window cleaners at a private school - part 5

Brashwood Manor was situated in the posh part of London. But Brexham Estate was emphatically not. The estate had a certain bedraggled hang-dog look about it, as if it too knew what other people said about it, and knew it to be true. The sultry Sunday morning was just maturing gracefully into that hazy period between morning and afternoon, when a man was espied on the road. He was running. This was nothing new, and the street urchins stood eagerly to spot the expected policeman behind him as was the norm in Brexham. Yet there was no policeman, and as the man came closer, his police uniform became distinguishable and immediately the urchins turned their gaze in the opposite direction looking for who he was chasing. No one. They turned back to the policeman...only he had disappeared too. Shaking their heads and putting it down to the extra-strong weed they were smoking, the urchins collapsed back into the dark previces from where they had come out, gloomily observing the lack of quality entertainment, or what normal people would describe as lootings, robberies and street-fights.
The policeman hadn't infact been a figment of drug-fueled imagination, rather he was at this moment panting up a side-alley. He stopped abruptly at a shabby door and knocked on it sharply, then hastily stopped, as the door practically collapsed. Chastened he knocked with slightly more care.
"Open up inside" shouted the policeman, "Important news for a Mr Danny Ali".
The house remained defiant in the face of the law. The law getting increasingly exasperated put aside any vestiges of professional decorum remaining and marched into the house.
"WHAT DA HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING" snarled a voice. The room was a dingy affair. It had threadbare sofas all around the walls, with piles of blankets in each corner, and a remarkable table dominated the room in the centre, which on closer inspection proved to be an operation table, with some bloodstains remaining on it, hinting darkly at its past occupation.
The man that had spoken lay on this operation table, which seemed doubled up as a bed.
"Well bloody SPEAK then, just cuz you is de law dont mean nothing round here man." Just as quickly as he had exploded, the black man rolled over, facing away from the policeman, and for all intents and purposes seemed intent on going back to sleep.
"Err..." began the wrongfooted police officer,"Theres been a crime committed in the early hou-"
"I aint never done it" the man interjected with his eyes still closed.
"No, no thats not what I meant-", the policeman continued.
"Cuz I was here with my crew all the time. Ask Bob." Here the black man, with his eyes still closed, pointed from under the quilt, at the corner and jerked his hand upwards.
The policeman turned again to what looked like a big pile of blankets, which was now slowly, rising, as if under the black mans command, and parting like the Red Sea under Moses' guiding hand. A bald man emerged, seated on a wheelchair, which was so old, with enormous wheels, that it could have been mistaken for a go-kart.

Gods wrath - Part 4

It seem that the real God, offended at being associated with the false Gods, took his revenge by revealing to Mr Fry in one sensational, ethereal and spontaneous experience that there is a man standing in the hallway and making an infernal racket.
Mr Fry stood up distracted, not exactly the epitome of a typical driven Biblical Prophet, (there was a distinct lack of silk waistcoats in those days anyways), but still a man inspired is not to be stopped. He marched upstairs, stumping his snooker cue ahead of him.
"Took your bloody time getting here didn't you" he announced, gloriously unperturbed by the sight of an armed intruder. Mr Fry's voice had a curious multi-layered aspect to it, which, coupled with his educated accent, gave his speech a rich, aromatic almost spicy flavour.
This synaesthesia didn't go down well with the crestfallen Mr Beedle, who was going through agony. Here was a situation where the man he was supposed to kill, was aware of him, and more alarmingly seemed to have expected him. And he didn't seem to appreciate that the weaponry was in his hand either.
"Put that knife away, you silly little git" he continued brusquely, " we have a lot to get through tonight". He approached Mr Beedle and grasped him firmly by his arm and proceeded onwards towards the staircase, half-dragging the dazed Mr Beedle with him, cue still in hand.
"Your father did a great service to me once - and I promised I would repay him. Never thought it would be like this mind you," he chuckled to himself as they arrived on the landing.
The landing was dimly lit, and Mr Beedle's sense of alarm and rancour to the Gods increased. He vehemently promised himself to never seek divine intervention into his miserable life ever again. "Stands to reason that with my life being so miserable, even an improvement will only take it to a slightly less miserableness, the effect of which on me is as if its got more miserable, who is expecting something good, he thought to himself."
While this empirical analysis of the "Beadleability" scale of miserableness was continuing, Mr Fry had arrived at the correct door, and pushing open the door with the butt of his cue, he continued into the room carrying Mr Beadle with him.
"Hand over your knife" Mr Fry demanded sharply to the astonished Mr Beadle.
"B-but why?" asked the gentleman in question.
"Because if you don't" he said, raising his voice as if talking to a particularly unruly pupil, and approaching threateningly with his cue stick held aloft, "this cue will perpetrate unseen atrocities on your poor little skull, and correct me if I'm wrong, but I dont think you want that".
The knife exchanged hands. Mr Fry promptly stabbed himself in the arm.
"WHAAHT!"Shrieked the distressed Mr Beadle.
"Calm down lad" snapped Mr Fry,"And come over here and smear this over yourself" he said proferring his bleeding arm. Mr Beadle deciding that this was a more-vivid-than-normal dream, complied with equanimity. Mr Fry quickly went over to the window and wiped the knife on the curtain. He then proceeded to liberally douse the floor, table and a leather chair with the still bleeding arm.
"No point doing things in halves I always say" he said smiling at Mr Beadle for the first time, who in keeping with his recent accept of the vagaries of life, smiled back and did nothing else.
Mr Fry next headed over to a wardrobe in the corner and stooped over to retrieve a hankerchief from the floor, and tie it around his cut. He then stood up and extracted a black bomber jacket, a baseball cap, jeans and a pair of plain black trainers, and quickly dressed himself in it.
"Okay, I'm off. I want you to use this first... successful mission of yours to further yourself in your profession." he winked as he said the word "successful" and headed to the door.
"Wait, what do I do?" asked Mr Beadle having accepted that there was going to be no killing taking place today.
"Don't be stupid lad" said Mr Fry reverting to his waspish tone "make a getaway".
with that he disappeared through the door leaving behind a dazed Mr Beadle staring after him.

End of Chapter 1

an early twist in the aforestated unpredictable plot- Part 3

The hallway was wide and expansive. Lined with the portraits of past masters, the hallway was the epitome of understated affluence. There was a sweeping staircase ascending into the higher levels of the house, and underneath this staircase, another less impressive set, led down to the source of the only noise in the house.
Mr Beedle heard the recognisable chinks and thunks of the snooker game and crept that way.
As a child Mr Beedle was described as "a highly systematic monomaniac" in one satirical school report written by a harassed teacher who had fast hardened into scholastic cynicism, and who was forced to euphemise the misdemeanours of the extremely..."active" set of children he was forced into looking after. the linguistic beauty of the report could be derived from its multi-layered sentences, often sounding verbose to the unenlightened parent, yet making total sense to the nervous Mr Beedle, aware of the certain unfortunate events being glossed over, and who hoped not to be questioned further on this strange verbosity by the parent.
This monomania was making a guest appearance at an inopportune moment, by gliding into the hallway alongside Mr Beedle, who had been single-mindedly approaching every task as the first and last, such as climbing over the wall, check, breaking and entering, check, taking off shoes, check. But now as he approached what he was really there for, the enormity of his actions started sinking in, and Mr Beedle was not one taken kindly to sudden epiphanies. He started sweating all over, his round glasses steamed up, which he then polished with shaking hands, and he even took this key moment to correct his rather confused theological standings, by turning to all the different Gods he could think of one ofter the other, God, Jehovah, Allah Vishnu... all the time his eyes focused on the downward staircase, as if expecting at any moment to see Mr Fry come up.

silk white waistcoat to be worked in somewhere- Part 2

He was a fine looking specimen of a man, Mr Beedle professional assassin had sophistication and brawn oozing out of his every pore, or so he hoped. He was dressed all in matte black, and looked like he was trying very hard to appear the incorrigible, cool and deadly assassin nonchalantly going about his business. A bystander may not have gone away with that impression and indeed the truth was that he was a weak-hearted young man, terrified with what he was doing and wondering nervously about the presence of a large pile dog stool being the proof of the presence of its source.
Entry to the house was imperative, and quickly too. carefully avoiding the dog stool Mr Beedle, with his suitably long and black cloak which was quietly doing its artistic duty by billowing mysteriously, skirted the rose garden focusing his attention onto a suitably placed ground floor window.

Inside the owner of the property, a certain Mr Fry stood, dressed in a loud pink shirt partially covered by a silk white waistcoat, pinstriped grey trousers and a pair of highly polished expensive looking brown shoes. He leaned over the snooker table, which dominated the newly wood-panelled basement, and played on into the night, red ball pocketed, then black ball, red black, red back, the hypnotic noises of the game seemed to dull his senses to external influences, he was focused on the pot and then the next, impervious to the danger that was heading his way.

Mr Beedle stood, his flitting eyes gazing over the plush living-room. A slow sneer spread over his face, "this will be nothing compared to what I'll buy once my assassination business takes off, its all about bloody image anyhow", he thought to himself and self consciously he checked that his cloak was well fastened and that the steel blade was safely secured under his suit jacket. Satisfied with the results of his search, he strode towards the doorway into the dark hallway. His shoes were the purchases of a fanatically image-conscious man, dark quality leather with chunky heels, and Mr Beedle now regretted that he hadn't made a concession in the shoe department of "image" and gone for the more practical silent rubber soled trainers. He stopped after a couple of agonising steps, with the loud echoing of his tread still reverberating around the hallway. With terrified glances hither and thither, he took off his shoes, tied them together and strung them around his neck and consoled himself that the cloak would cover the worst of the decidedly unprofessional socks, and the bumps that the shoes made under the cloak could easily be mistaken for abnormally large pectorals.

Murder - part 1

the dark spread quickly over the expansive lawns of Brashwood Manor. The oak trees, which lined the long driveway, stood like dark sentinels watching over the old house. there was a rose garden off to the right of the building, and on the left the horses in the stables were snickering quietly. The house itself was a sprawling Georgian mansion, with generously large proportions to everything, the large sash windows, the sweeping steps upto the equally large door. green ivy crawled all over the body of the house merging it further into the lush green surroundings. There was two balconies to the house, one built with the original house was currently being used as a roof garden, the other was built upon the top of the more modern annexation to the house. Nothing stirred in either of them. All the windows were dark, as the nightlife rustled, hooted and scraped in the background. All was peaceful.

A man climbed over the wall into the grounds and dropped to the grass behind the rose garden with a soft thump. He stood stock still as he took in the surroundings.

(Ignore my first post, this blogs going to be a novel called Murder, its plot is going to be a study in improvisation...wish me luck)

introduction

Hi, basically this blog is going to be the place where my sometimes too active mind will be let loose on any historical topic of my choice (thats covers just about everything i think) or a dialectical analysis of any school of thought i fancy, and, ill put it down to the fact that currently im in my formative years, i may just play the devils advocate for a whole host of different ideals so as to try them on for size.
until then, this is the 21st century Herodotus cum Plato signing off.