The Word Cloud

Lance Calvert threaded his belt through the loops of his black trousers, sat down on the edge of the bunk and slid his feet into black trainers.

The launch’s engine spluttered for a second, then died. He turned and looked out of the porthole. The sea looked as though one of the gods had dropped and smashed a bottle of ink. The crests of waves were like splinters of glass, bright and sharp under the moon, glistening in a puddle of dense pigment.

The launch started to rock gently from side to side and Calvert turned away to tie up his trainers.

Soft footsteps padded across the small deck above him, then down the steps into the cabin.

Zack Fergus appeared in the galley. “We’re about half-a-mile from the shore,” he said, hesitantly.

“Fine,” Calvert replied. He didn’t look up.

After a moment, Fergus spoke again. “Look, Lance, I’m still not sure I should be letting you do this, I mean -”

“I know. The Bureau will have your hide. You’ve told me!”

“I’m not talking about the Bureau now. I’m talking about you. You’ve not had -”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Calvert said, then stood up. He held out his hand. “Where is it?”

“It’s up on deck. But, listen, I want to talk to you first -”

“Oh! For pity’s sake, Zack! Either give me the damned thing or lock me up!” Calvert snapped. “I know what I’m doing, and why I’m doing it. Happy?”

“No, I’m not. You’re a photographer, not a terrorist, and -”

“And, so was Jane. Now give me a break!”

Fergus sighed and leaned on the galley work surface. “There are other ways, you know,” he said.

Calvert laughed and pushed past him. “Like hand it over to the authorities? Ha! It’ll end up wrapped in so much red tape they’ll think it’s a bloody Christmas present!” He fastened a few karabiners and pitons to his belt as he spoke. “Well, have a Happy New Year, Zack, because Christmas has come early.” He pushed a mini Maglite into his hip pocket, picked up a length of climbing rope and a harness and went up on deck.

He breathed the warm, sweet ozone and looked out over the edge of the launch towards the island. Sweet as it was, it did nothing to soothe the hard, burning lump in his throat. It was jammed and sobbed silently, curled up in a little ball of anger and grief, getting neither worse nor better. And it hurt. He wanted to cough it up, but he couldn’t. Like a small balloon of obnoxious gas, it was anchored by a mooring rope to his heart.

Zack Fergus arrived at his side and handed him a small, round, black box, about the size of a travel clock, with two metallic cylinders on the bottom.

“The timer is set to five minutes,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“It won’t bring her back, Lance. I hope you realise that, if nothing else. And if you don’t get out of there when that thing goes off, you’ll be seeing her again anyway,” Fergus said.

Calvert nodded and clipped it to his waist.

“You may find this useful too.” He gave him a large pistol, wrapped in a black suede shoulder holster. On its top edge, the pistol sported a telescopic sight. A large silencer protruded from the end of the barrel.

“It’s only an air pistol, Lance. Crossman pneumatic. Two-two calibre. Recoilless and silent. No stopping-power whatsoever, unless you’re up against a rat.”

“Sounds about right,” Calvert said.

“But, it should take out any little electronic nasties. Passive Infra-red Motion Sensors have an average range of seventeen feet - stay out of it! At arms length the sight is calibrated to around twenty feet, and it’s a light-grabber. It’s sensitive in low-light. Ten pumps is all you need to do a clean job,” Fergus said, handing him a few rounds of ammunition.

“These slugs have nylon skirts and zinc heads. State of the art hunting ammo for air weapons. Maximum muzzle velocity. They’ll easily penetrate thickish plastic, or even thin metal, at twenty feet.”

Calvert strapped on the holster. He pocketed the ammunition and climbed into the harness, looping the coil of rope over his head so it rested across his chest and back, leaving his arms free.

Fergus turned and pulled back the tarpaulin sheet covering a raised storage box in the middle of the deck, then lifted out a black kayak and slid it towards the back of the launch. He handed Calvert the double-bladed paddle and moved over to the end of the boat, unbolted a drop down flap, and slid the kayak’s nose out over the edge.

He looked at his watch. “It’s two-forty-five. No-one knows we’re here. I want you out of there by three-thirty, or I’m out of here without you. Got it?”

Calvert nodded. He thought that Fergus had changed. The care had gone from his voice. It had now become a covert assignment, and, off the record or not, Fergus was in full control.

He climbed into the kayak, took hold of the paddle and raised it above his head. Fergus pushed him out into the water.

“Remember, three-thirty,” he said.

Calvert heard him, but didn’t answer. All that now lay between himself and justice was half-a-mile of open water and a cliff face. As he paddled away, through the shiny black waves, he focussed his mind on the island, and all he had learned about his quarry - Emile Brissac.

Brissac had been an excellent racing driver. The champion of many Grands Prix, he was notorious for being ruthless. He was said to have been in perfect harmony with a car, driving more by telepathy than skill, seeing opportunities to overtake before they even appeared. People had been in awe of his gift.

His life seemed to fulfil its vocation, until one particular race ended his career in the fast lane. It had happened on a bad bend, one with a reputation for disaster. He was in second place on the last lap. It was the final bend before the finish line and commentators had speculated his move.

At a terrific speed, he tried to overtake the leading car, tight on the inside. In a hundredth of a second, his gift had escaped him and the gap closed. The two cars collided.

Brissac’s machine cart wheeled across the track and burst into flames. He came to a standstill on the grass verge, upside down, the whole car engulfed by intense fire. It took so long to put out the flames and get him out of the car, everyone was certain he was dead.

However, he lived, and was re-christened ‘The Phoenix’.

Calvert paddled on. The shore was getting nearer. He could see the white of small breakers on the sand. There was about a quarter of a mile left to go. He went back to thinking about Brissac.

After a long time in hospital, and no longer able to drive, Brissac used his fame and fortune to build an advertising agency. Some of the world’s most prosperous companies, corporations and retail empires were amongst his clients.

Behind all this his business had a flip side. There were darker things at work; things kept cleverly hidden away from the reproving eyes of tax officials. He had a sideline in drugs, and the dark side of the sex industry.

How, or why, Jane had got involved with Brissac, Calvert didn’t know. He didn’t know if he wanted to know either.

A splash of water caught his face and he realised he was nearing the shore. He paddled hard for the last few yards before the kayak’s nose dug into the sand.

It wasn’t until he’d dragged the kayak up onto the beach that he realised how much his shoulders and forearms were aching. He lugged it across the sand to a group of rocks and hauled it over into a gap against the cliff wall.

There was no time to rest. The luminous dial of his watch told him that the half-a-mile paddle had taken just over fifteen minutes.

It was five past three before he had chosen where to climb, uncoiled the rope, and hammered the first piton into the cliff face. He had twenty-five minutes to get up there and back out again.

Luckily, Calvert had made the right choice. The cliff face was a dream, with plenty of foot and hand holds, and he blessed the dry roughness of the rock against his feet and hands. It was his own aching muscles that he cursed with every burning stretch and pull as he went up.

Soon, he was within reach of the top. Through the grass, his fingers found the woody trunk of a laurel bush. He grabbed hold and pulled himself up.

For about half-a-minute he just laid there, breathing slowly and deeply, recharging his muscles with much needed oxygen.

Down on the beach he hadn’t noticed the constant chirping of crickets and the high-pitched drone of cicadas. Now, they filled his ears and annoyed him. He feared they were masking other, more important sounds. Hit by a sudden wave of anxiety, all his senses were alert at once. He got up, unbuckled the harness and stuffed it under the laurel bush.

The grounds of Brissac’s house were walled by cypress trees, thirty feet high, like gargantuan sentries guarding the private space within.

Calvert moved away from the cliff edge and darted, bent double, to the base of the trees. He stopped and crouched in a small, low gap between two trunks. A heavy, resinous scent rose from the spongy dead foliage beneath his feet. As he poked his head through the lower branches he caught another perfume. Jasmine or honeysuckle, or possibly both, he thought.

Lifting his head against the heady aroma, he surveyed the grounds.

Tall statues of Greek gods stood at regular intervals around the garden. The moonlight seemed to bring life to their eyes. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn they were watching him. The sound of trickling water turned his attention to a small fountain, central to a raised bed on the right. On the left, a grape vine covered the sides and top of a pergola.

His eye was led, naturally, to the house. It was a four-storey mansion of pale stone. A wrought iron fire-escape zig-zagged up the right side to the roof.

Calvert noticed a communication wire of some sort anchored at the apex. He let his eyes follow it from the roof and over his head, where it disappeared through the top branches of the trees.

Leaving his hiding place, he went back to the cliff edge. The wire went out and down, over the sea. He returned to the base of the trees.

Time was running out. It was three seventeen. He had just under fifteen minutes left.

Staying low in the shadows, he set off across the lawn, stopping only twice behind statues to check for danger. Then off again.

At the right-hand corner of the house he stopped, pressing his back hard and flat against the wall. Again, he checked for noises. There was nothing.

Keeping to the left, against the wall, he climbed the fire-escape. His body felt taut and alert. A cold sensation circulated through his veins. He put it from his mind and carried on up.

At the top, behind a parapet wall, a metre-wide walkway of flat lead gave access to the roof. He dropped softly onto the lead flashing. Somewhere, there must be a way in, he thought. Why else would the fire-escape exit from the roof?

Heading softly around the walkway, he reached the front corner and bent low. Set into the roof, on his left, was a skylight. He edged towards it. The window was open, just enough to allow some ventilation.

Taking the Mini Maglite from his pocket, he switched on the tiny beam - then switched it off. That was a damned stupid thing to do, he told himself. He slipped it back into his pocket and un-holstered the air pistol. With ten swift strokes of the pumping arm he charged the cylinder. He slid back the loading bolt and seated one of the zinc-headed pellets in the port, then pushed it home.

Crouching lower, he peered in through the skylight. Nothing. He lifted it, keeping the movement as smooth as he could, and put his head through the gap to scan the roof void.

It was stacked with ladened tea-chests, two of which were piled up beneath the opening. A wooden newel post marked the top of an open staircase, over to the right, and above it he saw what he was looking for.

A tiny red L.E.D. blinked slowly on and off. It was a miniature electronic cyclops, guarding the roof void with a single movement-sensing eye. Light from the torch would have been interpreted as movement.

Calvert took three slow, deep breaths and then held it. Stretching out his gun arm, he rested the muzzle of the pistol on the window frame and took aim. The cross hairs showed up clearly against the sensor’s white translucent cover. He squeezed the trigger. There was an almost inaudible ‘phut’ from the pistol and the L.E.D. stopped flashing. He breathed out and put the pistol back in its holster.

Now he switched on the torch. Holding it between his teeth, he eased his way in and hung from the frame until he felt the top tea-chest connect with his feet. He climbed down and tip-toed across to the stairs. As with the fire-escape, he kept to one side as he descended. The landing led off to the left.

He recharged the pistol and loaded it, then put the Maglite back in his pocket. Time was moving fast, but his next move would be his slowest yet.

Placing the left side of his face flat against the wall, and keeping his feet and shoulders well back, he turned his head to look round the corner with his right eye - and was thankful he hadn’t inherited a long nose.

The landing stretched the whole length of the house, and turned down a flight of stairs to the right. A small green nightlight, plugged into a socket at the end, emitted a phosphorescent glow. There was no way he could see what was on the left. But, in the corner of the ceiling, at the top of the stairs, there was another sensor, its red L.E.D. blinking on and off as self-righteously as the first. He rolled his head away smoothly and stepped back.

Calvert spaced his feet like a swordsman. With his arm outstretched, he lifted the gun in line with where he thought the sensor would be, and let the end of the silencer rest against the wall. As he leaned out and looked down the sight, the verdant glow of the landing bit into the black disc like the breaking of a solar eclipse. The sensor entered from the left and moved beneath the cross hairs. He held his breath and squeezed the trigger. The gun issued a sound like cotton wool being blown from a pea shooter, and the little red light was put to sleep.

Calvert could now move undetected along the hallway. Yet something unsettled him. It didn’t feel right. There was nothing to stop him but it didn’t feel right. Just get on with it, he told himself. Find Brissac and finish it, then get the hell out.

He armed the pistol again. Fergus had said it would be useless against anything larger than a rodent. All the same, he felt more confident with it ready in his hand.

He moved out into the hallway. The lump in his throat grew larger. Now he could see the left side of the landing. There were four doors - the first one slightly agape. He was sure it was Brissac’s room. Ventilation was a priority for The Phoenix. Fresh air was his elixir.

Calvert kept close to the wall and edged towards the door. He widened it and moved inside. The room smelt strongly of eau de Cologne.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark, the faint glow from the landing highlighted the shape of Brissac’s sleeping body. Calvert crept over and holstered the pistol. This was what he’d been waiting for. He stood, looking down on the shape of the man who had caused him so much grief. Brissac was out cold. A harmless sleeping animal. That’s all he was when he was asleep. As vulnerable as anyone else. And that’s how it would stay.

He was about to unclip the incendiary bomb from his waist when the lights blazed into life and the room was floodlit. For a second he was blinded. He spun round, instinctively dropping to his knee.

The largest person Calvert had ever seen in his life filled the doorway of the en suite bathroom. At first he thought it was a man. He quickly realised he was mistaken.

She was seven feet tall - and pointing a loaded crossbow straight at him.

“Please don’t move. Monsieur Brissac would be very annoyed if I let you drip blood on his bedroom carpet,” she said.

“Axminster?” Calvert stroked the pile.

“Naturally. You may now stand, but very slowly.”

“Of course.”

Calvert stood up, keeping his eyes on the amazon. She was a monstrosity. Muscles bulged from every part of her blue satin leotard. As his gaze moved from a heavy gold chain around her neck, he noticed that she didn’t have any breasts. They had given way to the enlarged pectoral muscles now dominating her upper torso.

“Raise your hands above your head,” she said, “and place them on top. Then, turn around.”

Calvert did as he was told. He felt the nose of the crossbow against his spine.

“I think you will no longer be needing this,” she said, taking the air pistol.

“Please be careful. It’s loaded.”

“I think it is you who must be careful, Monsieur Calvert. These bolts don’t come out very easily once they are in.”

“Which? Those in your neck, or those in your crossbow?”

She thrust it into his spine. At the same time he felt her examining the incendiary and unclipping it from his waist.

“Which do you think?” she asked.

“I think you’ve been very rude so far.”

“And why do you think that?”

“Well, here I am, letting you take advantage of me, rumaging around in my waistband, and I don’t even know your name,” he said.

“Yes. Sexual politics has changed in recent years, has it not?”

“Oh, rapidly. At one time you had to be a man if you wanted balls. Nowadays, a couple of testosterone shots and, hey presto! Every girl wants a crossbow for Christmas.”

“It was a birthday present, actually. And my name is Helga. Move to the door.”

Calvert saw that what he’d thought was Brissac was merely a pair of pillows, moulded into the classic shape under the duvet. He walked slowly to the door.

“Carry on,” Helga said.

“Where are we going?”

“To Monsieur Brissac’s study. He wanted to meet with you in a relaxed environment.”

“What’s wrong with his own bed? You can’t get more relaxed than that.”

“He didn’t think it was appropriate, somehow.”

“Best laid plans...” Calvert sighed, as they reached the end of the landing.

“Down the stairs, Monsieur Calvert. I’m right behind you.”

Calvert descended the staircase, forcing his brain for a plan. He must be out of time by now. Fergus would be away. He was unarmed, his plans had gone awry, and he was on his own. He must find a way, or Jane’s death had really been in vain.

At the bottom of the stairs Helga nudged him onward, digging the crossbow between his shoulder blades. She persuaded him around the remaining landings and staircases to the ground floor. The entire house seemed to have been permeated by toilet water. It was offensive.

“It is the last door on the left. Move,” she ordered.

As Calvert neared the door the lingering scent of eau de Cologne became stronger again. He could hear tyres screeching and the roar of a high-powered vehicle as it went through the gears. The gear changes were rapid, piercing and erratic as the engine slowed, then accelerated.

He stopped in the study’s doorway. It was like an elevator’s door, steel jambed with an open and close control set into the wall. High security, Calvert thought. The room was probably a stronghold.

“Go in,” Helga said.

The man known as The Phoenix was sitting in an executive leather chair, angled back like a sports car seat. Over his lap stretched a mock dashboard and steering wheel, to which he clung, deep in concentration, his feet raised on a dual pedalled footplate. The unit was similar in design to a hospital table on wheels. A monitor, as broad and deep as a wide screen television set, displayed the speedometer and rev’ counter. Red and white stripes, marking the bends and chicanes of a race track, whipped from side to side across the screen.

Helga cleared her throat. “Monsieur Brissac,” she announced, “your guest has arrived.”

“One moment, please. Let me get onto the straight,” he said. Swinging the car round a bend, he accelerated down a short piece of track before braking fiercely into another bend. It was a hairpin. He fought with the steering wheel. The tyres rumbled over markers, screeched back onto the tarmac, and he accelerated. A clear track stretched out to the artificial horizon ahead. He pressed a button on his dashboard and the game paused.

“I thought I’d lost it that time,” he said.

“Most people do when they go round the bend,” Calvert sneered.

Emile Brissac didn’t answer. In one deft movement he pushed the control unit aside, tilted the chair upright and swivelled round.

Calvert almost winced at what he saw. Brissac’s desiccated head was too small for the rest of his plump, short body. The skin of his face and scalp was completely hairless and looked like melted wax. Both his ears had been reduced to small jagged holes either side of his head, and his mouth, robbed of noticeable lips, was twisted into a grisly smile.

Helga put the incendiary and the air pistol on top of a polished cabinet, then moved away to guard Calvert from the side.

“Monsieur Calvert has brought you some gifts,” she said.

“Thank you, so much. But, you needn’t have bothered. Please, take your hands from your head and relax. Tell me, Monsieur Calvert, are you suitably rested after your arduous journey?” he said.

Calvert let his arms fall by his sides. “You’re the one who should have been resting. Things would have been much easier.”

Brissac laughed, too loudly, and made himself comfortable in the chair.

“Of course. You wanted to kill me. How stupid of me for not realising,” he chuckled. “No, I’m afraid I could not have remained in bed after hearing of your gracious visit. Your arrival was heralded by the gods.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. They told me you were admiring my beautiful garden as you arrived.”

“Mmm... Tell me, Brissac,” Calvert said, “have you seen your analyst recently?”

Brissac laughed again. “You do not really know me, Monsieur Calvert, yet you seem to have formed a very strong opinion already.”

“I know enough.”

Brissac shook his head. He turned to his computer and pressed a few keys. The race track window reduced itself to the bottom bar, and a grid of four smaller windows appeared on the monitor. They were night shots of his garden and grounds.

“Then, did you know that my statues really do have eyes? Do you still think it’s some rambling fairytale? Look with your own eyes. The gods really were watching over you, Monsieur Calvert?” Brissac’s eyes glistened with superiority.

Calvert remembered how uncanny the statues had looked in the moonlight. Now he knew why he’d felt they were watching him. He might as well have walked up the drive and rung the doorbell.

“All I want to know about is why you killed Jane.”

“Jane? Who’s Jane?”

Calvert almost went for him there and then. He clenched his fists and felt his eyes fire their anger across the room. Helga’s gold chain sparkled in his peripheral vision as she took a step towards him, her crossbow holding its mark on his right ear.

Feigned enlightenment struggled over Brissac’s face.

“Oh, that Jane,” he said, “The photographer. Yes, of course. Now I remember. Didn’t she work for the same agency as you?”

“You knew damn well who I was talking about!”

“Yes, she was a very pretty girl. Such a strong joie de vivre. Such passion about her work. Oh, and her hair. I remember she had the most beautiful hair. Long and dark, full-bodied hair. Did she have any mediterranean relatives?”

“Mexican,” Calvert said. “Her grandfather was Mexican.”

“Ah... And she was very talented too. Such promise. She had a gift with a camera, you know?”

“You bastard,” Calvert muttered. The ball of anger in his oesophagus had grown to suffocating proportions. Somehow he was going to kill this ugly little man. Or, he was damned sure he would die trying.

“However, it is such a shame she did not know how to keep her pretty mouth shut.” Brissac shook his head, mockingly.

“How the hell did she ever get wrapped up with you?” Calvert snapped.

“It was quite by chance, actually, at a book fair in... Oh, now, where was it? Last autumn, somewhere...”

“Frankfurt,” Calvert said.

“Yes, that is it. Frankfurt. You are quite right. Well done!”

“You certainly are, Brissac.”

“Sorry? What do you mean? I shall never understand why the English are so obscure in their diction?”

“Where ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise...”

“Ah, yes. Thomas Gray, perhaps?”

“Someone like that. Frankfurt, please.” Calvert said it like he was asking for a train ticket.

“Frankfurt, yes, of course. I was there with a marketing friend of mine. Your friend, Jane, introduced herself. She would have gone a long way in marketing. She was very charming. An open sort of girl. Naturally ambitious. Am I right?”

“Oh, absolutely. Please, aquaint me a little more. Her virtues are a mystery to me.”

“Now, is your tone what you would call sarcastic, or ironical?”

“Neither. It’s what you would call corrosive. But, please continue.”

Brissac laughed. He got up from his chair and took a compact disc from a stacker. He slid it into the computer’s CD Rom drive.

”Just a little visual aid,” he said. “Yes,” he continued, “she was very ambitious. She wanted to start an agency of her own, but didn’t have the necessary capital. She wondered if I would sponsor her. Be her mentor, so to speak. I declined, but invited her to a party, here, at my house. There were plenty of influential people attending and I suggested she networked a few whilst she was here. This was the result.”

Brissac tapped a few keys on the computer and a screen appeared. It was a video image. Some unheard-of pop music started to play and the title, The Photographer’s Apertures, in lurid turquoise, swam across the screen from left to right.

The title disappeared and was replaced by the shot of a bedroom. Calvert recognised it as Brissac’s. The shot panned and closed in on the door of the en suite. It swung open to reveal a make-shift darkroom, bathed in red light.

There was the sound of men whispering obscenities and groaning pleasurably, mingled with the desperate whimpering of a female. The camera zoomed in on a row of developing trays, one lewd print still lying in the stop bath. It panned again, downwards this time, to a pile of clothes on the floor. The items of clothing were trailed to the base of a wooden hot tub. The shot panned up and widened out.

A line of indecent prints, pegged at odd angles over the bubbling jaccuzi, framed the action below.

Jane was in the centre.

It was obvious she didn’t know what she was doing. The things the men were making her do were so low, Calvert’s chest broiled with emotions he’d never experienced before. A shoal of hurt, anger, pity, grief, panic and helplessness swam through his body. He tried to deny that it was really Jane.

Her hair fell from her shoulders, and covered her face. One of the men lifted it out of the way and the camera zoomed in. Her eyes were shut tight and she looked ready to faint.

So was Calvert. His forehead had turned icy cold. Emotions were replaced by nausea and he felt a glacial tingling drift down over his legs. They weakened, his calves trembling as he tried to stay upright.

Brissac turned and looked at him, a grotesque smile broadening across his face. He tapped a key and the video paused.

“As I said, she was a talented girl. It is a wonderful drug, Rhohypnol. Such a shame they have scorned it as a date-rape device. It has a most desirable effect. It makes people want to work for you. Especially when you offer to show their editor their unrecognised abilities. The camera work was mine, by the way. I’ve always had aspirations of being a photographer, but never really had the time. Do you have any constructive criticism to offer me?”

Calvert’s strength returned at once and he launched himself at Brissac. He crossed the room in two strides, arms outstretched, and lunged at the man’s throat. Just as his grip closed around Brissac’s neck, Calvert was wrenched backwards by Helga, her masculine arm wrapped tightly around his own throat. He jabbed his elbows into her ribs but she didn’t flinch. She brought the crossbow up and rammed it under his jaw-line.

Brissac smiled smugly and straightened himself in the chair. Calvert knew that the grin was only masking humiliation.

“That is not quite what I meant by constructive criticism,” Brissac said.

“You didn’t have to kill her, you filthy little shit!”

“Oh, but I did. It was a difficult decision, I must admit. She worked very well for several months. She was just as good in front of a camera as she was behind one. But, her loyalty was in question, you see. You must understand that?”

“No, I don’t,” Calvert growled.

“I believe you had a mutual friend in the FBI. A Monsieur Zack Fergus, I seem to recall. Yes?”

Brissac widened his eyes, waiting for the reply. Calvert didn’t answer.

“There really is no point in acting dumb. One of my associates spotted Jane meeting with this man. I had him identified. His profession disturbed me somewhat. I could not allow an employee of mine to consort with anyone capable of restricting my business activities. It was too much of a risk. So...” He allowed the sentence to trail off.

“You’re not out of the woods yet, Brissac,” Calvert said.

Brissac laughed like a madman. “I’m sorry, Monsieur Calvert,” he began, through barely controllable chuckles, “but, you fail to pose a serious threat to my existence. In fact, your persistent, zealous attempts at trying to frighten me simply amuse me more each time.”

Calvert watched numbly as Brissac tried to calm down and straighten his hideous face. Self-restraint was repeatedly overcome by some insane notion, titilating his warped sense of humour, making him giggle like a child.

“Please, Helga, take him away and dispose of him before I choke. You may use the gardener’s mulching machine in the basement. His body parts should make fine bait for our fishing trip tomorrow.”

Helga spun Calvert round to face the door and rammed the crossbow between his shoulder blades. “Move!” she ordered.

He did as he was told. The incendiary bomb and the air pistol were still on top of the cabinet as he passed. There must be a way, he told himself. Find a way, damn it!

As he reached the door, Brissac spoke again.

“Goodbye, Monsieur Calvert. Give my regards to Jane when you meet her again. I’m sure it will be a very touching reunion. I only wish I could be there to witness it.”

“So do I,” Calvert said.

Brissac was still chuckling. “Mais oui! Au revoir!” he said and turned back to his computer. He pulled the dashboard unit in front of him, released the pause, and resumed his position in the motor race.

Helga pushed Calvert through the doorway and back down the hall. Half way along she told him to stop as she edged to one side and opened the door into the basement.

“Down there, if you please,” she said, coaxing him in with the crossbow.

A steep flight of concrete stairs led down to the basement. Calvert stood at the top for a moment looking at all the gardening tools hung around the walls. A lawn mower and a wheel barrow were parked against the wall, and in the far corner was the mulching machine. It was like a huge yellow meat grinder on wheels. The wide funnel on top looked large enough to hold half a cow.

Helga closed the basement door.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” she said.

“Not really. I’ve never been one for gardening, myself.”

“Well, now is your chance, Monsieur Calvert. Move!”

Looking down to the bottom of the stairs, he thought that she might be right. They were long and steep. He felt the crossbow against his backbone. That was good. His idea should work providing Helga was close enough and pushing against him.

Steadily, he moved forward. He went down onto the first step, then the second. Pleased by Helga’s forceful prods, he went to the third step and stopped.

“What is the matter with you? Walk properly,” she snapped.

“I don’t feel too good,” Calvert groaned.

“Oh, don’t be such a coward. Hurry up!”

She pushed again. He resisted slightly. Helga pushed harder and held the force. It was now or never, and it would have to be fast.

In one swift movement he went forward and dropped down, onto the step.

Helga lost her balance and pivoted head first over him. The crossbow clattered down the steps and she squealed with pain as her face smashed into the concrete. As soon as she’d cleared him, Calvert was up and after her. She somersaulted once and crashed, spreadeagled, onto the basement floor. Blood was pouring from her face. She made a dazed attempt to get up, but he was already behind her. With all his strength he kicked her as hard as he could in the backside. She shot forwards and smashed her teeth on the floor.

Dropping heavily onto her back, he slammed his knees into her ribs and grabbed her gold chain. He yanked it back and twisted it. Helga kicked her legs violently and started to push herself up. He twisted harder on the chain, trying to hold his balance on her back. She was going wild, struggling, kicking, coughing and choking. Calvert couldn’t hold her much longer. She was stronger than any man. Her muscles swelled and she started to rise beneath him.

He reached up, dragged a pair of shears from the wall and pushed the blades under the chain, then yanked them round. The chain cut deep into her neck. Blood oozed out from between the links. Her face and temples turned into a vermilion mass of arteries, a dreadful gurgling noise rising from her throat.

Calvert hung on, twisting the shears as hard as he could.

“Die, damn you!” he spat, “Die!”

Helga’s struggling began to subside. In a last attempt she kicked, lamely, and her shoulders twitched with weakening pushes. Then she slumped and lay still.

Calvert held his grip for a moment, just to make sure, then loosened it. His arms burned. He pushed himself off her and leaned back against the cool of the basement wall. Every muscle in his body shook. He looked at his hands. They were hot and sticky with blood and sweat, and grease from the shears. He rested his forearms on his knees and let his hands dangle while he caught his breath.

Thoughts of what he’d just done started to order themselves on his conscience. Revulsion took a stance at the front of his mind and shouted down the line of emotions. You’ve just killed someone, it yelled. You’ve just brought a life to a horrible end. You’re as bad as Brissac. How could you do that?

From the back of the queue, Survival pushed its way up to the front and spoke firmly. Because you had to do it, it said. It was her or you. And believe me, she would have killed you without thinking twice. Take my advice and get a move on before Remorse starts shouting the odds. This thing still needs to be finished.

Calvert stood up. There was no time to waste. He must keep the element of surprise on his side. He jumped over Helga’s carcase, ran across to the mulching machine and banged his fist on the start button. It fired up with an electrical buzz and whine. The noise grew to a loud mechanical drone. The blades drew in air through the wide yellow mouth and exhaled through a narrower, shorter tube which jutted out sideways lower down.

He spotted some old fencing leant against the wall and broke off a few stays, then dropped one into the funnel. The machine laboured, grinding noisily, and spat wood shavings onto the basement floor. He guessed that human bone and sinew would make a similar sound.

Calvert went back to Helga’s body, took the blood stained gold chain from around her neck and dropped it into his trouser pocket. He turned her over and took hold of her arms, ready to drag her out of sight. Her lifeless eyes stared up at him from her now purple face, half carved away by the concrete stairs. His stomach lurched and he retched twice, fighting back the vomit. He didn’t look at her as he dragged her away, but he could smell the blood.

There was an old rag in a bucket by the lawn mower. He wiped his hands and then threw it over Helga’s face before he went back to the mulcher.

Another piece of wood made the machine moan and gnash its hungry blades before belching it out in tiny pieces over the floor. Calvert threw in two more, then switched it off.

For a few seconds his ears rang and he tried to listen for sounds of movement in the house above. He picked up the crossbow. The bolt was still drawn.

At the top of the stairs, he opened the door and listened. There was only the distant scream of a racing car’s engine, and he knew where that was coming from. Calvert curled his finger round the crossbow’s trigger and moved out into the hallway, closing the basement door behind him. He walked down to Brissac’s study. The doors were closed so he pressed the illuminated green section on the control panel. They opened, sliding back into the wall either side with a buzz and hydraulic hiss.

The Phoenix kept his eyes on the race. He was driving through a series of chicanes at break-neck speed.

“It sounded as though Monsieur Calvert’s bones were quite resilient. I hope he hasn’t damaged the gardener’s machine, Helga,” he said. “Would you be so good as to make me some hot milk and honey? I just want to finish this race before I retire. It has been a long night and I need to sleep soundly.”

Calvert took the gold chain from his pocket and tossed it across the room onto the dashboard.

“What the hell are you...” Brissac shouted. Momentarily distracted, he fought with the steering wheel, but the car was in a spin. It careered off the track and crashed into the barrier. He slammed his fists on the arms of his chair in anger, then froze. He was looking, wide-eyed and perplexed, at the gold necklace in front of him. Realisation struck and his colour drained away. He didn’t move.

“A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, Brissac. Unfortunately, Helga was yours,” Calvert said.

In the briefest of glances during the split second that followed, Calvert knew that the air pistol was no longer on top of the cabinet. It appeared like a spark in Brissac’s hand as the man spun round in his chair.

Calvert lifted the crossbow and snatched the trigger. At the same time his right eyebrow exploded with a searing, intense pain as though he’d been struck with a pick axe. He dropped the weapon and doubled up, clutching his forehead. It burned like hell fire and he thought his head would crack. Animal screams roared in his ears. At first he thought they were his own, but his mouth was shut.

He moved his hands away and opened his eyes. Everything was blurred. Slowly, his eyes focussed and he was looking through a red filter. He blinked. The red went away, and then returned. His face felt warm and wet, and his hands were covered in blood. It was running from his brow and into his eyes. Brissac’s shot had hit its mark. He cursed himself for not shooting sooner. Why didn’t you just kill the bastard?

Brissac was screaming and writhing about. The crossbow bolt had riveted him to the chair through his upper chest. His right arm looked paralysed and dangled limply over the side.

Calvert couldn’t bear the screaming. He paced over and backhanded Brissac across the face, hard.

“Shut up!” he snarled.

Brissac gulped and groaned. He opened his eyes and looked at Calvert.

“Help me,” he pleaded. “I shall bleed to death!”

“Oh, don’t you worry, Brissac. I shan’t let you suffer. Not for long, anyway. I’m going to put you out of everyone’s misery forever.”

He turned and walked over to the cabinet, took the incendiary bomb and held it out in front of Brissac.

“Do you know what this is?”

“It’s a bomb,” Brissac stuttered.

“Oh, but it’s not just any old bomb. It’s an incendiary bomb. Death by fire! You should have died in hell the first time round, you ugly little bastard!”

Brissac’s mouth dropped open. Sweat welled from his head and face and streamed down his neck. A pool of liquid developed in the chair bottom and dripped onto the carpet. It wasn’t sweat.

“Not fire! Please God, not fire! For the love of France, I beg you...”

“This is the coup de grace, Brissac. Delivered as an act of mercy to the sufferer - ME! But, your suffering is going to start in hell, and continue in hell,” Calvert said.

He removed the karabiner and clipped it onto one of his belt loops, reset the timer, changing it from five minutes to three minutes, then dragged the dashboard unit round in front of Brissac, making sure it was out of reach.

“You’ve got one hundred and eighty seconds to make your peace with your maker. And, by Christ, it had better be good,” he said.

“No! You can’t! Surely, that would make you no better than you say I am.”

“I couldn’t be as evil as you if I’d been taught by Old Nick himself,” Calvert said.

“No! You can’t! Please! You can’t!”

“I can. And, I’m going to make you sit right there and watch the last few seconds of your life tick away - just like you made me watch that damned video.”

“You cannot do this! You cannot!” Brissac was screaming again.

“Watch me,” Calvert said, and he sat the incendiary on the dashboard in front of Brissac. “Au revoir,” he added and pulled the pin. The timer started to tick, and Calvert started to count backwards from one hundred and eighty. Brissac screamed like a child and Calvert walked out of the room. He didn’t look back.

One hundred and seventy. He pressed the illuminated red portion of the door’s control panel and the two steel sections slid together. He took the mini Maglite from his pocket and rammed the butt end into the control panel. A few sparks administered small wisps of smoke and the panel went dead. The doors were fused.

One hundred and sixty. He ran along the hall and up the first flight of stairs. At the top, he turned, sprinted round the landing and up the next flight, two stairs at a time.

One hundred and thirty. He swung himself round the newel and shot along the second floor landing. Again, up the stairs, two at a time. He was slower, and gasping for breath. He jogged along the last landing, heading for the entrance to the loft space.

Ninety. It was dark. His eyes adjusted too slowly. He went up the steps blind, and almost crashed into the tea chests on the far side. He jumped up and hauled himself towards the skylight.

Sixty. Calvert grabbed at the frame and then pulled with his arms. He was exhausted. His eyes stung with the blood and sweat. It took all his strength to drag himself up and through the opening. He scrambled out onto the roof, panting. His lungs ached.

Thirty. He wiped his eyes. There was only one way out. He ran around the leaded walkway to the back of the house and stopped, his shins hard against the parapet wall. After unclipping the karabiner from his waist, he snapped it over the communications wire. He dragged his belt from his waist and threaded it through the karabiner, wrapping both ends tightly around his wrists.

Ten. Calvert jumped up onto the parapet wall and took a deep breath. Eight. He leapt into the air. The leather belt cut into his hands and wrists as he hurtled down the wire. Four. He was into the cypress trees, branches lashed at his arms and face. Two. The cliff edge trailed away behind him, open water beneath.

The shockwave from the explosion thumped hard into his back and pressed the air from his lungs. He flipped from side to side on the wire, trying to catch his breath.

Another explosion and his weight disappeared. All he could feel was wind rushing up from his feet, over his legs and across his face. His feet crashed into something hard and cold, and the last of the air was pushed from his lungs. He knew he was almost out.

Only vaguely aware of an uncertain coldness enveloping his entire body, he felt as though he was sinking. The cold turned to warmth and his descent slowed. Something gentle stroked his face. It tickled, and was rising up through his clothes and hair. He opened his eyes.

There was a bright light above him. It was blurred yet radiant. He felt himself start to rise towards it. The lump had disappeared from his throat and he felt calm, peaceful and uplifted. This is it, he thought. This is the end. It’s over.

Up he went, towards the light. He was almost there when he noticed something else. A noise. A distant humming, growing louder and nearer. The light grew brighter, and the humming became louder.

Lance Calvert broke the surface. His eyes stung and he gulped at the air, madly, coughing and spluttering and spitting. Treading water, he wiped his eyes and looked up. The moon was shining down above him. He could hear a boat approaching from his left. A spotlight blazed into life and placed him in a pool of light. The boat drew closer.

“I thought I told you three-thirty,” yelled a familiar voice. “It’s four-forty-five, for Christ’s sake!”

The launch pulled alongside and Zack Fergus dragged him aboard. “Way to go, Lance,” he said, and propped him up against the side of the boat. Fergus ran back to the helm and hit the throttle.

The boat surged forward and Calvert’s chin flopped onto his chest. At the same time there was another, louder explosion. He looked up. From the cliff top, a huge fleur-de-lys of purple and orange flames shot hundreds of feet into the air, lighting up the sky and the grounds of Brissac’s broken empire.

“Rise from those ashes, you bastard,” he said.

As the launch pulled away, Lance Calvert lolled his head, and, for the first time in weeks, fell into a deep, troubleless sleep.

Copyright of Chris Dancer - © Chris Dancer 2011. All rights reserved.

As a recent newcomer to The Word Cloud's writing community, I should be extremely grateful if members of this My First Book group would be kind enough to offer me some feedback on my story.

I have recently returned to creative writing after a ten year absence, so I need some help with knocking off the rust, so to speak...

Many thanks and looking forward to your comments,

Chris

P.S. And I am only rusty and not rusted-through, so please be blunt! I appreciate frankness! :D

Hi Chris,

As promised -

I started to get a slight feeling for it last night, but now in the light of day it has become obvious. This piece could be half the size if not for the details and unrealistic (James Bond-style?) banter.

Too much procedurals - too many details about how he did things as he entered the house. Yes, it creates tension and heightens the situation. But it's a bit like all the gun details on the boat I mentioned last night. It said two things:

a. the author is a showman (look what I know), and

b. this is not realistic. On a dangerous mission, how many people are going to stand around talking gadgets so close to the enemy lines.

Both of these options are undesired you'll agree (you asked for frankness).

And the banter - lord, far too much! It's way beyond the point of being cheesy. There are points in the dialogue between Clavert and Brissac that I'm yawning and wondering what's going on? This slows the reader down and he/she loses whatever tension and excitement had been generated.

Forgive me but I gave up at “Die, damn you!” he spat, “Die!”

A re-hash is required. There are some diamond moments in this piece, you have a nice flowing style of writing and word craft, but the banter and procedurals left me wanting the end to come too quickly. Once rehashed, chop it up into smaller pieces and put them on the main forum critique page. That way we'll see what the others think.

Eli

Hello Eli,

Thank you you for your opinions and criticism of my work.

Just to make sure that I have understood your points correctly, you are suggesting:

a) My writing is very well-crafted word play and contains some diamond moments.
b) But I should cut out all the technical details and documentary realism that many readers adore.
c) I should remove a reader's confidence in me as a writer by not showing them that I know what I am writing about.
d) I should remove the procedurals, as you call them, and not describe how the hero gets from A to B.
e) I should remove the cavalier banter, thereby also removing what is being shown about the essences of the characters' personalities and their feelings towards one another.
f) And finally, I should hack the whole piece into much smaller chunks, pepper the main forum critique page with them and then wait and see what other readers think.

Well, as I have said already, many thanks for your criticisms. I have taken them onboard.

However, before I contemplate acting upon the majority of them, I think I shall employ the last one first and wait to see what other readers think.

Good luck with your writing too.

Chris :-)

Hi chris,

I see this thread is active - and so I will have the pleasure of reading your "chapter 1". As we are advised to only post about 3,000 words I will see how I feel when I get to that point! (You Write On (dot) com allows from 6,000 to 7,000 if you ever want an alternative venue, but you only get reviews for each review you post.

I will comment as I go and overview at the end.

I like the name Lance Calvert.
Two "looked'" in para 2. Clunky. And it jars a bit with the dialogue which is quite 'normal' in use of language.

I like the way the dialogue builds suspense about what he is up to.

the paragraph
He breathed the warm, sweet ozone and looked out over the edge of the launch towards the island. Sweet as it was, it did nothing to soothe the hard, burning lump in his throat. It was jammed and sobbed silently, curled up in a little ball of anger and grief, getting neither worse nor better. And it hurt. He wanted to cough it up, but he couldn’t. Like a small balloon of obnoxious gas, it was anchored by a mooring rope to his heart.

did not work too well for me, as it breaks the action. It felt a little over written and I had to read it twice to make sense of it. It is almost as though you have to give us a chunk of back story before we can see any action. There is enough to achieve just getting your MC underway with his (fruitless?) mission.
the line from Fergus "It wont bring her back . . ." gives us the clue that Lance is hurting, anyway.

"Unless you're up agaisnt a rat." Chuckled at that.

All that now lay between himself and justice was half-a-mile of open water and a cliff face.

that's good. Keeps us moving and builds anticipation.

But . . . we are straight into more back-story. do you absolutely have to tell us all about Brissac just when things are moving? This is definitely Telling and not Showing.

Things go at a brisk pace to the top of the cliff.

Calvert noticed a communication wire of some sort anchored at the apex.

Who else would have noticed? It's a little redundant and keeps the reader one more step removed from the action.

fire escapes are often metal - how does he keep his steps silent . . . ?

Do we need to know the pellets are zinc headed twice?

It was a miniature electronic cyclops, guarding the roof void with a single movement-sensing eye. Light from the torch would have been interpreted as movement.

Nice writing.

As he leaned out and looked down the sight, the verdant glow of the landing bit into the black disc like the breaking of a solar eclipse.

Waxing lyrical at this moment breaks the tension for me, especially as I cannot work out what you mean!

Two "it didn't feel right"s in the next para.
Once the gun produces a "phut" the next time it is cotton wool ( and I notice the effort to find another description). Maybe try "The gun sighed once more . . . " or something of that ilk?

The arrival of the Amazon is nicely done.

"Axminster?" is pure James Bond - and a complete change in style from all that has gone before. I like it - but wry/dry humour needs to be part of your character a bit earlier if this is not to seem incongruous.

Suddenly she is called 'Helga' . . . and we have changed the style to Bondian humour.

I will pause there at about a third of the way in.

- - - - - - - - - -

This is just my take DoubleOD . . . and I hope you will experience it as constructive; it is meant that way. Action novels are just that - they need action. Occasional descriptions of the sea (he is on a boat after all at the beginning and the sea is just that, the sea at night) as lyrical as the one you offered stand out because the rest of the writing is so much more prosaic. Similarly, you give us chunks of Lance's inner emotional life (the big lump that won't move) but it also is as unobtrusive as a taratula on an angel cake, to borrow from Chandler.

I think in this piece, less may prove to be more. and also work on getting the 'Voice' consistent in the different scenes (on the boat with Fergus as well as in the bedroom with breastless Helga). Don't worry about too much back story in your opening. As long as we get there is loss (Jane) and a villain (Brissac) we don't need much more at this stage. Why should I care he was a racing driver when Calvert is trying (unsuccessfully) to fry him. I can learn that later if it is essential. A picture of Brissac standing by a car, on the bedroom wall would do a lot anyway.

This is a huge first chapter. Think how you might break it up into chapters of between 1,000 and 2,000 words. Each would have there own beginning, middle and end and keep us wanting more.

You give a lot of technical detail early on. Sort of 'Boy's Toys' stuff. I wonder if all that is needed? the balance of this opening needs to be set against what comes later. perhaps you could get away with something half as long and twice as gripping? I can't judge without seeing it in context but wjat you need in your opening is to hook the reader quickly and not let thme go. You do that partially for me.

it feels a good project this and I wish you luck with it. Let me know if you do a re-jig and I'll come back for more!

Rob

Please forgive the 'typos' above. I didn't want to risk "cancel post" and lose all my writing . . .
Rob