Caveat Emptor - revised

[captaintripps]

Hi all. This is the first bit of a story I've poste here before. Thing is, I'm trying to get it ready for submission and have hence given it a bit of an overhaul, which has proved to be much more difficult than expacted. It's quite a long one (oo-er!) at around 12k words, but I'll post in chunks and see if anyone keeps up.

Any errors pointed out would be gratefully recieved, but the bit I'm most concerned about is a flashback section in chapter three. I'm not sure whether the POV switches are handled ok, or whether they're confusing - so any specific comments on that bit would be doubly welcome (if and when you get to 'em!)

Ta in advance . . .

CAVEAT EMPTOR

Of Jobs and Snobs

I
​

When Laurel Vernier first stepped through my door I was enchanted. She entered my office unannounced, but nonetheless a welcome sight. Standing about five-five in beige sandals, she had sleek black hair bobbed just the way I like it, and when she moved she seemed to glide towards me. Close up, it was like sitting in a sudden breeze; I could smell her, powdered and fragrant, while I sat dripping in the close heat.

She clutched her chequebook in one exquisitely manicured hand – another welcome sight. I have a penchant for cute ladies with gleaming chequebooks and I decided this was my kinda woman. She oozed class, which in my experience goes hand in hand with money. So, all in all this was a pretty good start even though my appealing visitor had yet to utter a word.

I offered her a chair, which she flowed into and sat calmly appraising me with eyes the colour of dollar bills.

“Mr Quirke?” Her voice had a fluid allure that briefly robbed me of my equilibrium. Gathering my wits I flourished a nod and shot her a breezy grin.

“How much for you to find my aunt?” Her question was unusually abrupt, but delivered with enough syrup to assuage any concerns . . . and her chequebook was winking at me with promises of Bermuda and cocktails.

“Oh, I’m sure we can work something out Miss . . ?”

“Vernier. Laurel Vernier”. She spoke slowly, as if tasting each word. I smiled again, leaning for the pack of Marlboro on my desk and taking the opportunity to get a lungful of her scent.

“That’s a lovely name,” I said, trying to sound sincere and failing miserably. “Well, Laurel - ”

“You may call me Ms Vernier,” she interrupted, and now the syrup had a hint of spice.

I raised my eyebrows, lighting the smoke and blowing the fumes across the desk. “Ok . . . Well, my normal rate runs at two-fifty a day or eleven hundred for the week,” right here was where I normally got shot down, “but we can always look at a . . . ”

“That would be fine Mr Quirke.”

This caught me unawares, but when it comes to funds I recover fast and I managed to keep my expression in order as she flattened the chequebook against a toned thigh and booked me for two weeks straight.

She skimmed the cheque towards me across the desk; I trapped it with a slap and was gratified to see her jump – it was nice to see her cool exterior slip a little.

“Very well, Mr Quirke . . . ”

“Please call me Johnny,” I offered.

“I don’t think so,” she said quickly, “I’d prefer to keep things businesslike. Talking of which, I need you to start on this immediately. It’s imperative that we find my aunt without delay. Also, so we have no unfortunate misunderstandings later on, I must stress the importance of discretion.”

“My middle name!” I interrupted. Miss Vernier regarded me with fish-like warmth.

“And, Mr Quirke, under no circumstances must you extend the scope of your investigations one iota further than is required to find my aunt.”

This seemed like a strange thing to say considering I hadn’t even started on the job. My opinion of this woman was changing fast; for one thing her officiousness was beginning to bug me, and for Johnny Quirke this normally heralds an imminent trip down the slippery slope towards active dislike. Also, although on the surface her concern for her aunt did her credit, I was nurturing a creeping suspicion that it had little to do with affection. No, there were more material considerations at play here or I was no Private Dick.

However, her chequebook and me were still best buddies and a relationship like ours was a beautiful thing, so I let it pass and gave her a humble nod.

“No problem Miss Vernier, you’re the boss. From now on my time is your time; I won’t even move my bowels without you approving the job.” She regarded me as though trying to decide whether I was humouring her – I was of course – and her lip curled in a decidedly unflattering way; I suddenly realised that this was one of those women who were only fleetingly attractive. The more you looked, the more the cracks showed; and the cat’s claws in her eyes.

“My aunt’s name is Leticia Pelletier. As far as we know she was last seen on Tuesday night of last week.

“And who was the last to see her?” I enquired.

“I was coming to that,” she snapped, and my feelings towards Ms Vernier slipped another notch or two. “My aunt holds weekly socials at her house on the west side of Ottawa. She is generally a solitary woman, but this is of her own devising. So it would seem that, to her, these gatherings were of some importance as they afforded her both the luxury of human company and the chance to indulge her . . . hobby.” She paused, grimacing slightly.

I sensed that this was pertinent and jumped in before she had chance to take the conversation elsewhere, “And what exactly is her hobby?”

She was fidgeting now and the sneering cast of her mouth became more pronounced.

“Well, it is ah . . . shall we say it might be deemed a somewhat unorthodox pastime. She likes to dabble in what she calls occult experimentation”. She seemed to shake herself mentally and looked me square in the eye for the first time in minutes, “Now I’m not talking about devil worship or Satanism or whatever you want to call it, let me make that perfectly clear.” She was talking with real vehemence now, and I raised my arms in a gesture of accord.

“No,” she continued, “ its just a hobby. You know, fortune telling and those card things - what are they called?”

“Tarot?”

“Yes. Quite. My aunt and her friends were doing nothing that can’t be found in a hundred houses in this city. People find such matters oddly invigorating, I’m sure you’ll agree?”

“Sure Miss Vernier, everyone’s into it.” Actually I didn’t agree, but her attitude seemed to brook no discussion. I gave her a smile that I hoped looked reassuring as she continued,

“Whatever; suffice to say that as far as we can tell it was after last weeks session that my aunt disappeared, and it is now imperative she be found without delay. You see, there are family matters that demand her personal and immediate attention. My aunt is trustee to a fortune,”

Bingo! I knew it!

“which cannot be touched without her consent. Documents exist, safeguards if you will, that cater for the event of her death but not her absence. Therefore, proceedings to unlock my mon . . . my aunt’s money may become messy and protracted, and this I will not tolerate. So you will do whatever is necessary – within the strictures I have cited – to find her. Is that clear Mr Quirke?”

Well, clear it was. Clear as day.

What wasn’t clear at the time was how events would unfold or I’d have kicked her out of my office regardless, retired to the country and slept with the light on for the rest of my life. However, as per usual all I could see were dollar bills and, as you may have gathered, such matters are very dear to my heart.

Or they were.

Before events taught me the value – and the frailty – of a much more fundamental currency.

II
​

After we’d ironed out the details Ms Vernier left in a cloud of perfume and attitude, leaving me to consider the case.

Missing persons’ can be the toughest nuts to crack. By definition they involve a legion of possibilities: kidnap, murder – bodies that are buried, burnt or sunk, sometimes by my clients who’ve been known to hire me only to validate their own innocence – amnesia, and sometimes people who lost themselves for no other reason than a need to be found. The ramifications are close to endless.

First off, I needed somewhere to start, a point of departure from which my reasoning could blossom, upon which my investigation could be founded.

The information I’d gleaned from my trick – an unfortunate term for my clients, I know; but this was how I’d grown to see ‘em – had given me my first hint. In the case of Leticia Pelletier the crux was this: something told me she might be hiding rather than missing, and trust me, there’s a significant difference.

Here’s how I saw it: from what I could gather, Mrs Pelletier was a woman in her mid sixties with no close friends other than her fellow spiritualists; she had cool family relations, and perhaps most importantly she had money. Real money. The kind that’s hard to spend; the kind that gets to be like a herd of rats – or whatever you call a whole tribe of the buggers. It multiplies. And if Laurel Vernier was representative of her aunt’s close family wouldn’t the old gal’s loyalties be primarily to herself? I know what my priorities would be if I were in her shoes; I’d use as much cash as it took to buy myself the biggest boat in the harbour and sail it straight toward some balmy island populated solely by Monroe-a-likes. Or Valentinos’ as the case may be.

Now this scenario may look a little too comfy and neat to the uninitiated. It may have been based purely on my own twisted outlook, or it may have been yet another case of Jonathon Quirke Patented-Inspirational-Thinking. All I know is that at the time it just smelled right, and I would have bet my last pack of Marlboro to a kid’s comic that I was pretty close.

I would’ve been left smoking the funny pages…

 

[Prefx]

Hello there,

It's not my cup of tea (theme-wise), but I think you did an excellent job. I continued to read for a reason. I loved how you handled Mrs. Vernier's character. The use of her language was very impressive. I think you could interject a few more of the main character's thoughts (Bingo! I knew it!) to help to get the reader feel more in touch with him.

Missing persons’ can be the toughest nuts to crack. By definition they involve a legion of possibilities: kidnap, murder – bodies that are buried, burnt or sunk, sometimes by my clients who’ve been known to hire me only to validate their own innocence – amnesia, and sometimes people who lost themselves for no other reason than a need to be found. The ramifications are close to endless.

My personal favorite paragraph.

As for flaws, I'm not too good with grammar but I'll show you somethings I had a problem with. They might not be mistakes; if so, sorry!

she had sleek black hair bobbed just the way I like it

Did you mean that bobbed?

She clutched her chequebook in one exquisitely manicured hand – another welcome sight.

Could be just me (or since I'm American...), but welcoming sight sounds more appropriate.

This caught me unawares

Unaware?

That's all I saw. Again, I love the female character.

Good luck!

 

[Paradox 99]

Your strength appears to be in characterisation and, as Prefx has pointed out, your choice of language strengthens that skill even further.

There were some classic lines in there, making me quite jealous of your imaginative use of words. 3 happened to jump out at me:

"appraising me with eyes the colour of dollar bills"
"She spoke slowly, as if tasting each word" and
"Ms Vernier left in a cloud of perfume and attitude"

Superb.

I loved this piece. Usually I wouldn't have decided to read further though because it didn't appear to be moving in a supernatural/sc-fi direction, but the mention of the aunt's connection to the occult was just the right hint to keep me hooked.

Personally, I didn't spot anything with regards to grammar.
I'll wait to see what happens with ch3 for the flashback, but as far as POV is concerned, it seemed fine to me.

 

[captaintripps]

Ok, thanks for the above comments - most helpful. this next bit is where the POV switches occur. Like I've already said, I'm not sure they work, and although I did have a lot of fun playing with it, if the consensus seems to be negative, I'll change it.

I'm really sorry its such a large chunk, but unfortunately I couldn't break it up and still show the full POV scene swap thingies!

Thanks again!

Of mice-like me​

“Hello? Who is that?” The voice sounded tired and frail, either by nature of the speaker or due to the fact that it had travelled through two inches of solid oak to reach my ears.

“Mr Havory?” I shouted, so mine might sound stronger. “It’s Jonathon Quirke. We spoke earlier.”

Since taking on the job of finding Laurel Vernier’s missing aunt two days earlier, I’d only gotten one of the nine regulars who attended her so called spirit parties to agree to meet me. The others had offered polite but perfunctory rebuffals. They had shared what they knew with the authorities they said, and that was that.

With Mr Havory, whose door was now beginning to creak open in front of me, I’d played on his sense of responsibility and ‘doing-the-right-thing’. Not that he was pleased about it, in fact he’d given me the impression he’d prefer wiping his ass with a pan scrub to talking to me; but I had a job to do, and money to make, so I persevered until I managed to secure today’s appointment.

The door continued to open haltingly, as though the hand that grasped its handle was wielded by two minds in opposition. Then I got my first eyeful of Duncan Havory, although strictly speaking the first thing I saw was the sweep of a grand staircase in the hallway until I looked down a couple of feet. He was no more that four and a half feet tall and bald as a bacon balaclava. The angular face that peered up to address me might have aspired to stateliness if it hadn’t been for the huffy grimace it was wearing.

Stepping to one side, he waved me inside and I followed him past the staircase through a hallway decked with antiques and what looked like First World War memorabilia. The place had the air of a museum, and I hate museums; old things give me the creeps. I shuddered inwardly, put my best foot forward and followed the little guy into a book laden study where he gestured me towards a huge leather chair. With my butt being caressed by dead cow, I settled back and waited for my host to make himself comfortable.

He toddled over to a cabinet that was stocked with rare looking bottles and decanters. “Can I fix you a drink, Mr Quirke? I think these matters will be best discussed with a little lubrication.” Although his words were friendly enough, his tone reminded me of a schoolteacher with a spindle up his ass, but I wasn’t about to disagree with his sentiments.

“Yeah, I’ll take a dry Martini. Thanks.”

“Certainly,” he replied, and started to mix me a long cool one. As he did the honours, I tried my first question.

“So, how long have you been going along to Ms Pelletier’s little get-togethers?” I noticed his fingers stiffen slightly round the drinks mixer, as if he’d known the question was coming but was still unprepared when it did.

He gathered himself, stiffening his shoulders and straightening his back as though in readiness for a tough climb.

“To the best of my knowledge, Leticia has been holding the meetings for about ten years.” He started in a murmur, but his voice became gradually stronger as he spoke. “I’ve only been attending since the death of Mr Pelletier four years ago, when the meetings became somewhat more than the light-hearted trysts they had been before. With her husband’s death, Leticia started to concentrate more on mediumship, whereas initially the sessions were mainly geared around card readings and such like.” He walked over to pass me the Martini, and I was startled by the smoothness of his hands – they had a porcelain, doll-like quality.

He lowered himself into a chair opposite me that was noticeably smaller than mine – it needed to be – and perched there with his flawless hands folded around a brimming glass of scotch.

“Mr Pelletier was my partner in business. I think Leticia believed that, with my involvement, the sessions would gain an additional link to her husband. She has been trying to contact him ever since his untimely death four years ago. Once a week - every week - for four years. I remember her calling to invite me to my first meeting. Initially, I only went along to support Leticia as I had no real interest in psychic matters, although I must confess my perspective changed over time.

Mr Havory paused to sip his scotch and I took the chance to ask, “When you say ‘contact’, I presume you mean she was trying to speak to the dead?” Unfortunately, Havory caught my derisive tone the same time I did, and I winced inwardly.

“Do not bait me Mr Quirke”. He said my name with absolute contempt.

“I wasn’t trying to do anything of the sort - ”

“And do not interrupt me. You’re here under sufferance, and I am already very close to inviting you to leave.” I shrugged, trying to look contrite. I’d suddenly realised how close I was to losing this story, and with it my only link to Mrs Pelletier’s possible whereabouts. Time to switch to a diet of humble pie.

“Ok sir, I’m sorry. To be frank, this is all pretty hard for a man like me to digest.” Havory pushed himself off his chair and, shooting me a scowl, spun daintily away and walked towards the large bay window.

“The fact is Mr Havory,” I said to his back, “I see so much crap in my line of work – so much human shi . . . scum that it’s hard for me to get all spiritual. About anything. After dealing with countless murders, adulteries – you name it – I’m sure even a man such as yourself would struggle to think in such terms. I spend so much time dealing with the reality, the grim reality, of life that I can’t even begin to think about what might come after; you know, heaven and stuff.” The line of Havory’s shoulders seemed to relax a little; maybe I’d got him. It looked like this was the kind of language to which he could relate. I made a mental note of the fact.

“I suppose I’m just a spiritual imbecile sir, and can only beg your forgiveness.” This was delivered with more than a sprinkle of contrition, and when Havory turned he looked at me with something approaching sympathy. Oh Johnny, you should have been in the movies. Oscar material.

He sighed like a man who was accustomed to forgiving the trespasses of his lessers, and presented an expression of weary martyrdom to my penitent gaze.

“Very well Mr Quirke. Sometimes I forget that myself and my colleagues are the exception rather than the rule, and that it is a rare and privileged world in which we move.” My little act had worked better than I could have hoped; I could see that he was about to go on a roll. He walked over and sat down again.

“Firstly, however, you must agree to suspend even the tiniest morsel of cynicism.” He raised an eyebrow. Vigorously, I nodded in agreement.

He regarded me for some time, as if weighing up my apparent change of heart. Then, seeming to reach a decision, he dipped a hand into his breast pocket and pulled out a neatly folded scrap of paper, which he held up between two fingers for me to take. Sitting back down in my comfy chair I opened it out to read the words:

There are many kinds of magic. Some can be wielded, others cannot. Changing lead into gold or water into wine is magical. Death may be dealt or love bought by its methods.

Circles may be drawn, spells uttered and the world changes – all this is simple.

The purest form, the most dangerous, is the magic by which we change ourselves, and in so doing are wielded.

I read this a couple of times, and then looked up at Havory. The confusion must have been evident on my face, but he waved it away.

“We’ll come to that later,” he said, pointing at the note. “And trust me when I say that it will be soon enough.”

Then, taking a deep breath, Havory settled back into his chair, emptied his scotch in one long pull, and began to tell me his story.

Of Heaven and Hell​

I

‘The night Leticia Pelletier disappeared was grim and drizzly. As always, I’d arrived outside her door at exactly seven-fifteen pm. This would give us an hour and forty-five minutes before the others arrived, time for Leticia and I to have a brief chat and blow away the cobwebs.

When she opened the door my first thought was that Leticia looked preoccupied and . . . distant, as though she’d had some bad news. When I mentioned this she invited me into the sitting room where we always took drinks prior to the session’s commencement. She was . . . is . . . a noble looking woman who’s extremely well preserved for her sixty-five years, and she possesses an almost obsessive attention to detail that manifests itself in her appearance. That night was no different – she was impeccably turned out as always - except for an abiding impression that something was amiss.

Once seated, I took the proffered drink and again asked Ms Pelletier whether there was a problem; and this, Mr Quirke, is where things start to get ratherbizarre.

***​

“My dear Duncan,” she whispered. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Start at the beginning, Leticia. And don’t worry, you know me well enough to say what’s on your mind. Surely?”

She nodded. “Of course Duncan. I’d discuss anything with you without hesitation; that isn’t the problem. It’s just that I don’t know how to put any of it into words.” She glanced at him, chewing on a knuckle, and Havory was afraid she’d start blubbing.

He stood and walked over to where she sat on an ancient chaise longue. Sitting down and cupping her hands in his, he looked her squarely in the eye. “Leticia, do you want me to call the others and cancel tonight? If you’re really not up to talking I can come back tomorrow when you’re feeling better?”

“No!” The violence of her reaction startled Havory, and he snatched his hands away as if hers had become suddenly hot. Seeing his surprise Leticia seemed to make a conscious effort to relax, “I’m sorry Duncan, I didn’t mean to shout. I’ve already made my excuses to the others; but I need you here, I need to talk to someone because I just don’t know what to do. You see, I spoke to Rick last night…”

Once she started the words had just seemed to pour out of her. Havory recovered quickly from his initial shock at her claim that finally, after so many fruitless years, she’d spoken to her dead husband. And, as her story unfolded, it quickly became obvious that this was no diffident shade with which she’d trysted – far from it.

***​

As Havory told me his story he started to tremble; sweat grew like tiny blisters on his pate then ran down along his face and neck, soaking his immaculate collar.

Now I’m not naturally a cynical kinda guy, I’ve seen too much during my years as a jobbing P.I. for this to be the case. It’s just that I had more material ghosts haunting my ass who manifested themselves through my letterbox on a regular basis in the form of bills, and eerie paper-like demands for alimony from my departed wife. But here I was, listening to this claptrap as though I believed it, and I needed to batten down the hatches of my disbelief so it wouldn’t come adrift in the storm of bull-dust that I was sensing just over the horizon.

Or else my own ghosts would be in danger of going un-exorcized through a lack of funds.

Also, I was struggling with the way Havory told the story; his attention to detail was incredible. I’d have preferred a less protracted account; I just wanted the meat, carved and digestible, and his wordiness was making my teeth itch.

But it was his tale and I needed to hear it.

***​

 

[captaintripps]

“He came to me through the window, as if he was buoyed by the night breeze,” she whispered, and Havory was struck by her earnestness. It left no room for doubting her words. “I heard him before I saw him; he was saying my name like an apology. I thought I was dreaming. Then the curtains moved, only slightly at first and then billowing open to reveal Rick.” Havory wasn’t surprised to see the tears leap into her eyes; he knew how much Leticia had yearned for this moment, and how long she’d waited. Although a horde of question was circling his mind, he forced himself to silence.

“He drifted in and sat on the end of the bed, much as he did when he was alive, when he’d get in late from work and come straight upstairs for a chat. I suppose you know better than anyone what late hours he sometimes kept.”

“Yes”. Havory mouthed the word but didn’t speak; he didn’t want to interrupt this story.

“I suppose it’s odd,” said Leticia, “but I didn’t fear his presence – I’ve been waiting for him for so long! – I wasn’t even surprised to see him there, as solid as ever.

“He told me that his time was brief, that there were forces which were acting upon him to draw him back to that other place. I started to speak but he put his finger on my lips – I could feel him! – and he said that I must let him finish what he’d come to say.

“He insisted that we stop our sessions, Duncan. He said that if we don’t we are inviting catastrophe. But I don’t think I can stop, not now I’ve seen him again. I need him too much, Duncan!”

Havory saw that she was trembling violently, and he walked over to the drinks cabinet to pour her a cognac. Taking it in both hands she took a deep slug, giving him the chance to ask, “What did he say? Was he specific about these supposed risks?”

“Oh yes, very specific. It just sounds so far-fetched that I would put it all down to a dream if it weren’t for . . . ” It was obvious that Leticia had nearly said more, but she was looking at him with such helplessness that Havory was swamped by compassion, and he let it go.

She finished her drink and paused for a moment, using the time to gather her thoughts before she continued, “He said many things. He said that we were at risk, all of our group, but myself in particular, as I have been ‘chosen’. I didn’t understand what he meant, then he told me that there are powers who are eager to gain a foothold in The Poles.”

Havory frowned and started to speak, but was silenced as Leticia spat out the words: “Hell is in revolt, Duncan! Rick said that its denizens refer to our world as The Poles, and that there are four protagonists who are trying to gain a foothold here to aid them in an attempt on their Prince’s crown. The nature of Hell bears no resemblance to our concept of it, Rick told me. Rather, it is a country much like any other, with social strata, politics and an economy all of its own. It isn’t easily negotiable however, there are forbiddings raised that stop the casual traveller straying between the worlds in either direction, forbiddings that the residents of Hell cannot readily overcome. The four creatures – Werestrain, Rick called them - need a bastion in our world to consolidate their position. If they were to achieve this where their Prince has failed, their position would become unassailable. But first they need a door to gain entry to The Poles.

“I have been chosen, he told me, to bear the Key that will hold the door against them”.

Leticia started to speak again, then hesitated and it seemed to Havory that she was uncertain how to continue. He waited for a time to see if she would resume, and when it became apparent she wouldn’t, he asked: “What does any of this have to do with us Leticia? I don’t doubt for one second your belief that every word of what you’ve told me is the truth, but how can our circle be of any significance to these . . . Werestrain?”

She looked at him then, and it seemed to Havory that he was trapped in her tortured gaze for an age. It was as if suddenly, all her sixty-five years had descended upon her, graying her face and shrinking her form.

“Perhaps it’s easier if I show you, Duncan,” she said.

 

[captaintripps]

Of books, and a Boy

I
​

Havory paused, fingering the empty glass on his lap. I really wanted to hurry him along; I suppose his story was interesting enough - if you liked that kind of thing - but I couldn’t see how it was going to help me find old Mrs Pelletier. Evidently this guy was as nutty as squirrel crap, or he was a man who made up for his lack of physical stature by telling tall tales; either way, the sooner I was out of the place the better. And yet something made me stay. Something kept my lips glued and my tongue still.

***
​

“So, I followed her into the library”, Havory continued. “The room has always served as the ideal location for our sessions. Many of the books contained therein - particularly those concerning matters of paranormality – teach the value of speculation. What they fail to convey, however, is the dangers of certain kinds of speculation.

“She took me straight over to an oversized antique tea chest that has stood in the same place since I first visited the house. She tapped on the lid and I heard an answering sound – a kind of indistinct flutter. I doubted my ears but heard it again as I got closer. It sounded like a bird was trapped inside, a bird that was too big for the space in which it rested and hence could not beat its wings fully. Once more Leticia tapped on the lid, and was answered again by the rustling, scraping, panicky sound.

“She glanced round at me and put a finger to her lips, then opened the chest slowly, almost reverentially, but it was gloomy in the room and I could not see into it from where I stood. Then, a small hand appeared, gripping the side of the chest. My first thought was that the skin was flaking from its thin fingers but, as more of the arm came into view, I realised it was covered in pale, sparse feathers. Next, two eyes appeared beneath a finely plumed forehead, and they were unlike any eyes that I had ever seen; they were huge and slightly raised at the corners, and they were so black that at first I thought the sockets were empty until the modest light caught them and the orbs flashed silver.

“The creature stood up, unfolding itself from the confines of the chest and I saw that it was a boy, probably of around ten or eleven years of age. He was feathered from head to toe, and unnaturally tall and slender. As he leaped out of the box I took a step back – I don’t remember making a noise but I suppose I must have because he froze, staring at me with those immense eyes. It’s strange . . . although my mind was overloaded all I remember thinking was that the boy could not possibly have fitted into the tea chest; he was at least six feet tall and the chest was no more than three feet across. It was only later that I discovered how this was possible.

“ ‘What is it?’ I asked. My voice sounded small as if it had been shrunk by the atmosphere in the room.

“He’s an Angel,” she said simply, as though this explained everything. They’ve given him to me to care for until he . . . grows up. Until he’s old enough to stand against the Werestrain.”

“Why . . . why you?” A legion of questions was hammering at my mind, but somehow this seemed the most important.

“Because I was already close. Because I already believed. And because, in Rick, they had the perfect vessel to deliver him to me.”

“And who are they?” I asked. I was struggling to comprehend all this, without making much headway.

“Leticia regarded me with eyes that were suddenly calm, as though she had reached some fundamental decision. “Why – they are the Enemies of Hell Duncan.

More than that I cannot say.”

II
​

So, good people; that pretty much wraps it up from old Havory's point of view. Are you still with me or has ol’ Johnny Quirke left you by the wayside with bull-dust in your ears and tears of laughter in your eyes?

Well, I’d forgive you if it’s the latter because when I left Havory's place I did so with a huge suspicion that he was playin’ me for a fool; my only problem - and it was a biggie - was that I had nothing else to go on regarding Ms Pelletier’s whereabouts except the lead he’d given me.

I’d best explain that he was pretty sure she’d flown abroad to England, to the City of Liverpool to be precise, where she had a property. I didn’t ask how she proposed to get a six-foot tall feathery boy across the Atlantic because, in the midst of everything else, it seemed a moot point. But he offered the info anyways; he told me that the boy could change himself into pretty much anything he liked – hence the note Havory had shown me, presumably. So maybe the old gal had jetted off to England with a new, feathered handbag under her arm, one that held a whole host of secrets.

He said it was vital that I understood why he’d told me all of this. He wanted me to know that he’d argued with himself long and hard about whether to spill the beans. What clinched it was that look Leticia had given him; in it, he said, he’d read something monumental, as though she had decided on a course of action, reached some kind of epiphany that she didn’t want to share with him. Plus of course, he didn’t like the idea of her being alone in a strange city; although Leticia visited Liverpool frequently, she had no real friends there.

So I was left in a bit of a quandary here folks: did I spill my guts to the lovely Laurel Vernier or follow my instinct for self-preservation and give her an altogether more selective account of my audience with Mr Havory? Unfortunately, I decided that it’d be best to wear my heart on my sleeve on this occasion, tell her the lot and risk a derisive lashing from that sharp tongue of hers.

Unfortunately.



Well, if you made it through all that,thanks. I owe you a drink!

 

[Oxman]

OK, just read this in my lunch hour so I only scanned through it.

You need to put a space between "Rather" and "bizarre".

"old Havory's point of view. Are you still with me or has ol’ Johnny Quirke" - Might be better to lose one of these? I'd prefer "ol'" to stay.

The story is very good. Nice build up and immaculately told thus far. The POV's seem to work fine as you switch nicely from first person to third person. As we've discussed before Mr Tripps, a first person to first person can be a little...well...confusing! Your example flows well and is easy to follow.

Good stuff once again though, I'll read it in more detail tonight at home.

Ox

 

[terryweide]

Crtique for the first section:

On the line,

“How much for you to find my aunt?” Her question was unusually abrupt, but delivered with enough syrup to assuage any concerns . . . and her chequebook was winking at me with promises of Bermuda and cocktails.

I like your descriptive ability, but I'd replace that elipsis with a comma,

Her question was unusually abrupt, but delivered with enough syrup to assuage any concerns, and her chequebook was winking at me with promises of Bermuda and cocktails.

which to my eye reads better.

I'm not sure we need this opening sentence,

When Laurel Vernier first stepped through my door I was enchanted.

because a couple of paragraphs later, we get

“Oh, I’m sure we can work something out Miss . . ?”

“Vernier. Laurel Vernier”.

which makes it seem like you're introducing the same character twice in too short a space. You might consider starting with the second sentence,

She entered my office unannounced, but nonetheless a welcome sight.

On the line,

Talking of which, I need you to start on this immediately.

"Talking" seems a little stilted to me. I'd rather hear,

Speaking of which...

This is a humorous line,

No, there were more material considerations at play here or I was no Private Dick.

I do wonder what nationality these characters are supposed to be, whether they are American or British. One of you descriptions of Laurel is that she has

...eyes the colour of dollar bills.

which makes me think this is an American, hard-boiled detective story ala Mickey Spillane. However, you're spelling chequebook "cheque" and the American would be "check", and colour in American English is "color." Then there's the reference to Ottawa, which suggests these characters are neither American or British, but are Canadian. I believe that if you're going to do the hard-boiled detective routine, I'd change the location to either L.A. or San Francisco--yeah, I know these settings have been overdone, but it would be more in line with what a reader would expect. I'd also work a little more on American detective slang. Some of your lines are right on the money, and a few seem just a little off.

Hope this helps, Terry

 

[captaintripps]

Thanks very much. I'm surprised and a bit humpled that you've managed to get through such a huge 'lump' so quickly!

@Terry - I'm English and the americanisations (so to speak) are a bit of a stumbling block for me. Thanks specifically for the 'cheque' correction, I'd have never spotted this! I'll run a spell cheque (!) and switch Word to American-English - should have done that in the 1st place really I suppose!

@ Oxman - yes, we have had that conversation, haven't we! I'm really glad you think the POV is ok, as it's by far my greatest bug-bear with this.

Thanks again!

 

[Paradox 99]

As your primary concern is with the POV, I'll address that first.

I agree with Oxman and think it works just fine. Maybe it was because I was prepared for it, but I didn't find it confusing at all. In fact, I think it's a neat way of doing it. A third person POV being told by someone within a first person POV - very well executed indeed - don't scrap that idea!

However, I did think that you changed your style slightly during "of books and a boy". It starts out with Havory recounting his experience, but then drifts back into a rich piece of story telling that doesn't sound as though it's coming from Havory anymore (even though it is). I think this piece should start with Havory's dialogue and then change back into a third person story the way you did earlier in "of heaven and hell" - it feels more consistent that way.

As for the story? Well, I can't praise it as highly as it deserves. I'm rivetted to it. It's imaginative, holds a feeling of apocalyptic dread and I can't wait to see what's coming next. The idea of that angel boy in the trunk is excellent - great work!