Experimentation

One of the aims for this project was to try writing a section in second person. I had this mad idea that I should be able to write something that allowed the reader to play a role, better than Complicity, where the reader wouldn't find the character written in second person reacting too differently to them. I was really disappointed with Complicity because the character was so far removed from me that I really couldn't make a connection. Mind you, since then, I have seen stuff like Twilight so there's a limit. Anyway, turns out it's really hard and I found that I hadn't got enough of a plot to keep it going, so I defaulted back to my MC, whose name I still don't know.

Anyway, that's my way of introduction. Here's the extract below:

       One thing occurred to me as I loaded the wooden trunk onto the wheeled carrier: I hadn’t seen any plug sockets in the house, nothing plastic either. I hadn’t seen anything obviously electrical, apart from light fittings, but it all seemed… well, not what I was used to. And, as I stepped out onto the street outside, I was struck immediately by the fact that the centre of the road was grassy and not tarmac. There were two tracks of cobbled surface, but no pavement. Small paths led from each front door of the terraced houses running down each side of the street but ended at those cobbles. No yard walls or yards, the whole rest of the surface was just grass. Unkempt grass at that, none of it looked like the neat and tidy lawns I was used to seeing, but nor was it completely out of control and untidy. Wildflowers bloomed, grasses grew to seed and there was a lot of green.

       I dragged the chest up the slight hill to a main road, I still didn’t quite know where I was but some things were looking vaguely familiar on some level. Perhaps this girl lived somewhere close to where I did. Then I was at what appeared to be a main road, at least there was a tarmac surface here, but once again I didn’t see any cars using it and none were parked either side. Down one side of the road there was a large building with flags hanging from the side, I didn’t recognise any of them and they didn’t look like national flags or anything. Lots of them had words on, but with a lack of breeze I struggled to make out much more than that. To my left I could see some longer buildings, taller too, standing about six storeys high. On the far side of the tarmac there were poles with lights atop, and wires strung between them. I knew what these were: they looked like the tram lines I’d seen when I visited Blackpool to see the Illuminations, but this didn’t look like Blackpool. Beyond that, at the bottom of the slope, there was a taller building, looking for all the world like one of those concrete tower blocks I’d seen in a big city.

       A tram clattered by, barely making a motor noise, heading down the slope and I watched it go. Double-decked with rows of windows, open back with a pole and a man standing with some kind of machine looking out. It seemed reasonably full. There were pavements here, well, paths of some sort on each side of the main tarmac section, and people were walking. I was struck immediately by just how old fashioned everything looked. There were men wearing flat caps and overalls walking in small groups; women in overalls too, but also long coats and long skirts, much like what I was wearing in style, and their hair tied back with scarves or under hats of their own. Other men walked in long coats and also wore different styles of hats but there were fewer of those. A gaggle of boys in what looked suspiciously like Scout uniforms, but wrong somehow, were dawdling by a shop window. At least, it looked like a shop.

       Another tram passed and I was aware of something else, I whipped my head around and saw an actual truck cresting the top of a rise to my right: it looked very different to any truck I’d seen before. A large cab but strangely streamlined rather than flat fronted, a high exhaust pipe, and pulling two long trailers behind. Like a train, almost. These were flatbeds and had tarpaulin stretched across, tied down with sturdy ropes, revealing little of their load beyond the fact that it looked like boxes had been stacked rather than containers. It thundered by and I realised that the reason it seemed so loud was because there wasn’t the sound of traffic that I was expecting – the whole place seemed unnaturally quiet. I could even hear birdsong as the truck rumbled into the distance.

 

SOMEWHERE ELSE

       The man nobody knew as Fabius Denning entered the office and turned to hang up his coat. “Good morning,” he said without looking at you. You, of course, did know him as Fabius Denning because it was your business to know such things. “Anything interesting?”

       You took a moment before responding, it never hurt to let him think about what you might say before you spoke and, besides, you’d been busy when he walked in and you didn’t want to leave the task incomplete. It was only a couple of strokes on the keyboard, watching the figures line up on the screen, so it wasn’t like you were being rude. That would never do. “Potentially.” You take a moment to adjust an aspect of your clothing, aware that Fabius was watching. He preferred to be called by his surname but it wasn’t something you felt the need to adhere to. “There’s a new case been handed down anyway.”

       Pouring himself a glass of water, Fabius turned back to face you and walked over to his own desk. “Oh?” It was hard to tell if he was genuinely interested or feigning it in order to be sarcastic.

       “Information theft,” you stated baldly, “low level local civil servant, we think. Ah…” You called up the file on the screen once again and quickly scanned the details. “Doesn’t look like it was targeted, maybe disgruntled, but it was something big. Big enough they haven’t told us what it is.”

       You could see his eyes change as he realised the implications. Yes, he was genuinely interested now, and he leaned across his desk without taking a sip from his glass. “Resources?”

       “Plod. Don’t want to draw attention if it was an accident nor tip off whoever organised it if not.”

       “Sensible.” He nodded, more to himself than for your benefit. “How long ago?”

       “Last night.” You picked up the address you’d written out on paper before Fabius had arrived and waved it at him, turning your attention back to your work. Fabius always preferred a bit of field work to making sure the office ran smoothly anyway, and sometimes it didn’t hurt to let him have his little bit of fun. “Trevor Billingham. At least, that’s the account. Worked at the office in Leeds. His building is out by Seacroft, the brutalist estates.”

       “Makes sense.” Fabius had moved from his desk and took the paper you offered. He raised an eyebrow, you couldn’t see it but you knew he had, something in the way he held himself in your peripheral vision. He was much more of an open book than he thought and that suited you just fine. No need to ever tell him, the fact you knew was good enough. “Ugh. I’ll go and put in the call to the Plod now. Wait. Do they know about this?”

       A moment for you to glance at his face, he was still looking at the paper, and then back to your screen as you typed in the query and checked the logs. “They got details of the theft first, actually, but the address was handed over by circular about two hours ago. Oh. Looks like they sent a team out already. Someone’s marked it as urgent.” You sighed, it was probably some desk warmer somewhere with an over-inflated sense of importance or too-developed sense of duty. “If you hurry you might be able to get there before they do.”

       Fabius was already getting his coat on as you spoke. He put on his hat and paused a moment with his hand on the doorknob, “Better than a day spent making small talk with Mr Security downstairs, I suppose, let’s hope they haven’t buggered it all up already. Have a good day.”

       Before you can control it you smile and glance over at him again. “You too, don’t forget to call.” Sarcasm went where truth feared to tread.

       “I won’t.” And he was gone.

 

       The small triangular common area I could have sworn was a carpark, I was beginning to get my bearings now and was fairly certain I stood in Stanwix, Carlisle, but it was very different to what I remember. In Primary School I had been shown Victorian photographs of the area, with all the cobbled streets and empty spaces and few people. The houses, the terraced houses, look like colour versions of the black and white images and the car park… well, it wasn’t a car-park. Paved, yes, but no low walls or cars, instead there were four bus shelters and a dot-matrix display showing times and destinations. On the main road section there is a raised platform for the tramlines and, behind, on both other sides there are more normal looking pavements with what I would have guessed were bus stops.

       “Remember,” says the girl’s father looking at me, “When you get to the railway station you want the Leeds service. I remember that line myself, beautiful, and you’ll enjoy it. It’ll be the one leaving from…” he tails off and smiles in the sort of embarrassed style my own Dad uses when being, well, a Dad. “Sorry, I know you know, I still want to look out for you. Forgive a silly Father for being a bit sentimental, eh, girlie?” He reaches out and rubs the top of my head.

       I seriously consider telling him, telling him that I’m not his daughter actually and that I’ve Quantum Leaped my way here or something but I get the distinct feeling that this would be a bad plan. Besides, he made me bacon butties and I’m not complaining. “Leeds,” I confirm with that alien voice and a nod that I hope exudes confidence. Apparently I’m going to Leeds then with this ridiculous chest and a sun-hat.

       “Oh!” the girl’s father looks suddenly distracted and starts fishing in his pockets before he pulls out a battered looking wallet – the first thing I’ve seen that doesn’t look new or well-cared for – and opens the coin section. “Here, you’ll need the fares.” He takes out a large copper coin, like a penny that ate a two pound coin, and a couple of smaller silver ones. He looks back at me, then pulls out a note, and closes the wallet. “Don’t spent it all at once, will you?” He smiles as though this is funny – fathers don’t ever change.

       The coins feel really heavy in my hand and I worry that maybe this girl is just comically weak before realising that the coins are just heavier than I’m used to. Inspecting them I find that the big copper one proclaims itself as a penny, putting me in mind of those lessons on Victorians again, and the two silver ones say ‘one shilling’ on them, like old ten pences my Dad showed me once. “Thanks,” I say, more to hide the fact that I’m looking at these coins like it’s the first time I’ve seen anything like them. Even though it is the first time I’ve seen anything like them. The note is similarly alien, being a sort of browned white colour of paper rather than the shiny plastic I’m used to. It informs me that I can claim five pounds on demand from the Bank of England but there’s no old person’s head on it anywhere. Honestly, it looks like play-money for some old game.

       “Thanks? Goodness, you talk like someone from the colonies. You’re welcome, of course.” The girl’s father looks a little confused for a moment, but it passes mercifully quickly and before I try to fix it and inevitably put my foot in it. “Looks like that’s your bus!”

       Following his gaze I see a red painted bus coming from the direction of Eden Bridges over the river Eden. One of the bits of trivia is that when the bridge was made wider the builders just joined a second bridge to the first, so it got named in the plural and it stuck even though it sounds stupid. Mind you, this is lucky, because apparently saying ‘thanks’ is suspicious or something.

       “Come here,” says the girl’s father as he throws an arm around my shoulders and leans down more to my level, “Have a lovely time, telephone if you get chance and don’t forget to write. Love you, little girlie.” I feel him place a kiss on the top of my head and get an irrational urge to squirm away. It all feels wrong. Not least the idea of phoning, I haven’t seen a single mobile since we left the house and even in this crowd of people not one has checked notifications or a map or anything. I am seriously beginning to doubt that anyone even has such a thing. Maybe it is Victorian times.