Tuesday nights at the Dorset.
I walk through the door and see that I'm in luck tonight, Purple is there. Anything I need, Purple gets. She's my lucky six, the ace up my sleeve.
The jazz band plays in the corner. They tie the room together with their rythm. Everywhere I look, feet tap and heads bob to the double bass. People close their eyes and smile at the sax solo. People nod wisely, pupils flared, and discuss the guitarist's technique. It's all horse crap, except for the music. The music calls me every week, and every week I answer.
I sit down and Purple tells me everything I need to know. She tells me where I can find Charlie. She tells me where the company does its dirtiest work. She stares me in the eye until I forget why I'm staring back, and tells me not to trust the Scotsman.
I lean back and let the music fill me. I panic at the quiet times, with decisions at the door. But now the music is everywhere and things are looking up, and Purple is still my favourite colour.
Tuesday, January 22
Monday, January 21
Future Boy
My friends have all gone and left me. So I decided to come here and see myself as a baby.
I keep a place hidden. It's inside myself, deep inside the fortress. It it I keep all the old versions of myself, all the old layers of innocence. It's here, in the dark, where I keep everything I've had to lose to survive.
It's not often I come here. Only when the whiskey bottle empties, and I have little other place to go.
Fate plays its cruel games. I find myself wrapped up in the swirling currents of the job and the neverending chasm of lust. A day in the office running background checks on insurance companies. Long stares out of the window. Longer shots of whiskey.
I look at myself in the past, and myself now. I speak to myself, I say to myself, "I'm still the future, boy". I know that I will always be what I've become now. But I wonder if it's what I'm supposed to be.
And somehow, out of nothing, I see it. I see what The Scotsman wants me to do. I see a way into the case, into the job. I cast Charlie out of my mind and try to see through the whiskey fog.
The insurance company provides insurance for lives. It values people. It reduces the worth of a life, of a soul, to a number. And when the candleflame goes it, it pays out.
But something doesn't add up. People die all the time, but there's never a payout. The company always has a get out clause. It's always something minor, something no-one would cause a fuss about. But somehow, the dice always roll in the company's favour. The house always wins. The dead don't get their worth, and the suits get to keep their cigars.
The Scotsman was right - something is wrong here.
I keep a place hidden. It's inside myself, deep inside the fortress. It it I keep all the old versions of myself, all the old layers of innocence. It's here, in the dark, where I keep everything I've had to lose to survive.
It's not often I come here. Only when the whiskey bottle empties, and I have little other place to go.
Fate plays its cruel games. I find myself wrapped up in the swirling currents of the job and the neverending chasm of lust. A day in the office running background checks on insurance companies. Long stares out of the window. Longer shots of whiskey.
I look at myself in the past, and myself now. I speak to myself, I say to myself, "I'm still the future, boy". I know that I will always be what I've become now. But I wonder if it's what I'm supposed to be.
And somehow, out of nothing, I see it. I see what The Scotsman wants me to do. I see a way into the case, into the job. I cast Charlie out of my mind and try to see through the whiskey fog.
The insurance company provides insurance for lives. It values people. It reduces the worth of a life, of a soul, to a number. And when the candleflame goes it, it pays out.
But something doesn't add up. People die all the time, but there's never a payout. The company always has a get out clause. It's always something minor, something no-one would cause a fuss about. But somehow, the dice always roll in the company's favour. The house always wins. The dead don't get their worth, and the suits get to keep their cigars.
The Scotsman was right - something is wrong here.
Sunday, January 20
Emergency '72
Candlelight flickers around me. Somehow the faint and flickering glow is comforting. The light is warm, but the flame weak. Everytime the flame wilts and dims, some part of me wonders if it'll come back, or die out entirely. Some part of myself plays this cruel game with the light, daring it to fail so that I can be stronger.
On the other side of the pub, a man plays a guitar. The melody is picked out softly, teasing the notes into the air, easing the tune into my mind. All my colours bleed, I can hear them running. The voices nearby are hushed in respect of the gentle sound.
There is honesty here. Peace, of a kind.
Before me is a file. I tried to bribe it cleanly, but a crook's a crook. A contact tried to screw me out of the deal at the last second - I broke his wrist like I was opening a beer. There's no honour amongst theives, and everyone is a thief in the presence of money.
The file holds answers. By the flickering light, I read about the girl whose calm spirit has set mine aflame. I read about Charlie, born in Crawley, Sussex. I read about her birth in 1972, her employment histiry since 1988, her criminal record since 1989. I tease secrets and truths about this character, and wonder how she can come to be mine.
I close the file and drain the whiskey glass. I leave a tip for the guitarist, and set the file alight in a candle. I leave the pub, contemplating my slow-burning emergency which started in 1972, and has finally kicked into red alert.
All my lust comes down to dust. Can't you hear it crumbling?
On the other side of the pub, a man plays a guitar. The melody is picked out softly, teasing the notes into the air, easing the tune into my mind. All my colours bleed, I can hear them running. The voices nearby are hushed in respect of the gentle sound.
There is honesty here. Peace, of a kind.
Before me is a file. I tried to bribe it cleanly, but a crook's a crook. A contact tried to screw me out of the deal at the last second - I broke his wrist like I was opening a beer. There's no honour amongst theives, and everyone is a thief in the presence of money.
The file holds answers. By the flickering light, I read about the girl whose calm spirit has set mine aflame. I read about Charlie, born in Crawley, Sussex. I read about her birth in 1972, her employment histiry since 1988, her criminal record since 1989. I tease secrets and truths about this character, and wonder how she can come to be mine.
I close the file and drain the whiskey glass. I leave a tip for the guitarist, and set the file alight in a candle. I leave the pub, contemplating my slow-burning emergency which started in 1972, and has finally kicked into red alert.
All my lust comes down to dust. Can't you hear it crumbling?
Saturday, January 19
Underdog (Save Me)
It hung over me all day.
Like cigarette smoke clinging to a shirt, her gaze haunted me every time I let my guard down.
The job had sidetracked me already. I resolved to find out more about this woman, to get another moment of peace, to find that serenity once more.
Once again, I was the underdog. Serenity like that couldn't stay pure with the likes of me. I'd set myself an impossible task.
One night of regret. One day in a dark room. Night comes and I crawl to the Whiskey bottle. But it's a different kind of peace now. It's second best.
Please save me. Save me from myself.
Like cigarette smoke clinging to a shirt, her gaze haunted me every time I let my guard down.
The job had sidetracked me already. I resolved to find out more about this woman, to get another moment of peace, to find that serenity once more.
Once again, I was the underdog. Serenity like that couldn't stay pure with the likes of me. I'd set myself an impossible task.
One night of regret. One day in a dark room. Night comes and I crawl to the Whiskey bottle. But it's a different kind of peace now. It's second best.
Please save me. Save me from myself.
Friday, January 18
Feeling Oblivion
The case came from The Scotsman. Like all of them, he was built like a bomb shelter and looked like he'd been through a war or two. Honest as a rifle and every bit as loud, he told me exactly what he wanted, and vanished.
Of course, what he told me was worthless.
He wanted dirt on some American insurance company. That much, at least, was in my favour. The only business with more dirt than the American kind is the insurance industry. The night rose in mist and rain, and I left the office to search for answers.
I knew a place to be tonight, a place where the right kinds of scum could be found. The Scotsman hadn't given me much, but I figured I'd follow my nose.
The bar was croweded with familiar faces I'd never met. Sometimes, it seemed there were only a dozen people in the world, copied somehow into a million different bodies. I heard familiar laughs from fat men, raucus cries from fat women, saw lies seeping out of every pore like sweat. I used every disguise I have to melt into the crowd, and my investigations began.
Looking back, I'm not sure why I went. I had hoped for clues and answers. But as soon as I saw her, I knew all I'd get was questions and regrets.
She moved around the bar like a raincloud bursting across the Sahara. She left a wake of smiles and lingering eyes as she passed, waving and winking. Everyone wanted to be her best friend. Everyone wanted to be her best lover.
My eyes lead a private life of their own as they followed her movements. She moved with more than just physicality - her spirit was serenity itself. She was a cool cloth against the fevered brow of the bar. Her eyes met mine, and her spirit was a balm. She was grace. She was peace.
I was defenceless.
The Twins rested under my coat, cool and heavy, but they were small comfort. My many masks were broken under her gaze, and my gut faught my mind at every decision.
I made my way around the room, speaking to anyone sober enough to speak back, but drunk enough not to think too quickly. I made enquiries, I heard names. But she was always there, or never there. She was like the brightest light in the world - I shrivelled and withered under her brilliance. The world was reduced to sillhouettes in her brilliance. Even with my eyes closed she burned red against my eyelids.
I was lucky enough to find her eyes a second time. The gaze lingered for a second, and I felt peace inside myself. For a second, the world lifted, my rage subsided, she promised to take me somewhere else.
But when her eyes left me, I was more alone than I had ever been. The world came back with a crash, fear took me over, anger seized my heart once more. That single second of peace was destined to cast a shadow which would last a lifetime.
Divided, confused, and feeling oblivion, I left.
Of course, what he told me was worthless.
He wanted dirt on some American insurance company. That much, at least, was in my favour. The only business with more dirt than the American kind is the insurance industry. The night rose in mist and rain, and I left the office to search for answers.
I knew a place to be tonight, a place where the right kinds of scum could be found. The Scotsman hadn't given me much, but I figured I'd follow my nose.
The bar was croweded with familiar faces I'd never met. Sometimes, it seemed there were only a dozen people in the world, copied somehow into a million different bodies. I heard familiar laughs from fat men, raucus cries from fat women, saw lies seeping out of every pore like sweat. I used every disguise I have to melt into the crowd, and my investigations began.
Looking back, I'm not sure why I went. I had hoped for clues and answers. But as soon as I saw her, I knew all I'd get was questions and regrets.
She moved around the bar like a raincloud bursting across the Sahara. She left a wake of smiles and lingering eyes as she passed, waving and winking. Everyone wanted to be her best friend. Everyone wanted to be her best lover.
My eyes lead a private life of their own as they followed her movements. She moved with more than just physicality - her spirit was serenity itself. She was a cool cloth against the fevered brow of the bar. Her eyes met mine, and her spirit was a balm. She was grace. She was peace.
I was defenceless.
The Twins rested under my coat, cool and heavy, but they were small comfort. My many masks were broken under her gaze, and my gut faught my mind at every decision.
I made my way around the room, speaking to anyone sober enough to speak back, but drunk enough not to think too quickly. I made enquiries, I heard names. But she was always there, or never there. She was like the brightest light in the world - I shrivelled and withered under her brilliance. The world was reduced to sillhouettes in her brilliance. Even with my eyes closed she burned red against my eyelids.
I was lucky enough to find her eyes a second time. The gaze lingered for a second, and I felt peace inside myself. For a second, the world lifted, my rage subsided, she promised to take me somewhere else.
But when her eyes left me, I was more alone than I had ever been. The world came back with a crash, fear took me over, anger seized my heart once more. That single second of peace was destined to cast a shadow which would last a lifetime.
Divided, confused, and feeling oblivion, I left.
Thursday, January 17
The Optimist
The Job changes, all the time. I never know what's coming from one day to the next. The extraordinary is just a man under a blanket; the ordinary hides under a black cloak of lies.
Cases end up on my desk all the time, and the only constant is that nothing is what it seems.
It's almost refreshing to see a job and know what the final word will be. It's a rare thing, but sometimes inevitability decides to take a walk in your shoes. Sometimes fate leaves a calling card.
I pick up a paper file headed "JC". My gut tightens, icy claws grip my heart and my lungs fill with burning oil. And, for an everlasting second, I see the future.
This one is going to leave a scar.
Cases end up on my desk all the time, and the only constant is that nothing is what it seems.
It's almost refreshing to see a job and know what the final word will be. It's a rare thing, but sometimes inevitability decides to take a walk in your shoes. Sometimes fate leaves a calling card.
I pick up a paper file headed "JC". My gut tightens, icy claws grip my heart and my lungs fill with burning oil. And, for an everlasting second, I see the future.
This one is going to leave a scar.
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