May 27, 2010

Author: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

Hi.  Don’t be scared – this is exactly who you think it is.  We are the voices in your head.  Yes, I realise this is the first time that we’ve been in touch but until now we haven’t felt that you warranted intervention.

Intervention?  Well that means when one person steps in to prevent another person doing something.  Or in this case when one person steps in to prevent the same person doing something. I’m surprised you don’t know that because – oh never mind.  Anyway I bet you’re wondering why I sound like voice in your head when you read aren’t you?  Well that’s an interesting one…

What do you mean you don’t read!?  But you are at least aware of what your own voice sounds like I assume?  Or are you just so gratingly stupid that it has never really registered before?

Listen, I’m sorry I shouted at you.  Please, you don’t have to sit in the corner.  And the rocking back and forth is making me nauseous.  I didn’t realise – you must get the same thing?  You don’t know what ‘nauseous’ means do you?

I hate to bang on about it but we really should have the same vocabulary you know.  Vocabulary?  You don’t know that one either?

Well, not to worry, the reason I’m here is to get you started on your path.  You see, from time to time I’ll intervene – yes, well done that’s what intervene means.  Anyway I’ll intervene and give you an idea, a task, a purpose, something like that and then you’ll do it.  Let’s not worry about the whys and wherefores – we’ve noticed that there is a woman who lives in the flat across from you and she has her milk delivered.  Well we want you to steal it.

Yes, every day.  Of course it makes sense – milk deliveries are considered ‘old fashioned’ by the powers that be.  As a result they make people feel a warm and fuzzy sense of nostalgia.  This won’t do, so we are part of the contingent – I mean we are part of the team sent to deal with it.  No, not those powers, the ones downstairs.

No, not the Friedman family downstairs, we are talking a lot further down that that.  Yes, even further down than Mr Evesham.  Wait, can I just put you on hold for a minute I really need to check something.

Ah, I see, there’s been a bit of a mix up.  We aren’t the voices in your head, we are the voices in someone else’s head.  Your paperwork got sent through accidentally, honestly it could have happened to anyone.  Frequently does to be honest.  Anyway best forget all that stuff about the milk.

Source: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

April 26, 2010

Author: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

Terry’s teeth clashed together as the car went over another bump in the road and slammed his head against the spare tyre.

Terry’s brother Perry was still talking and Terry was getting to the point where he was considering testing just how long he could make it last.

“We need a plan, come on, we need to be methodical about this,” said Perry.  “What are we going to do to them, how are we going to deal with this?”

Terry stared into the darkness.  Methodical was easy.  Methodical was choosing the right weapon.  Methodical was knowing how to use it.  Knowing that if you did it just right you could cause someone to bleed to death in maybe ten seconds.  The car turned a sharp corner and he rolled forward into his brother.

“Watch it,” said Perry, his voice still echoing slightly, even in here.  “Hang on, they’re slowing down aren’t they?”

Terry breathed in again, the rusted metallic smell filling his nostrils.  Of course, he reasoned, it was rarely as simple as that, it usually took a few minutes before they bled out.

“Are you awake?” said Perry.  “Of course you’re awake, now listen I’ve got a plan.   Think you can manage to follow some simple instructions, fucknut?”

Terry finally managed to work the Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and into his hand. He nodded into the darkness.

“When we hear the engine go off we kick off. I’ll attack you or something. In the struggle of trying to get us out of the boot one of us’ll get loose and bob’s your mother’s brother. Yeah?”

“Whatever,” said Terry.

*

“There it is.  The turning’s there, right there!” said the coach.

Tom yanked the steering wheel right, “Oh right, sorry.  No need to get all worked up.”

“No point in getting worked up you moron, we’ve got two kidnapped dwarves in the boot of the car and you say there’s no point in getting worked up?”

“I’m just saying…” said Tom, pulling the car into the school car park.

“Never mind what you’re just saying, what I’m just saying is that you need to be a bit more worked up.  We’ve got to teach these little bastards a lesson.  Together.”

The coach nodded, pulled the car alongside the gym and cut the engine.

“You do want to teach them a lesson don’t you Tom?”

“Of course I do, coach.”

“Right then,” a loud banging noise began to emanate from the back of the car. “Is that them?”

Tom thought for a moment, the slow gears of his mind processing the question as the car rocked and bounced.

“I think so,” he said.

“It was a rhetorical… oh never mind.  Help me with them before someone notices.

*

As the boot popped open Perry was ready to execute his malformed plan and in spite of having his hands taped behind his back, hopped up on to his knees.

“Come here you shit,” he shouted at Terry and launched himself into a falling head-butt.

“Oi,” said the coach, reaching forward and grabbing the top of Perry’s head and turning it to face him.  “No.”

Perry was ready and spat straight in the coach’s eye.

Terry just lay there and stared, working the Swiss Army knife in his hands behind his back.  The scissors might be the way to go but there were so many options each of which offered so many different variations on what damage could be done.

The coach grabbed Perry and slung the struggling midget over his shoulder. Tom followed suit, Terry leaning forward slightly to allow himself to be grabbed a little easier. It wasn’t time yet.

*

“So, you two,” said the coach, staring at Terry and Perry in their matching dinner jackets, trousers and polished black leather shoes.  “We know what you’ve been up to.  Let’s not piss about denying it, okay?”

The coach paced first one way then the other, carefully addressing Perry then moving on to Terry.

“We know, for example that you’ve been paying Oliver to throw games.”

The coach’s words echoed around the empty gym, his every footstep amplified and hurled back at him.

“I mean, what is this about?  Why are you messing with my boys? Are you betting on the games? What is it?”

“I could tell you,” said Perry finally.  “But I’d have to kill you.”

He laughed, the coach nodded to Tom who lunged forward and kicked Perry hard in the stomach.

“Don’t roll out you pathetic clichés on me little fella,” said the coach before turning his attention back to Terry.  “And what about you?  Got anything smart to say?”

Terry glanced at his brother.  Then back at the coach.  The knife attachment was getting through the electrical tape that held his wrists but it wasn’t quite there yet.

“No,” continued the coach.  “I didn’t think so.”

“You’ve got no idea who we are, do you?” said Perry as he rolled himself back up into a sitting position.

“I know exactly who you are,” said the coach.  “I met people like you my whole life, people who…”

“Can I just stop you there for a second?” said Perry.  “This really isn’t what you think.

“Well what is it then?”

“We don’t make any money from Oliver.  There was no bet made.”

“But… I…”

“Don’t understand?” said Perry.  “No, I wouldn’t expect you to.  Oliver was just being tested.”

“Tested?”

“Tested.  You see no one is going to make any money from betting on school football matches.  But once Oliver has proved he is a worthwhile investment we will fast track him up to one of the big teams where he can throw matches and we can make real money.”

“Hang on,” said the coach, wagging his finger in an increasingly limp manner.

“I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking ‘there’s no way they have the clout to do that’.  Remember Jones last year?”

“Jones?  There’s no way – he’s playing for…”

“Exactly.  You’ve got to grease a lot of palms to fast-track that fast.”

The coach was just staring, frowning, as the pieces gradually began to fall into place.

“But to have those sorts of resources,” he began eventually.  “You would have to be…”

“Gangsters.”

“Yes.”

“Or the Penguins?”

“No.”

Tom laughed.  The coach didn’t.

“You two?” said the coach.  “You two are the…  Oh shit.”

“Oh shit is right,” said Terry, springing to his feet and rattling across the floor.  Tom stared with bewilderment as Terry’s head smashed into his stomach.  He hit the floor and slid backwards across the polished floor coming to a halt just inside a metal storage cupboard.

Terry stood up and picked up a hockey stick, holding the grip in his right hand, the shaft in his left, staring at the hook as he weighed the tool.  Tom stared up at Terry, confused he looked over to the coach.  Terry took half a step back then swung the hockey stick at him.  Tom’s hands went up instinctively to protect himself but Terry caught him square on the side of his head, knocking him into the open cupboard.  Stepping forward once more, Terry slammed the cupboard door and slid the hockey stick through the handle to bar Tom’s escape.

*

“Time for him later, eh bro?” Perry laughed.  “I’ve got some bad news for you, coach. I think my brother here wants a word with you.”

Terry took the Swiss Army knife out of his pocket, examining it again, trying to decide what to use.

“Can’t we talk about this, lads?” said the coach, managing to muster a laugh.  “Discuss it like gentlemen?”

“Gentlemen?  Gentlemen?” screamed Perry.  “Do you know what I was in the middle of when you grabbed me, you tit?”

“Well, er…”

Terry began to advance.  The blade should do the trick.

“I was just about to get my end away and you…” Perry trailed off, glancing at Terry.

Terry faltered for a second.

“Hang on,” he said.

“Never mind hang on,” Perry continued.  “Stick him Terry now before the other one gets out.”

Terry stepped up onto one of the long gym benches and walked towards the coach.

“Perry,” said Terry, speaking as carefully as he was stepping.  “You said he grabbed you at my house.”

“You mean that ugly dumpy bird was your wife,” the coach beamed.  “He was boffing your wife?”

Terry reached up, taking the coach by the hair with his left hand and bringing the knife up deep into the coach’s neck.  He stood still for a moment, waiting, watching until the blood began to pour out of the meat of his neck and onto Terry’s hand then, in one motion, withdrew the knife and pushed the coach down towards the polished wooden floor.

The coach struggled briefly, clawing at his throat as the blood hosed out of him and  his muffled, gurgled screams echoed around him.  But not for long.  Terry watched as  the coach was reduced to small twitches, the blood-flow becoming slower with each beat of his heart.

Terry jumped from the end of the bench to the floor and inhaled sharply. The air of the gym smelled like the inside of the boot of the car now, the rusty, metallic stench of blood all-pervading.  He carefully wiped the blade against the coach’s trouser leg and folded it back into itself before placing it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“Is that right?” said Terry.  “You were fucking my wife?”

“Listen, bro,” Perry smiled.  “Get me loose and we can go and kill the boxer together, eh?”

Perry didn’t sound as sure now.  He stared at Terry.

Terry stared back.

*

“So,” said Terry eventually.  “That bloke in the cupboard.  He knows.  He knows that you were…”

Perry nodded.

Terry walked over to a rack of weights, running his hand over the cold metal.

“How long?” Terry picked up one of the hand-weights, lifting it, considering it, then putting it back down again.

“Oh er,” said Perry.

Terry turned his back on his brother, scanning the equipment.  Looking for something.

“How long?”  Terry looked up, on the wall was a dartboard.  He reached out and picked up one of the darts and rolled the cold metal between his thumb and index finger.  “How long?”

“A year.  On and off.”

Terry exploded, his scream filling the gym as he bore down on his brother, who was panicking, bucking and writhing trying to work his hands free of the bindings.  Jumping into the air, Terry came down hard on his brother’s wrists, freeing them but snapping something in the process, something that, when snapped made Perry’s own scream fill the gym.

Rolling across the floor, Perry came to rest half-in and half-out of the dark, dark pool of blood that surrounded the coach.  He lay on his back panting and cradling his broken wrist.  Terry didn’t miss a beat, striding his short strides over the floor, dropping to his knees to slide the final distance and bringing the dart, clenched in his fist down on his brother’s head.

Perry’s one good arm went up to cover the target; his eye and the dart pierced the flesh of the palm of his hand.  Perry howled again, his arm shaking as he held up his brother’s weight baring down on his.  He stared at the tiny drops of blood dripping from the back of his hand, where the dart stuck through.

“A year?”  Terry shouted, pulling out the dart and bringing his fist down again, Perry catching him by the wrist this time, staring into the shaft of the dart, the point just millimetres from his pupil.

“A-FUCKING-YEAR??”

Terry brought the dart down in time to each word.

“ON-AND-OFF?”

Once, twice, three times.  Perry’s hands no longer going up in defence, his body only moving with the force of Terry’s fist coming down with the dart.

“ON-AND-FUCKING-OFF?”

Again. Again. And again.

*

Tom finally managed to kick the cupboard door out but instantly regretted it seeing first the coach obviously dead then this lunatic Terry character standing, panting over his brother, a flightless dart jutting from what used to be his brother’s eye socket.

Tom swallowed, resisting the urge to throw up and tried to take a step back.

“You work for me now right?” Terry said.

“Y-yes,” Tom stammered.

“Get these two in the boot of the car,” Terry said, softly.  “I need to wash this shit of me.  Where’s the toilet?”

Tom pointed.  Terry walked.  Tom watched as the blood-soaked dwarf walked out of the gym.

By the time the coach and the dead dwarf were in the boot of the car the blood that covered  Tom was beginning to congeal.  Terry walked slowly around the corner still wearing his polished black shoes but his smart dinner jacket and trousers had been replaced with oversized shorts and bright yellow football shirt.

Tom stared and tried not to wretch at the smell coming from the car.  Watching Terry approach he felt that he should say something.

“I’m – er -All done,” he managed.  “And don’t worry, Terry, I won’t tell anyone anything.”

“It’s Big Terry now.  None of this penguin shit,” said Terry.

Tom nodded.  “Big Terry.  Right.”

Terry took the Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and studied it for a second before selecting the corkscrew.

“And you’re right,” continued Terry.  “You won’t be telling anyone anything.”

Source: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

March 19, 2010

Author: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

It’s pretty lucky you’re not there actually, I’ve been practicing what I was going to say in my head and, well, I couldn’t really get it right.  I know I was supposed to stay until you got back and give you the keys and we’d sit down and chat and you’d be all tanned and I’d be pasty white and happy for you but that’s all changed.  The thing is, it’s Lucky, I have to tell you about Lucky.  Can you sit down or something when you’re listening to this. I think it would be better.

He’s dead is the thing.  Lucky is dead.  Chased his last mouse three days after you left.  That was the problem.  You know that scaffolding next door have up against their back wall?  Well he was off like a shot across the garden.  The mouse went up one of the planks to the first level then I lost site of him.  Wednesday morning there was still no sign of him I started to worry and started searching the neighbourhood, making enquiries.  By Thursday I was past myself.

And then the builders turned up again.  Turned out when I confronted them that they knew something (incidentally they weren’t going to tell me but I forced them).  Tom the foreman had apparently taken up a hobby to relieve the tedium of his day job and, well, taxidermy isn’t everyone’s cup of tea but from what I’ve seen he seems to have quite the talent for it.  He claims that he practices on what he calls roadkill and when he’d found poor Lucky with no collar he figured that it would be okay.

Of course when I found out I demanded he return the poor thing and he agreed.  Said I would have to cook him dinner in return.  Thing is from what he described it was only really the front of Lucky that was usable.  He’s a really nice man, really trying to broaden his horizons, he was telling me about how he’d seen this animal in a museum in Rome when – oh God, I’m waffling, sorry – Lucky… Tom stuffed him, and mounted him.

On a remote controlled car.

I thought he had a bit of a surreal artistic streak but apparently it’s called anthropomorphic taxidermy.  Dates back to Victorian times. Amazing isn’t it?  It looks like Lucky is actually driving the car when you use the remote control.  He gave me the car with Lucky attached and the remote control after we had finished dessert.  After the second bottle of wine we were driving him around the kitchen but, listen, he’s on your dining room table.  Lucky.  Not Tom.

I hope you get this before you get in.

Oh god, I’m sorry but I just didn’t think you’d understand.  I’m not sure I do but Tom is such a nice bloke and a wonderful artist you’d love him I swear.  Listen I have to go, he’s just arrived to pick me up but call me, please.

Source: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

March 18, 2010

Author: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

Well after a late night last night and a good bit of hitting it with a hard stick today you should see a marked improvement to the site. The main elements are now in place and you can read the stories, etc.

Writing Prompts and Character Name Generator are still turned off until I iron out all the bits and bobs but hope to have them up soon and I’ll keep you posted through this spanky new blog-like talky device.

In the meantime don’t worry about things changing around you – I’m updating the live site all the time so things will come and go. Try not to get motion sickness.

Source: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

Author: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

Or rather IT’S ALIVE with an apostrophe. I have had success in a few updates I made today including the bloody brilliant font being integrated into headlines. Only problem being that there are certain characters missing. Like, oh, say, apostrophes.

Not to worry, I know you’ll trust that the punctuation is there in spirit if not in titles. Either that or just chalk it up to the fact that I’m all avante garde and shit.

In other news I was arsing about with the Writing Prompts Generator and it is on the verge of working. Tomorrow is  the day for that I can practically taste it.

Apart from that there is an update of a short story variety brewing. I’ll be posting something new in the next couple of days, just need to decide what it will be.

Exciting times indeed.

Source: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

Author: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

It is with relief I can finally point you to the newly working Writing Prompts Generator. It has the same content as the prompts generator from the old design of the website but doesn’t (yet) have any snazzy javascript on it.

I know how many people use it and I really just wanted to get it working in the first place. Now that it is working I will be looking to improve it and make it a bit more pretty. So all you have to do is go to the page and the prompt will display in the right hand column. Refresh the page and a new one will appear.

I labelled the box ‘Writing Prompt’ just to be on the safe side… If you can’t find it then perhaps you might want to seek medical attention.

Source: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

Author: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

The voices came back first. People shouting, the sound of running and then Travers voice trampling up into my consciousness. My eyes snapped open.

“…the bloody golf cart NOW!” he screamed.

The side wall of the clubhouse was metres in front of us. I slammed on the brakes and came to a stop in the same way a cloud would if it had slowly hit a pillow.

“Don’t panic,” I said.

“Are you allowed to drive?” he retorted.

“Not exactly, no.”

He nodded then smiled and let out another Bwaaaaaaaaaaaah!

“You know,” he added. “It was worth risking life and limb to watch you run over that fool Smith.”

“What?” I said. “What do you mean run over?”

“Just that, you caught him good and proper, knocked him into the rough.”

“Is he alright?”

“Hey!” said a voice.

I didn’t like the tone of that ‘hey’ and I liked it even less when its owner came into view bearing all the hallmarks of being a policeman.

“Clint, is it?” he panted as he came to a stop.

“I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder…”

“Hang on a minute there’s no way I could have killed Smith – not with a golf cart.”

“Smith? Golf cart?” he looked genuinely confused. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. “I am arresting you for the murder of Damien Zelnick. Anything you

Source: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

Author: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

“I’ll tell you who is guilty of this murder, officers,” Mitch was standing in a room in the clubhouse and I was lying on the floor with my cheek on the carpet and my arm cuffed to a table leg.

I pushed myself up quickly and surveyed the scene. Travers was present. There were two policemen. An older bloke I hadn’t seen before. The lawyer and a paramedic tending to Smith, who looked pretty shook up. I had the horrible feeling that Mitch was just going to let them cart me away. This was even easier than a confession, he didn’t need to convince the police.

I thought for a second about making a run for it and then noticed that one of the attendant lawmen had handcuffed me to the table leg.

“Not too late am I?” I asked.

“You finished your post-hit-and-run nap then have you?” Smith shouted. “You could have bloody killed me!”

I winced a smile at him and he stared blankly back.

“This murder was committed by…” Mitch began.

“Can I just stop you for a minute there, Mitch?” I interjected.

“Er.”

“Just before you get into the cut and thrust of it all I would like to say,” I lifted the table slightly and slid the attached cuff off the leg. “It’s just that there’s no way I could have committed this murder.”

“Erm, of course there isn’t,” said Mitch.

“Because at the time of the murder I was… What did you say?”

Mitch stared at me, frowning.

“Well of course you didn’t do it, you were… well, you know…”

“Sleeping?”

“Sleeping. Exactly.”

“Oh, right, well then, can someone have a look at this please?” I stood up and lifted my arm in the air, jangling the attached cuff in the direction of the police in attendance.

“Hang on,” said one of the policemen. “I’m not convinced about this. I mean…”

“As I was saying officer,” said Mitch. “The murder was committed by Avelina Mergen.”

The policeman started to walk towards me.

“The lawyer?” I asked.

Mitch nodded.

“He’s right,” she said. “It was me.”

I looked over to her sitting at a table by the bar, relaxed, sipping a white wine.

“It wasn’t her,” I said.

The policeman stopped walking towards me.

“It wasn’t?” said Mitch. He let out a small sigh. “Come on Clint, I’m trying to help you here.”

“It was,” she said again. “I killed him.”

“See?” said Mitch. “What more do you need?”

He nodded towards the officer who started to walk towards her.

“I though we already talked about this, Mitch. What about evidence?” I said.

The policeman stopped and stared at Mitch again.

“Ah, yes, I know but she’s admitted to it. Now, erm, shut up will you?”

The policeman hovered in the middle of the room for a second then began to speak. “Alright,” he said deliberately. “If she didn’t do it then it was definitely you.”

He pointed at me.

“Hang on, officer,” said Mitch. “This murder was committed by Mr Bartholomew Travers. Take him away.”

“What?” barked Travers.

“Listen,” said Smith, rubbing his damaged limb. “I just need to go to the toilet, can I pop out for a second?”

“Oh I wouldn’t mate,” said the policeman. “There’s been some sort of, I don’t know, outbreak or something. It looks like a septic tank has exploded in there and there’s people lying around…”

The corners of his mouth turned down and he swallowed.

“There’s… well, there’s excrement up the walls and… well, to be honest with all that’s going one here,” he said. “I just locked them in there.”

“Erm, Officer?” Mitch tried to re-establish control of the room.

“Hang on a minute Mitch,” I said. “I don’t think it was him. There’s no way those fingers could have wired up the device that electrocuted him. He hasn’t got the dexterity.”

“Electrocuted?”

“Yeah. Wide eyes, hair standing on end, smell of burning. It’s a dead giveaway isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Yeah. That and the massive bloody battery and wires in the golf cart thingy.”

“And he was soaking. Conducts the electricity a treat. Sprinklers mysteriously came on before it happened did they?” I looked over to the lawyer who nodded dutifully.

“Device?”

“Yeah. Arthritis. Didn’t do it.”

Not one to take this lying down. Mitch rounded on the lawyer.

“Well one of you two must have done it. I don’t care what the evidence says!” he said, his eyes darting from the lawyer to Travers and back again. “You. You did do it didn’t you?”

“I told you I did,” said the lawyer. “Now prove it or piss off.”

“Right,” said Mitch. “Well then.”

He wagged his finger at the lawyer.

“Ah,” he said, turning back to Travers. “But I did find a cigar butt on the corpse. There!”

He beamed at Travers. He turned around and beamed at me.

I shook my head. He stopped beaming.

“No?”

“Nope,” I said. “Different brand isn’t it?”

Mitch stamped across the room and snatched the cigar Travers was holding.

“Shit,” he said and gave it back. Mitch turned around to look at me, “Where are you getting this from Clint?”

I shrugged.

“Oh bollocks to it,” said Mitch. “If you’re so clever you work it out then smart arse.”

The policeman who had been hovering in the centre of the room finally snapped into action.

“Right,” he said. “So we’re happy it’s not the lady lawyer. Which I’m quite glad about. Mr Travers here appears to have been unable to set up such an elaborate trap.”

“Steady on,” said Travers.

“Sorry,” he continued. “So that means we’re back to you then, doesn’t it. You were there before anyone else. Apparently asleep although frankly I have my doubts so let’s stop messing about, come on, I’m taking you down the station.”

“Hang on,” I said. “Err, what about him?” I waved my cuff frantically at Smith.

The other policeman put his hand up to speak. I nodded eagerly at him.

“He said he’d never met any of these gentlemen before today. Said they asked him to make up the numbers.”

I laughed, “That’s good – make up the numbers? Get it?”

Everyone stared. That happened a lot.

“Never mind. You,” I said pointing to the accountant. “You did it. I know you did it.”

“Eh?” he replied.

“Officers, take this man into custody. He’s the murderer and I have the evidence here.”

I snatched a bunch of papers from a nearby desk and waved them comically at the bewildered accountant. I looked around at everyone and waited for someone to move, to say something but everyone was staring at me as if I was Miss bloody Marple. This was going to be difficult because I was just making it up as I went along. I needed time to think but the officers started to move forward and all I could think was shit, shit, SHIT I need to think. Please just

Source: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

Author: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

“Bah!” I said, my body making a strange involuntary noise just to make the room go quiet and stare at me. “How long was I out for?”

Mitch bent down to help me up. I reached up and touched my left elbow. I must have fallen on it as I went down.

“Erm, just a couple of minutes. Not long. Clint,” Mitch said quietly in my ear as I began to stand. “You’re on to something. He just tried to make a break for it so don’t screw this up, tell them how he did it.”

I cleared my throat. Everyone was staring.

I breathed deeply and tried not to think about sleep.

“Craig Smith,” I began slowly. “Why don’t you tell everyone here what you had against Mr Zelnick?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “I’d never met him before today.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

“No we don’t.”

Dammit, for a moment there I thought it was actually going to be that easy.

“Why then, if you two had never met, did you have such a dislike for him?”

“What?”

“The other members of your party commented on it.”

“I’m not putting up with this a moment longer,” Smith stood up, picked up his coat and began striding towards the door but Mitch was ready for him and stepped forward knocking into Smith’s damaged arm.

Smith screamed and dropped his coat on the wooden floor. Out of one of the pockets slid a small homemade electronic device with two distinct buttons. I lunged forward and grabbed it and held it out for the assembled masses. If this was the switch that opened his garage door I was screwed.

“Let me spell it out for you,” I said, trying hard to fight back the tiredness.

And that’s exactly what I did. Told everyone how it all fitted together, how Smith had found out via Facebook that the dead man would be playing today. I told them about how he had arrived early and got rid of the fourth player, how he had rigged up not just the sprinkler system but also the electrical charge in the golf bag. I told everyone how he had activated both with his remote and how he had watched as Zelnick had died.

“That’s just the remote that opens my garage,” said Smith.

I was furious and pressed the buttons hard. There was a loud bang in the corner of the room and smoke started rising out of the golf bag which sat next to the other police officer.

And that was it, the room exploded with voices and movement and Smith hurled himself at me, knocking me down and

Source: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

Author: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

“…for the last ten years,” said Mr Smith. “But no-one knew. There’s no way anyone could have known.”

“Well?” said one of the officers. “Can we arrest him now?”

Mitch nodded then turned around to look at me. “Yes. Take him away.”

“Hang on a second,” I said, jangling my loose handcuff once more at the officers.

“Oh yes,” one replied and removed the offending bracelet.

“Well done, lad,” said Travers. Coming up behind me and slapping me hard on the back. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Thanks, I think,” I said. “So what did I miss?”

Travers let out a bwaaaaaaaaah!

“Remember the accountant, the one who Zelnick sent down? The one I told you about, had a heart attack?”

“Yeah.”

“Smith was his son. Blamed Zelnick for his death.”

And then the other occupant of the room, an older man with swept back white hair, stood up and approached us.

“Clint is it?” he said in a way that was a statement rather than a question.

I nodded dutifully and he looked to Mitch and raised an eyebrow.

“Erm, Clint, this is Mr Forsyth,” said Mitch deferentially. “My boss.”

“Well done, lad,” said Forsyth. “That was pure cabaret. Brilliant lunacy. I loved it.”

“Blind luck if you ask me,” said the other officer as he dragged the still smoking golf bag out of the bar. “There’s no way he could have known that the accountant was related to any of this.”

“Blind luck?” said Forsyth. “What do you have to say about that Clint?”

“I don’t know about that, there were, well… clues I suppose you’d call them and, well people told me stuff and…”

Mitch opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it.

“So, Clint,” Forsyth continued. “Blind luck was it?”

“Course not,” I said, reassured. “Just seemed obvious really.”

“Whatever it was you got a confession from someone who, until minutes ago would have gone free.”

He nodded and looked at me for a second without speaking.

“Well it appears we have an opening for a man of your talents at the Agency.”

I waited for him to stop, to backtrack on the offer but it appeared he was serious. I looked over to Mitch who just nodded ever so slightly.

“So, my little defective detective. What do you say?”

“Erm. Okay.”

Source: Adam Maxwell’s Fiction Lounge – Stories Feed

Newer Posts »