Not a word of dialogue here. Obviously, nowhere near the finished article. A reference to the Open Golf Championship means it was written in 2006 as I can remember meeting Tiger Woods* shortly after he had won his third British Open at Royal Liverpool.
*We aren’t ’mates,’ he just happened to be in the same room at the time.
Memories, random thoughts and observations, something or nothing. Too early to tell. I suspect this piece won’t survive the next cull. My most reliable critic, however, loves it. That’s significant – she has great intuition. She’s not a style pedant either so the absence of dialogue doesn’t send her rushing to criticise the lengthy prose passages, even in a work in progress. It happens – you people know who you are! It’s written in the First Person, like most of my random jottings, but will be switched to a Third Person narrative if it ever becomes ‘novel ready.’
First glimpse of the Target.
With a new job starting I frequently found comfort in the solitude of the deserted promenade. Particularly at night when the loneliness of whatever my new identity’s place in the community happened to be was the only alternative.
The Marine Lake was quiet and still. In the faint glow of moonlight, its placid surface suggested dark and mysterious depths, but inside the encircling sea wall, it was no more than four feet deep at low tide. These calm conditions with barely a breath of wind were unusual enough to be an annoyance to sailors and windsurfers, but golfers on the Royal Liverpool links half a mile to my right had basked in calm conditions for a couple of days. Behind the sand dunes, the golf course had used up its annual ration of calm weather during the sun-baked week of the British Open and this calm spell was a throwback to those balmy days.
The tide was approaching its peak and the dark water slapped unseen at the rim of the sandstone promenade. I took a step backwards and then another as a sudden gush of inky-black water with a white foaming tip cleared the lip of the wall. Even in such calm conditions, the relentless surge of the waves was enough to send me hustling to the safety of the car and back to the dingy flat from which I’d escaped an hour ago.
The interior of the flat was remarkable. Not good, not even okay, but remarkable.
The colour scheme, a lot more colour than scheme, had vomit as the dominant shade. A blind person would have difficulty living in this room without feeling nauseous. It would do. It had to. The man I was supposed to be wouldn’t even notice his surroundings; let alone find them unsatisfactory. A small seating area, two vinyl armchairs, kitchen, table, two wooden dining chairs, bathroom, bed, wardrobe, even a television – this would be luxury for some.
Sombre shadows lurked. In the room and in my mind. I removed the photograph from the slim file. Looked for a long time at the face of the Target. Looking for a weakness? A way in? Maybe.
The myriad disappointments of a lifetime were etched into the seams and hollows of his features. A hard road travelled and many miles behind him. Deep shadows below his eyes imparted a melancholy appearance. Dark, purple shadows, hinting at great sadness or long-endured pain. His prominent nose was undamaged, a rarity amongst men who’d come up the hard way. Hard and fast. Interesting.
The likelihood was that he fought with his mind rather than his fists. A talker, not a fighter. Nowadays, he had other men ready and willing to break limbs on his behalf, but it hadn’t always been the case. He’d risen to the top of a dangerous profession without any evidence of damage to himself.
I’d never met him, but probably knew more about him than anyone else alive. I still didn’t understand him. He had a distorted view of the world that would have tasked the imagination of Salvador Dali at the height of his surrealist period. An irrational man. Unpredictability made him dangerous.
The rain made a renewed assault on the windows. GBH committed by Mother Nature. I sighed; put the photograph back in the file. Time to go.
An hour later I was sitting in the main bar of the Hard Day’s Night Hotel. A few business-suited men, winding down after work, glasses piling up on the low tables, a middle-aged woman, head bowed over a laptop, the lighting dimmed for optimum effect. I sipped my drink, watched the two men at the bar. The younger man was of no interest. I’d seen him around the pubs and clubs often enough. A minor dealer, on his way up the ladder, but not yet worthy of Target status. I suspected he would never get that far. He had the chat, the contacts, but there was more than a hint of weakness in those pale eyes. He’d fold under pressure. I knew it and if I could see it, others would have noted it too. He was useful, for now, but I suspected he’d not be around for the long haul.
I’d never seen the other man before. Not in the flesh, so to speak, but I knew him. I’d committed every aspect of this man to my memory over the past few days. His photograph didn’t do justice to the man. The grey suit was stylish and evidently expensive. A classic style in lightweight wool, good enough to grace any occasion. The gold watch on his left wrist was wafer thin and had in all probability cost more than the car in which I’d driven here. I looked at the chunky Rolex adorning the wrist of the man’s companion and the contrast couldn’t have been more marked. The Rolex was probably fake anyway.
The Target spoke to the girl behind the counter, smiled at her as he ordered a fresh drink. His teeth were film star quality and the lines around the smoky grey eyes deepened as he smiled. Momentarily, it changed him; made him appear less threatening, but the girl moved away and the moment passed.
I knew with absolute certainty that behind those hooded grey eyes lay a razor-sharp mind and a ruthless nature. A palpable air of menace was evident, even across this vast room.
I finished my drink and walked out. I didn’t look at the bar again, but suspected he’d watch me leave. Men like that don’t miss much.
I was a stranger, but that was about to change. I had to get close to this man, gain his confidence. As yet I hadn’t the faintest idea how to break into that inner circle. I knew it wouldn’t be easy.
The last person to make the attempt had given me a rare insight into the consequences of the Target’s suspicious mind. We’d spoken for almost an hour. Until the nurses arrived to wheel him away for some treatment or other. Stoke Mandeville isn’t the ideal place for a cosy chat. A room full of spinal injury patients, men who’ll never walk again, makes for a sombre background.
Gulliver Smith 