betray your comrades, it don't matter.'

Ante's sister is watching from the doorway. She looks exhausted. I fiddle with my top, turn on my mic. Its hard to know how to deal with his rage and hatred. But his anger will be useful. He saw the higher ranks of the BPF from the inside. He's privy to state secrets. If he was inclined, he could tell me some shit.

'I think your sister's worried about you. She wants you to go back home with her.'

'I'll be sent to jail,' Ante snaps, coughing again, and anger flashes in his eyes. 'I'm not putting myself in the hands of traitors. They have extradition agreement with the Serbs, they are after money, don't care about those who served their homeland. You understand this? I don't recognize that court. I won't surrender.'

He sighs. 'Shut the door please. I don't want Lucija hearing this.'

I get up and close his huge gold-plated door. I almost hit my head on the glass chandelier which hangs from the ceiling, with its crystal angels and birds. Ante coughs; in the light I notice his skin has taken on a yellowish colour. He's clearly very ill. Much more so than he let on.

'I'm dying, Penelope. You want to know why?' He reaches for a glass of water. Of course I know; it has to do with the 'accusations' I spent the morning writing about from the WHO.

Under the BPF's Healthy People, Healthy Britain scheme, you cannot go to any hospital more than 5 times in one year, or visit the GP more than 10 times in a year, without passing a genetic assessment. I haven't been to a doctor, a dentist or even a pharmacist since they seized power. It simply isn't worth the risk.

'I failed their test. I don't have right genetics for these cancer treatments, I had already 5 visits to hospital, I can't have any more till next year. They say I have some kind of recessive gene for causing cancer, so they leave it. Imagine this. After I gave my blood and sweat to this movement, to help them create an all white country. An all Aryan country! And now I'm weak. I'm a burden. That's what they have said about me in their letter.' He grabs the side of the duvet hard as he speaks. A vein in the side of his cheek throbs.

'After what I gave them. After everything I did,' Ante spits.

'I'm sorry, mate.' I take a deep breath. It's hard not to be horrified, not believe it's unfair. He's a Nazi, and this is the brutal system he fought for all his life, his utopia being thrown right back in his face. Maybe it's all the more shocking because he's a committed Nazi.

I'm complicit in this. I must never kid myself otherwise. I can never forget.

'We have to be careful what we say, but yep, I think the Party has lost its way.' I lean forward.

'I don't think all the higher ups have the interests of the white race at heart, let's be blunt about it. Some of that clique around the Leader are just interested in power, driving fast cars and getting rich. They know long time members like you value race and nation above all and it threatens them.' My heart is pounding. Voicing criticism of the BPF beyond the odd joke is something I rapidly became too scared to do even with my own family a few weeks in. Even when I was forced out of my home, even when we started getting bricks through the window.

'Yes. Oh, I can tell many, many things about our 'Glorious Leader', all his ministers, these advisers, they don't want - how you say, some average plebs to know,' Ante says. He perks up, the thought seeming to give him a new lease of life. My heart pounds so hard I almost can't hear him.

'Oh, yeah? Tell me. I'm interested.'
 
I figured there must be a writing thread somehow. I've picked up my novel I've been on and off for 6 years or so and I'm actually at 35k words now. I did an online writing challenge thing earlier this year and it did get me to a realisation when I was stuck on feeling like I'd reached the conclusion of the story at nothing like novel length. I realised that what I'd written (about 25k words at that point) was just the introduction of the characters and scenario - there was a whole other set of adventures I hadn't thought of yet to come between where I'd got to the protagonists being able to actually solve the situation.

It's a tale of faeries, changelings, a weird teenage girl and her mates, an abandoned psychiatric hospital, and here's some of their first visit.

After a few minutes of giggling and shrieking, they were on the other side. The sun was low above the shredded roof of Burrowhill at the crest of the slope they stood on, casting a dismal light upon what looked like some doomed kingdom. The scrubby grass reached up to their knees for the most part, but some paths appeared to have been trodden through it by other intrepid invaders. Cidonie worried for a moment who might be there and whether they would be kindly disposed to other people on what they might consider their patch,

Two vast wings of the building stretched from the once-grand entrance, its cupola fallen in itself, leaving rib-like support structures exposed. The three-storey columns either side of the boarded up door, which held up a great, triangular Greek portico, were splashed with graffiti to a surprising height, and any windows where glass remained were smashed. Tangly, brownish creepers of some kind climbed the entranceway stairs and wound up the columns and to the lintels of the tall windows, blocked with ugly grey breezeblocks. Ineffectual signs about ‘DANGEROUS STRUCTURE’ and ‘DO NOT ENTER’ were scattered about the ground and walls.

As they came closer, Cidonie could make out the wording of posters plastered around to doorway, almost faded white though once they would have been garishly fluorescent: ‘DREAMCATCHER PARTY: 29 MAY 1994: IF YOU KNOW, YOU’LL BE THERE’ in thick, black writing.

Rising behind the skeleton of the dome was a square tower, topped with arches where bells of the chapel would once have rung. A flock of crows took off from the tower, cawing irritably. Various skeletonised roofs dotted the occasional cupola or dormer window stretched back in the wings beyond.

They came to a once-pretty, round building with arched timbers, as if it had pretensions to be sound kind of miniature Elizabethan farmhouse.

‘I think this was an old well’ Cidonie said, recalling the model.

‘It looks well old,’ quipped Brooke, sticking out her tongue.

About 100 metres away from that was a delicate gazebo, remarkably intact but the insides caked in graffiti and all manner of objects that she didn’t want to identify on its floor. Someone had left some cushions inside, but they had rotted with dark green dampness.

She tried to imagine what it would have been like for Burrowhill’s ‘guests’ wandering about these gardens. Those that were allowed, that is. She could see where the ground was cut away around the building to create a space where light might enter basement rooms – had they been cells for inmates?

Above the first two floors, a balcony of sorts ran along the wings, much of its balustrade now shattered and Cidonie wondered if it was just for show, or whether the patients might have been allowed to walk up and down them to gaze down the hill towards what would have been distant London. For a moment she had a vision of the town like the knee-high grass, springing up buildings from tiny seeds, faster and faster as it overwhelmed the land…

‘Cid? You zoning out there, sweetie?’ came Brooke’s voice.
Cidonie felt a little dizzy – she felt as though she really had seen it. Had stood there as the city swept towards her – 100 years in a few seconds.
‘It’s just…’ she couldn’t finish the sentence.
Emma’s camera clicked in the background.

‘Come on, Corey said there’s a way into the building here…’ said Brooke, gesturing towards the wing to their left.

They came to the broken railings beside the building, and Brooke pointed to a leaf-choked stairway heading to the basement level. At the bottom was what looked like the door to a shed, a rusted lock holding it shut. Brooke simply pulled the lock open, swung the door wide and a damp smell wafted from within the building.

It was surprisingly light inside, after they went through a short, narrow passageway and found themselves in a long one garlanded with old wires and pipes. Leaves had got inside, lining the base of the wall as far as they could see.
‘Are there… lights in here?’ wondered Cidonie
‘Not that I can see.’ said Brooke, although the whole corridor seemed lit by a faint blue-ish glow.
Emma said nothing, but fiddled furiously with the settings on the camera to try and catch the strange quality of light. They had been out with Emma when she had the camera before and had become well used to the state she descended into while trying to get a shot just so, and had learned not to try to talk to her or hurry her up.
‘Let’s go towards the entrance hall, there’s a way up to it’ continued Brooke, sounding slightly overly cheerful. They turned a corner, leaving Emma snapping obsessively behind them.

At the end of the next stretch of corridor, they saw a dim light shining down a concrete stairwell and began to climb, emerging in the grand foyer.

The double-height windows at the front of the building may have been covered with breezeblocks, but tall windows on the other side of the space had been uncovered, or never covered in the first place, letting in the light of the now-falling sun, which picked out the occasional sparkle of mosaic tiles either side of the curving double staircase.

‘Uhm… wow!’ whispered Brooke, though unsure who she was being quiet for.
Cidonie tried to make out the mosaics. Most of the foyer was liberally graffitied, but the ‘artists’ seemed to have seen fit to mostly leave the mosaics alone. To the left of the stairs, Cidonie could just make out a the dim figure of a woman the height of one storey in a toga-type dress, with a jar pouring water resting on her shoulder. A crown of once-golden leaves encircled her head, and although the tiles making one eye had fallen quite away, the other was surprisingly vivid with compassion and reassurance.

To the other side was an older man with a grey beard, also in a toga, holding some kind of twined staff, a doctor perhaps. He didn’t look as though he had great bedside manner.

After they had stood there just taking it in, Brooke pushed aside some of the wood nailed rather uselessly across the bottom of the stairs and then said … ‘Uh… where’s E?’

‘E?’ called Cidonie.

No reply.

‘Emma?’ yelled Brooke.

They looked at one another and set off at a run down the concrete steps to the basement level; they turned the corner but no sign of Emma. They stopped to catch their breath and when it got back to normal they heard it – the click of Emma’s camera, coming from further down the corridor, where they found her crouched in a small cell where the door was swung open.

‘E!’ tutted Brooke, ‘Tell us when you’re going to go totally in the opposite direction in an abandoned looney bin when it’s getting dark!’
‘Sh!’ responded Emma sharply, ‘I want to take a picture of this… thingy.’
‘A… thingy?’ asked Cidonie doubtfully.
‘Yeah, something left here wrapped in newspaper. I just like that you can’t tell what it is.’
‘Shall we see, oh go on!’ said Brooke

There was indeed a ‘thingy’ wrapped in brown-stained newspaper on the floor of the room, beside a small set of rusting metal drawers and a three-legged plastic chair.

‘Well, lemme get this right first.’ Said Emma, holding up a hand.

After a few frustrating minutes she was satisfied.

‘You going to open it then?’ asked Brooke.
‘You were the one who wanted to open it!’ said Emma
‘I’ll open it.’ said Cidonie, although she didn’t know why she said it; she had to confess that she felt freaked out by the thought of it.
‘G’wan, then.’ said Brooke

Cidonie leaned into it, trying to make out what it could be. It was the wrong shape and too small for a head or a hand or any kind of body part probably, but what about the inner bits? She pushed the thought away, reached out, and unwrapped the newspaper.

It was a porcelain cat. A smugly grinning black cat that fitted in her palm, with a four-leaf clover around its neck.
Click to expand...
 
My Jewish spy character may have got a camp guard killed by the other Nazis lol


'Well, Matthias claims it couldn't have been him, he claims someone must have taken his key and then replaced it as he couldn't find it at the weekend. And he says he was working from home so he didn't notice it was missing. Some defence,' my boss Graham Carter scoffs. Any guilt I feel at throwing Matthias under the bus is tempered by thoughts of his sickening crimes.

I've killed him, haven't I.

'Quite frankly if you don't notice something as important as that is missing, you've got no business in the Party,' I say. 'I'd question your mental capacity.'

'Well, quite,' Graham says. 'I wonder what the genetics tests will turn up. You know his sister converted to Judaism and moved to New York?'

'I did not.' Graham sounds scandalised. Every single BPF official has something in their past or some 'weakness' that the Party could throw back in their face the second they step out of line, especially those in Matthias' line of work. Men and women who believe they have no future without the Party.

I need to learn what his is.

'Yeah, well Matthias kept that quiet, didn't he? And you know he's originally Danish, which makes him sound from a racial point of view. But the Danish government won't send us his parents' medical records.'

'Do you think he could seriously be a spy as opposed to just careless?' I ask him.

'Well, I've got no solid evidence, and it's not my department, but, he must be,' Graham says. 'The question is, whether there's more, how far the rot goes in the Party.'

Oh, there are definitely more. 'Agent 14.'
 
The scene I posted above a few weeks ago I deleted and rewrote. Our hero fitted up a Nazi camp guard for being a spy but he was up to no good anyway. This part of the story is gonna be like a westminister Tory sleaze scandal but with Nazis lol, playing on the Nazis dislike of each other to bring them down :D It's meant to be confusing because she spends all her time saying Nazi shit but she's Jewish so she fucking hates all of them :D

--

'Well, that Matthias Hansen character was not our man after all,' my boss Gordon Carter says, sipping a cup of coffee in the kitchen of the office. 'That takes the wind out of Puzikova's hate campaign somewhat, doesn't it.'

'It certainly takes off some of the pressure from that direction,' I say. As much as I distrust the Russian president I'd rather not refer to her with 'it' pronouns, or any pronouns at all. Someone of my status casually using 'she/her' for Natalya Puzikova more than a few times would not look great.

'A good thing we caught him, though. Otherwise he'd have carried on stealing from the Party with his little clique. Enriching themselves with valuables which turned up at the facility rather than reporting them by Party channels and thinking of their race.'

'Yes, there's corruption in our ranks,' I say, leaning against the kitchen cupboard. Myself and Carter are on the same page for once, although maybe he's jealous, because he never got any of his hands on anything. Working in those places gives you the opportunity to sell the possessions of the poor souls who end up there and keep the spoils yourself, rather than informing the Party so the Leader and his cronies can have what rightfully belonged to their victims. Why else do people end up working there?

Matthias won't be walking free, though, baruch Hashem. He's not a spy, just looking at 10 to 15 years inside for fraud, theft of Party property and over £500,000 that hasn't been recovered. I've got to take positivity where I can get it and this news lifts my spirits, makes me feel better. At least I'm mostly out of danger from that source. I think back to that Lou Jeffreys testimony from ten years ago about his previous workplace, the Bright Dawn Rehabilitation Centre. If a quarter of it is true, something very, very bad should happen to him.

'I'd say so, Penelope. Some of these so called Party colleagues, you'd hardly know they were the same race as you and me, would you? It's like, we're still infected with an unclean spirit.' Oh, tell me more about this 'unclean spirit'. Between you, and people like Ante and Liza who are convinced Matthias is innocent...

'What unites the Party is hatred, Agent. It's a fatal weakness. Because deep down, they hate each other too.'

'Definitely. I wonder what the genetics tests are going to show up for this little coterie. It almost doesn't matter. Bringing disgrace to the Party's name.' My coffee has cooled down enough to drink.

'Well, the Danish government won't release Hansen's medical records, and we're missing a family tree on his father's side. Which is convenient. Isn't it? The difference between 10 years inside, and...you know.' Carter rolls his eyes. Gotcha. Nice to have it on record from someone who's never visited those places. Pretty strong evidence for a future trial, wouldn't you say?

'Yeah, you wonder who keeps putting these people in these jobs, don't you?' I say, sipping my coffee.

'Oh yeah. I have my ideas. Do you want a drink this evening, Penelope? I've got a few hours before I meet the Minister.'

'I'd love to,' I say. This could be a gold mine.
 
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This is part of my latest scene - I seem to have written myself into a situation where the Russian army recruit our heroes into fighting an upcoming war against Nazi England:eek: :D mojo pixy

'Privet, Louise,' the younger one goes. 'My name is Lieutenant Jonathan Belimvire, this is my commanding officer Major Konstantin Tatmedov. As you can see, we are in the Russian army. You speak Russian?'

'Da, konechno.'

'Good, so let's speak Russian, then,' Jonathan says. 'I heard you lost your job. I'm very sorry.'

'Yeah, but it's bullshit - I'm gonna fight it.' How did he know? Nosy bugger musta been listening.

'Louise, myself and Jonathan have read your file. 9 years ago, you took part in a raid against ISIS in the course of the English civil war. You rescued several prisoners including your partner Talisha Morton and your comrade Nthabiseng Mabaklekle. You showed unbelievable bravery.' Konstantin's moustache is going up and down as he's chatting away. He ain't wearing a mask. Sweat creeps down me back. Leaning back against the bed post like.

'Yeah, before it all went tits up for us.' The soldiers nod. Konstantin's proper staring at me.

'How would you feel if I said, we have another job for you?' Shaking me head. I can't fight. I ain't gonna pass a medical. Cut off's 33 and that's me couple months time. Russia only just let women join front lines and no fucking way I'm doing that again, I ain't fast enough, I'd not keep up ... and what bout Tal? She's knocking on 35. I ain't leaving her, going back, having her watch RTK1 alone in agony. I ain't doing that. Summink life or death, we gotta do it together.

'You can't be on front line duties, you're not out of hospital. Well, not yet anyway,' Jonathan goes. That's reassuring innit!

'Louise, I know you and your partner were both captured by different enemy forces. You suffered unimaginably. I know you lost those closest to you. I know you would have fought to the end if there was any hope of victory,' Konstantin says. I'm tearing up now.

'I left people behind, Tal, I let em die,' I says, sobbing. Can't get up off of the floor. I dropped a plate. Can't stop crying. I ain't well. I gotta get help. I don't speak Russian. I'm useless, I can't do nothing, can't even read a sign on a street or pay for summink in a shop. I wanna go home. I wanna go bed and not wake up.

'Oh, my love. We didn't have a choice,' she says.

'Nobody knows when, but everyone in the Russian army knows war is coming,' Konstantin says.

We gotta stop em hurting and killing people. Enough's enough. It gotta end now.

'Go on, then,' I says. 'What you got. What can we do?'
 
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Lol FINALLY a scene with dead Nazis :D

The first real sign I get that something is badly wrong is that I can't use my key to get out of my apartment in the morning. It has stopped working. It's happened to Liza several times and once to my other housemate Ella who's gone home for a while. I'm usually the one who phones the engineer for a replacement. I haven't seen Liza for a day or two; it makes me worried.

My secret phone goes off when I walk back into my room. I read the message and feel light headed and dizzy. Lev's text says, 'Terrible news. @chai613 is dead. They know, P. Get out NOW.'

My regular phone has lost its signal, but I have an earlier message from Carter asking me what happened in my performance last night, saying I was awful. There's one from Liza too. She's sent me a photo. I stare at it for a minute, my hands shaking, nausea rising in my throat. I can't stop the tears. I hold onto the chair rail to keep myself steady. I'm going to be sick.

'Don't hurt my baby, LOL!' Liza's written as a caption.

Unable to stop myself, I hurl the phone at the mirror in the hallway, screaming with pain and horror. The glass shatters into pieces on the ground. Sobbing, I walk over and scrape it into a pile with my bare hands until I'm bleeding. I'm sorry, Mum. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you. I push my way into Liza's room. She's left the door unlocked again. Then I drop the pile of broken glass onto her bed. I pick up the biggest shard and start cutting into her pillows and duvet until feathers start flying everywhere. I empty the pillows out onto the bed. I'm so sorry. Liza you're horrible. You're sick.

Doesn't she ever open a window in here? It's so stuffy. I take a screwdriver from the table and remove Liza's hard drive from her laptop, put it in my back pocket. Then I open the window and throw the laptop outside. It smashes on the pavement two floors down. She's got loads of black lipstick and nail polish and I take the lids off and throw them outside too. I walk to Liza's cupboard and start grabbing everything out of it, jeans, dresses and goth outfits. I throw them on the floor, unable to stop crying.

All I can think about is my mum on that table, being shoved on that floor like SHE was nothing.

I need the toilet, well, you know what? I'll go here. I pull my pants down and squat over Liza's clothes, feel the hot liquid run down my legs, unable to stop myself. How does it feel to have your clothes pissed on by a Jew, bitch? Hanukkah starts in a few days, here's your Hanukkah miracle! I wipe myself on one of her t-shirts from one of Liza's favourite bands, 'Final Solution.' A feather falls onto my foot. I need to get out, I need to run, I can't stay here, what am I even doing?

'Final solution? See how well that worked out for you last time,' I sob. I walk back into my room and wash my hands, clean myself up, change my clothes to a nondescript hoodie, a black puffer jacket and some old trainers, putting the dirty ones into a suitcase that I've already packed. Then I clear out the safe and put the contents in my shoulder bag along with everything important plus another change of clothes, leaving the gun until last. They'll be here soon. I tuck it into the inside of my jacket pocket, knowing I'll need it. I open my bedroom window upwards and lodge the suitcase between the panes. It faces onto a grassy patch with trees, near a footpath. If I aim to hit the nearest tree when I jump perhaps it can cushion my fall.

'I can't believe I lived with a Jew for two years!' Liza whines somewhere downstairs.

The sound of her voice gets closer. I can't tell how many there are. Three? Four? 'I shared a bathroom with it. It ate my food! Thank God you believe me! And the lift is broken, this is so annoying.'

'Don't worry, we believe you,' a man says. 'Wow. It kept that quiet. Didn't it.'

I can hear their boots on the staircase, getting louder.I give the suitcase a shove and it falls out of the window. It smacks the tree before hitting the ground. The zip has caught on one of the branches and clothes spill out. If my key has stopped working, my car won't work either, will it? It belongs to the Party. The door opens. They're inside. I can't move, I'm frozen to the spot. I force my legs through the gap in the window and start sliding myself outside. It's a narrow space. My hands are shaking so much, I'm going to slip.

'Knowledge of the Jew, that's what separates the true National Socialist from someone who once saw a headline in a paper and thought, there might be a few too many immigrants,' I hear one of them saying. Come on, Penina, get all the way outside, make yourself jump. I pull my head through so I'm sitting on the ledge. I grab onto the drainpipe and pull myself up, so I'm standing up, facing towards the tree. Penina, don't be so frightened. Try and have faith in G-d. Try and believe that He will protect you.

'Oh no! Look what it's done to my room! It's pissed all over my dresses!' Liza shrieks.

'Where is it?'

'In here.'

Go. I launch myself through the air, try to dive towards the huge tree. My jacket snags on the branch and I feel the fabric rip. The wood hits me in the face. I feel my nose start bleeding. I try to grip the side of the trunk to fall down slower but I can't. I have to run now. I have to leave everything in the suitcase. Only clothes and makeup. I'll be OK. I sprint as fast as I can down the pathway towards the woods, away from town. It's cold.

Just keep running, keep running and don't stop.

'Where are you,' I write but Lev doesn't reply. As I run down through the woodland an old couple turn to look at me. I freeze and shrink back behind a tree until they're gone. I feel for the gun in my jacket. You're breathing too loud, Penina. Hold your breath. I press myself against the tree trunk, tears in my eyes, until I can't hear anyone else.

'Dump this phone now, P. They'll break the GPS encryption and be able to track you if they haven't already. Try and get to the taxi rank in the centre of town. Go to the pink taxi by bus stop L5. Ask for the motorway services at junction 15 on the M4. If you can't by 12pm, go straight there and wait by the bins.'

'Message received.' I don't wait to be told. I have a contact number, sewn into the inside of my jacket. I take the SIM card out and bury it under a pile of leaves. I throw the phone into the woods as far as it will go. Nobody knows if I'm dead or alive. The BPF could have captured me. Does anyone still care? I walk as far away from the main path as I can. The leaves crunch against my shoes. Penelope Fenton wouldn't be seen dead wearing these messy clothes. She wouldn't be seen dead walking here. I miss Lev. I'll probably never get to meet him. Am I going to be the last Jew in the country?

As I approach the edge of the woodland there are helicopters and dogs barking. I duck behind a hedge and wait. I pull out my little hand mirror from my bag and try to brush the leaves from my hair.

A mad thought comes to me. Ante doesn't know. He has his own reasons for hating the Party. Maybe I could ask him to let me hide there. I dismiss the thought as soon as it comes. My original revulsion smacks me in the face. He's a paedophile. I know what he did to Svetlana Markovic and the others. I've seen what's on his computer; he's lucky the worst that happened to him was being blamed for the botched raid, lucky some Party higher ups have equally depraved appetites. I blackmailed him over the pictures I found; he never knew it was me. I helped get him fired for something else, although we 'get on' and he doesn't suspect. After the cancer diagnosis I even felt guilty.

And if there's anything he hates more than Serb and Roma people it's Jews.

He still has connections high up in the Party he claims hate him. Now his cancer decision has been overturned he might be feeling better disposed towards them.

I can't risk it.

Slowly I walk towards the path out of the woods. I pull my scarf tightly around my neck. The shard of broken glass is still in my back pocket. The taxi rank is this way. What if someone recognizes me?

'Do you reckon that's it, there?' someone is saying behind me. I pretend I haven't heard and walk more quickly towards the gate.

'Stop right there,' a man's voice says. 'National Defence Forces. Turn around.'

I reach into my inside pocket. No way am I letting them take me alive. There's no way I'll get out alive. I feel for the gun metal and pull it out by the handle, load it then turn around. I've never had to do this before. I've watched videos of it but it's not the same.

'Shit. It's got a gun.'

I point the revolver at the NDF member closest to me and squeeze the trigger down hard. The recoil almost knocks me off my feet and I skid back onto the leaves, almost collapse onto the ground and a tree root but manage to stay upright. He's lying on the path, covered in mud but not injured. As he begins to get up I fire again at his head. He falls back and stops moving. The other two start firing back. I only have four more rounds. As one of the other NDF paramilitary members raises his gun I run backwards and press the trigger a third time. A bullet whizzes past me as I start running again. It hits a tree. My feet pound the soil. I've got a stitch. It cuts into me like a knife. I fire once more and the shooting stops. There’s a thud behind me. My arms ache as I run.

I run further down I don’t know many hundreds of metres through the woodland into an area thick with trees. I can hear dogs and helicopters, someone shouting. I can't stay here. There's a field at the end of the fence where horses are grazing. The grass is long by the edge. I slide under the fence and push myself into the long grass, my clothes becoming wet and cold. My fingers are becoming numb. I press them into my jacket and try to stay still.

'Sometimes I feel sad, love, don't you,' an old man says a few metres away. 'All those shops we used to go to. All those Indian restaurants. All that food we used to get from around the world. All those people are gone. Don't you wonder what happened to them?'

'I think we all know what happened, Geoffrey,' a woman replies. 'Stop talking about it. People might hear us. We've got to think of Claudia's job. We've got to think about the baby.'

'Things can't go on like this forever, Susan,' the old man says, his voice getting quieter.

'Be quiet, love, think of the grandkids! Don't you ever think about someone apart from yourself?' I hold my breath and wait for them to pass. A slug crawls inches from my face. The temperature is dropping. I get to my knees and start crawling through the grass towards the other end of the field. I can hear the motorway. A helicopter is overhead and I freeze. Junction 15 must be 9 or 10 miles away at least. It's 11.29, there will be police all over town looking for me. I won't be getting in any taxi. The bins? What bins?

I have to go there directly, it's my only chance.
 
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The Lie of the Ancient Mariner

Now I am immortalised, I get to see it
play across the ancient page forever.
Me the bad cess and black pariah.
He the one I ruined with my murder.
Fickle world that turns a truth
over for a lie.

Beforetime, I would navigate magnetically.
Majestic spread tip to tip, southern winds would
never grip my heart in cold embrace.
I rarely had to stir to make my way.
A compass to discover.
Young and barely feathered.
I should never have gone near that cursèd man

though it is hard to resist a siren song.
A morsel here and there, a handful of crumbs,
kindly speech and company so sweet.
They were lost and I couldn’t leave them be,
but sailors are such superstitious beings;
rituals for everything, they scare so easily

so I gave them safe passage
through the misty snow and ice,
my gift to them for charity,
a use for second sight.
Repaid with deadly arrow, a target I became,
then fathoms nine I plunged beneath
and silent sang the waves.

When linen sagged like withered skin
beneath the copper sky,
and southern wind had died a death,
only then did they decide
what he had done was wrong;
blamed me for unspoken crime
with shrivelled roots for tongues.

Worst to come, they hung me from
the neck of my assassin.
Forced my feathers to his skin,
even death could not deliver
comfort. I felt their words
move through the air to heaven
where my soul had settled.

My fault, my fault! My stolen breath
was blamed for all misfortune.
Not foolishness, ill-captaincy,
error, chance or unforeseen.
Just evil me, a passing bird,
terror dressed in feathers.

Ballads, ballads, everywhere
and no good word for me.
I should have let them sink
beneath the misty snow and sea.
No compass I discovered.
Forever young, barely feathered,

for me the one he ruined with my murder
and he the bad cess and black pariah!
 
in the dance

we are one
chained communication
not manacled, locked
in meditative mantra

linked
submitting to a
deliquescing lexicon
how does my heartbeat replicate

this song? how do my limbs know
how to sing along?
fingers mimic intricate design
i am triangle, ribbonesque

wrapped within a miracle
of sun spots, ink blots, euphoric drops
and kicks, surrendering skin
to a polyphonic chant

rapt in melody
molten, pouring into remedy
nothing else matters
but community

we are river we are rain
we are tidal waves of bass
in between, overhead
kaleidoscopic feathers

the weather here is gorgeous
we are fortified
divine
dining out on sunshine

we dissolve
washed in the grace of good company
liniment, balm
we are lightning in arc

strings on a harp
plucked by fingers of a maestro
we are disco we are rave
we are save-me congregation

and my smile lights the morning sky
twinkles with the stars
we are venus we are mars
we are earthed
once again
in the dance
we are one
We are One
 
Here's a bit from the story I'm doing. I'm so shit with finishing things but I really hope I finish this one. The plot is about a bull in Spain that escapes from a bullfight and ends up in the home of animal crazy homicide detective, who's life is chaotic to say the least :D I've heavily based the main villain on a certain bloodsport loving British Tory.

mojo pixy has read some early drafts of scenes but not this bit

---

Would Dr Alfonso think less of her now he knew she was a police officer? It was a strange thought. Rita barely knew him, and she wasn't usually shy about what she did for a living. Besides, he'd see it as just doing his job. Helping animals that needed help.

Except this was different.

What she and Dr Alfonso were doing could not be more illegal. There were so many things they could be charged under. Theft. Or maybe unlicensed keeping of livestock. Was there anyone she could tell about this? She wasn't married to the job, but outside work, she didn't have that many friends any more, and they had dropped away almost without her realising. She had lost touch with so many people due to the frequent late nights and unsociable shifts. Being a cop separated her from other people, in what they talked about, what they did, even when it was off duty. And it separated them from her.

She hadn't been at the scene of the murder at the park. But she had to go and break the news to the guy's family. His name was Juan Stefano and he had been homeless for a long time. He'd recently got a job and been given a new flat, his life was starting to get on track again. His mum had seemed to collapse in on herself and his dad had just sat there. Most of the gang had been arrested. Charged. And hopefully getting put away for a long time. She had almost cried just then after that phone call with Maria, thinking about the family and how devastated they had been, and then thinking about her own. Had she been too harsh on her sister? And then Pepelito had peed in her bed and knocked over her cabinet. It almost made her feel better. Seeing the worst of human nature made her love animals even more. There was an innocence there.

In spite of herself she smiled.

Rita parked up, a short distance from the murder scene, a luxury hotel. She hadn't been in trouble with the law in her life, she passed the police exams with flying colours. She had never even had a speeding ticket. Her breath caught in her throat. She might not go to jail, but her career would be over. 'Detective hid escaped fighting bull in her living room, court hears.'

Smothering the walls and floor with cleaning products to get rid of poor Pepelito's blood last night certainly made her feel like a murderer covering up a crime scene. She thought of his obvious fear tonight, the pleading way he had looked at her yesterday with the terrible barbs stuck in his back. Of course she had helped him, humans were cruel enough to each other so why add to all the misery.

She locked the car and headed to join her colleagues at the AC by Marriott, giving the car a quick glance, to ensure there were no bits of straw, sand, animal hair or grass on the seats. She felt like a criminal.

Technically, she was.

The scene at Room 306 was cold and clinical. The victim, a woman in her 50s, had been dead just over 24 hours. She lay under crisp white bedsheets, looked almost peaceful. But this was very misleading. There were scratches on her arms. She had clearly put up a fight. Rita pulled back the bedsheets and what she saw made her nauseous. The woman had been stabbed several times in the stomach and was covered in bruises. Yet, the sheets and the clothes she was wearing were entirely free of blood.

'Any ID?' Rita asked one of the other officers on the scene. His name was Jesus Dominguez. They had worked together for 15 years.

'Yeah, British national from Edinburgh called Caroline McKenzie. 42 years old. She was the UK director of a retailer specialising in air conditioning units, washing machines, that sort of thing. On her first day here, she had a meeting with her Spanish counterpart. But aside from that, she was here for a 3 week holiday. She was meant to visit her son in Barcelona, but never turned up, so he rang the hotel. She was meant to check out today, but never did. She had a train ticket but never got on.' This was very different to the murder in the park, whose suspects were currently sat in the cells, telling everything to her colleagues. All murders were unpleasant, sad and squalid in their own ways. But this crime scene filled her with a deeper unease.

It made no sense.

Unlike Juan Stefano, the woman lying in front of them clearly had money. She was a company director who had flown first class from the UK for a 3 week holiday, and booked an expensive hotel. She had planned to go and travel around and visit her son. And this is how she ended up after only her second day.

'We'll need confirmation on this but the time of death looks like it was some time around 15.00 yesterday. She never checked out, and her son rang the hotel because she was meant to get an early train and meet him at 12 today, and she didn't show up.' 15.00, Rita thought. Pepelito had wandered into the house just before 14.00, hadn't he? A sickening thought emerged, but she pushed it to the back of her mind.

'Either the killer deserves a Nobel Prize for cleaning up the scene, or she wasn't killed here,' Rita said.

'Yeah, doesn't look like it,' Dominguez said, gesturing to the Luminol on the walls, which showed no traces of blood at all. What would her own house look like? To her horror, they'd missed a bit last night and some of the lower part of the wall looked like a butcher's shop. Rita took another look at Caroline. Her other clothes were being bagged up and taken as evidence. Crime scene tape surrounded the door. She had a brief look in the bathroom. It also looked pristine.

Rita stepped away from the bedroom and into the corridor. Dominguez followed her. 'Is everything OK? You look like shit if you don't mind me saying.'

'I could say the same thing, Jesus. I'm OK, my life's the usual chaotic mess it always is.' Dominguez had been one of the arresting officers on the scene of the Juan Stefano murder today. He looked pale, like it had broken him. His arm was slightly shaking.

'Go home, mate,' Rita said. 'Get some rest, I'll see you tomorrow.'

She walked down to the hotel reception, marched up to the desk and said, 'I need a list of your staff, and everyone who was a guest at the hotel around 15.00 yesterday. Plus anyone who may have had access to the area, maintenance companies and so on.'

The woman at the check in desk was clearly in her teens or early 20s but looked as though she was about 12. When Rita spoke to her she looked like she was going to have a panic attack. Rita's first job had been in a hotel and she had felt much the same way. 'S-sure. Let me get them for you.'

Caroline's son Iain was sitting on an uncomfortable looking and very new leather chair in the lobby, one of those expensive ones with no back. After Rita had got the papers she approached him.

'I'm so sorry,' she said in English, holding out her hand.

'Thanks,' he said in a slight Scottish accent. He wasn't crying but he looked stunned. Lost. 'It's just a complete shock really. Mum had been planning this trip for ages. And when I couldn't get hold of her and she didn't turn up - well. It wasn't like her. She's a career woman and always taught us to be punctual. She's a great person. Me and her and my brother, we went to Morocco last year, she was strict when we were kids but now, she's - Sorry. She was...'

'It's OK.' His voice cracked as she laid a hand on his.

'Will you find who did this?'

'We'll try.' She took a deep breath. 'Did your mum know anyone else in Spain besides you? Was she meeting anyone else here?'

'My mum spoke Spanish better than me and I've been in Barcelona for 2 years. She had loads of friends here, she said something about meeting people here, yeah.' Iain looked towards the staircase where more police officers were coming down the stairs.

'Would you be able to give us any names?' she said gently. Iain shook his head.

'She said something, but I can't remember. She's just- she's only just died, I...' He was staring into the distance.

'It's OK.' Outside it was now completely dark. Rita thought momentarily of poor, battered, innocent Pepelito, with his straw bale in front of the TV. Did he still have enough water? Was he OK?

'I do remember something yeah, Mum's animal crazy, especially dogs, her and her partner have got four dogs at home, all rescues, he looks after them when she's away on business. She was going to see about adopting an ex hunting dog from a rescue somewhere around here, in Villafrechos. She said she'd spoken to some woman about it on Facebook called Raquel or something like that.' A chill went down Rita's spine.

'I don't think Mum's even met this woman. She said she was meeting her tomorrow, or trying to, I don't know if she'd arranged it or just wanted to see if she could. I'm sure it's not - I'm sorry I couldn't be any more help...' Iain shook his head.

'You've been fine. Here's my card. Inspectora Rita Silvera, Policia National. Call me if you think of anything else.' Sometimes Rita felt like an impostor. This was one of these times. Would he really see her as such a respected authority figure if he knew she'd run a bath for a bull she was keeping in her house?

'Rita?' Iain said. 'Can I call you that?'

Rita turned back to him.

'You're going to catch this guy? Aren't you?'
 
Ela voa numa brisa,
disfarçando a tristeza do céu caído,
Não sabe como lidar com
a forma como estamos a viver,
Uma vez que ela morreu no seu casulo,
Te lembras como era não existir?
Um bicho rastejanda no chão,
Carpintaria possuída, caixões em sinal de luto,
Com a noção de renascimento,
Liberdade, o truque em palco da natureza
ninguém nega essa anja desajeitada

Erm wrote quite freeform and there is a few ideas that aren't really there. Writing in another language will set you free, is it treasure is it trash?? and a scrible about a butterfly, oh dear :facepalm:

enjoy:thumbs:
 
I'm in Ghana so won't be able to do much writing for the next week but I've been having fun doing a story where a serial killer I've heavily based on a certain Tory politician has got to a point where he has kidnapped 2 bulls and a Spanish policewoman and is about to fly them back to Surrey in a private jet to entertain a sick group of Tories.
 
This scene is where a Tory MP has just killed a matador (and mafia boss who's one of the main villains of the story) she's been having an affair with. The rest of this part of the story is quite grim with the said matador's minions cruelly kidnapping the bull that is one of the story's heroes, so kinda needed to break it up with a semi humorous part

👍

_______

Why couldn't the Spanish learn to drive on the correct side of the road like civilised people, Eloise thought as she pulled up to a row of shops on the outskirts of Valladolid, Castella's blood drenching her clothing, her hair and face. She stopped the car and got out. A woman with a pram took one look at her and hurriedly turned in the other direction. The baby screamed as Eloise walked into an ice cream parlour, a red sticky trail drying on the road behind her.

'Give me some chocolate ice cream,' Eloise said in English as the woman at the counter stared at the apparition in terror. Why bother learning? Everyone should just speak English - it was the international language! Shaking, the cashier gaped at her and started crying, her hand moving towards the ice cream unsteadily. A waitress at the back of the shop stared in shock.

'I need two big scoops in a nice cone, after the day I've just had,' Eloise smiled, still in a state of exhilarated bliss.

'Policia,' Eloise heard the second woman gasp into her phone from the back of the store, as she stood in the queue, which the other customers had rapidly vacated. Bloody smears appeared all over the floor. Within minutes the noise of sirens deafened her, and two police officers, a young brown man with a beard and a blonde haired woman the same age, were tackling her from behind, pushing her to the ground, yelling at her in Spanish. Her feet slipped on the smooth floor and she hit her knee on the box which displayed all the different ice cream flavours.

It really hurt.

'Que paso?' Mansouri yelled at her as she lay on the ground, forcing her hands roughly into a set of cuffs far too tight for her delicate wrists. 'Quien hiciste? A quien mataste?'

'A quien mataste?' he repeated to Eloise's incomprehension.

'A quien mataste? Who did you kill?'

Eloise looked at him, the blood hard and sticking to her cheeks. She gave a wide grin, before replying, 'Javier Castella. Because he's a pig and he treats women like shit.'

'You're coming with us and telling us exactly what you've done,' Mansouri muttered in English, tightening the cuffs. He and Laurentia took Eloise by each arm and led her to the police car, followed by the stares of horrified passer-bys.

'It's the best thing I've ever done. I could easily do it again,' she said cheerfully.

'What's your name?' Mansouri snapped, bundling her towards the car.

'Eloise Skerrett,' Eloise said, dazed, the euphoria and adrenaline of the last few hours crashing down to nothing.

As recognition of the situation she was in began to dawn, she said in an entitled, officious voice, 'That's Eloise Skerrett MP, Minister for Transport. This is a serious diplomatic incident. You'll be hearing from the British government if you don't let me go right now.'

'Que?' Laurentia started giggling uncontrollably. Another one who thought she was a joke!

Her statement clearly unsettled Mansouri, who was silent for a few seconds, but, alas, did not deter him. 'Eloise Skerrett, you are arrested on suspicion of murder. You have the right to notify this detention to a relative, to call a lawyer or be provided free legal assistance by the State, to a medical examination, and the assistance of a translator if you need it.'

*

'So you went upstairs to his bedroom, you had an argument, you grabbed his - his flag from the wall, and what happened next?' Mansouri said in English. So they could speak it after all!

'I walked over and stabbed him with the banderilla about forty times,' Eloise smirked, miming the action with her bloody hand.

'Did you enter Castella's property with the intention of killing him?' She nodded, the blissed out look back on her face. The posh lawyer who had just flown first class from London sat clutching the sides of his seat, looking increasingly queasy and pale.

'Yes, actually I did,' she said proudly.

'At the time of your affair, were you aware of Castella's long-standing involvement with the mafia?' Mansouri said. Eloise looked at them stunned; this was news to her.

'The mafia?' she said, shakily.

'Yes. In your role in government, have you ever done favours or taken bribes from those involved in organised crime gangs - perhaps someone with a score to settle against him?' Mansouri said sternly. Her lawyer nudged her. How could she remember everyone she'd taken bribes from, Eloise thought, suddenly in panic.

'Say no comment,' the lawyer snapped. 'If you don't, that's your insanity defence out the window.'
 
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