Category: serial

serial

The Cloud. Episode 48

February 2020, Edinburgh

‘What do you take in your tea, Mrs Waters?’

‘Ms Waters. Just black thanks, and weak. Wave the teabag over it.’ The receptionist, a wilted man of around fifty with a melancholy chin and a an olive green waistcoat that suckered in around his navel region, nodded and disappeared through the glass doors into the hall.

‘Aren’t you having anything?’ Janet asked Jeremy.

Jeremy shook his head. ‘I’ve been here before. Arthur makes dreadful tea.’ He flicked at a thread on his tie, smoothed the creases down on his trousers, picked up a magazine that had something to do with home security on the front cover, and sat down on the chair opposite Janet.

Janet waved a hand at the room. She said ‘I didn’t expect something so…’ He interrupted her.

‘Smart? Professional?’ Janet didn’t like his tone.

‘It’s been a while,’ she said, ‘since I’ve had anything to do with private detectives. Thirty years, maybe more. They were all a bunch of crooks then. Vietnam vets. Or police that couldn’t stick the uniform.’ Why was she telling Jeremy this? To impress him? To show him she wasn’t just a puddly old woman with eccentric tastes in pets? They sat in silence until Arthur returned, the tray with its white cup and saucer and a single plastic-wrapped shortbread on a matching plate shaking in his hands.

‘She’s just finishing a call,’ he said to them, ‘Dr Connolly-Smythe I mean, and then I’ll take you through.’

A doctor? Jeremy hadn’t said anything about her having a doctorate. Janet’s hands moistened. Heat flashed through her cheeks. She laid her palms flat on her lap and took two deep breaths. Doctor of what? Forensics? Investigations? Biology? She looked across to Jeremy. He was leafing through the magazine, pausing at the pages with the bigger pictures. She shouldn’t have come. This detective woman would work it out. She’d know as soon as she saw her. See it behind her eyes. The peccant wrinkles around her lips. Why was she here? Risking everything over a ridiculous cloud. She took a sip of tea, burnt her upper lip, and rattled the cup back onto the saucer.

‘OK, Lisa’s ready now, let’s go through.’ They followed Arthur down a wide bright corridor lined with large succulent plants and a series of closed doors with burnished copper name plates. Arthur tapped at the last door on the right, listened for a moment, then opened up. ‘Mrs Waters and Mr Hartridge,’ he said, ushering them in. ‘The ones with the missing cloud.’

The woman that walked out from behind the desk to greet them was short and neat, in a black suit with loose wide legs and a narrow boxy jacket that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a ship. Her shoes, impossible to ignore, were patent black gloss, with thick crepe soles and cherry red laces. Janet stared at the shoes as they came towards her and stopped just in front of her own.

‘Ms Waters,’ she said, ‘I’m so pleased to meet you.’ She reached out to grasp Janet’s hand. The detective’s hand was cool, and larger than Janet had expected. ‘Do take a seat,’ she said to them both, ‘and we’ll start from the beginning.’

Janet sat down beside Jeremy. Let Jeremy do the preamble while she studied the other woman. There was something odd about her, something unnervingly familiar. Her squared off chin. Her ears that angled out just too far to be attractive. Had she been on television? The woman was speaking to Janet now.

‘How about in your own words, Ms Waters,’ the detective said, with the lightest of an Antipodean twang.

‘Yes, of course,’ Janet said. ‘Cyril. But first, your accent? I was just wondering…? The woman laughed. ‘Oh, I was born in Australia. Been trying to get rid of the accent ever since.’ She flicked open her laptop. ‘You sound a bit similar yourself. Did you live in Oz, too?

It was the way she said Oz. A faint Australian drawl with a stronger Scottish burr. Janet’s vision blurred. It couldn’t be. He’d never mentioned children. Had he lied? She stared at the detective’s skin. Tried to estimate her age. It was possible. Yes. And the name. That double-barrelled name. Why hadn’t she spotted that? Worked it out before they came. All it would have taken was a quick search on the Internet.

‘Are you alright, Ms Waters?’ Doctor Connolly-Smythe was looking at Janet without a hint of recognition. But Janet knew. She was certain. The detective was the Inspector’s daughter.

To be continued.

Tags cloud, kidnap, privatedetective, serial

serial

The Cloud. Episode 47

1966, Sydney

If Janet had written a diary we would know more of what she’d felt about the weeks following her first dinner date with Inspector Colin Connolly. But Janet was coy about writing things down.

There’d been a diary once. A present from her Pop George for Christmas just before she turned twelve. Ruby red leather with a pink satin ribbon to slide between the pages (or across her lips when she was struggling for a word). The paper was butter thick, and there was a whole page to fill up for each day of the year. But any girl with two younger brothers knows the dangers of journal writing.

One drab Saturday afternoon in late April, Philip had found the diary in a shoe box under Janet’s bed. Roaring in triumph, he’d run out into the garden where Edward was playing with several other boys from their street. The diary was seized with glee, tossed from one grubby pair of hands to the other, until Peter, the oldest at thirteen, had climbed onto the shed roof, stood with the diary held aloft, and read out several passages to what had quickly become a shrieking mocking mob.

Janet, who’d been helping her mother with the dishes when Philip had run past them with the diary, had thrown her tea towel at the fridge, and screamed at her mother to get it back. Bernadette, for reasons that she didn’t explain to her daughter, had carried on with the dishes. Janet, with no one else to turn to for help, fled the kitchen, slammed the door, and threw herself face down onto her bed, sobbing. Her father had retrieved the diary that evening, attempted to wipe it clean, and had taken it into Janet, who was still fretting in her room. But it was too late. Janet’s secret adoration of Mr Bennett, her English teacher, was public, and Philip would continue to bait her about it for months.

So Janet didn’t write down her feelings about the Inspector, nor did she have anyone to share them with. She had yet to start her new job, she was wary of the neighbours, and the only people outside the family that came into the house were Edward’s friends.

We could, however, get a sense of her feelings from the small wooden box she kept in the locked drawer of her dressing table. Not a written diary this time, but information of a personal nature nonetheless. There were receipts for green eye shadow, tangerine lipstick, black kohl eye liner. There were swatches of parakeet-coloured fabrics from the haberdashery store down town. There were pictures torn from her father’s newspapers – Jean Shrimpton with her big hair and her sweltry lips and her fervid eyes. And, neatly folded under all of these, the well-thumbed Cosmopolitan articles: The Pill of Liberation. Sex Without Guilt. Six Positions With YOU In Control.

Nothing was found in the wooden box on how to cover up a murder.

To be continued.

Tags serial

serial

The Cloud. Episode 46

February, 2020. Edinburgh

How do you get rid of a ferret? Ferret, polecat, what’s the merit of a ferret? Especially a ferret that has moved in of its own accord, has no manners, and has taken to rubbing its backside on the treasured purple and gold velvet cushion that Janet had picked up on a Syrian road trip back in the 90s.

Would a ferret make a good wig? Were there even wig makers in Edinburgh? And would they take a live ferret? Maybe they’d insist on it being dead. Like taxidermists. You wouldn’t take a live animal to be stuffed would you? Drowning it would be easier than ringing its neck. She could pop it into a pillow case and do it in the bath. But how long would she have to hold it down for? And where would she put the body? She couldn’t just throw it into the wheelie bins in the street. It would be a health risk for sure. No, she was being daft. She couldn’t kill it. She didn’t have the gumption for that sort of thing. Not any more.

Janet took the half empty tin of cat food from the fridge and emptied the remains of it into an old saucer, gagging on the smell. She put the saucer down on the floor. The ferret shot out from wherever it had been guddling, slid across the wooden floorboards in the hall, looked up at Janet with what might have been a smirk, and settled down to eat.

The ferret wig thing was a bad idea. Its fur was too short. And then there was the smell. No matter how many times she lathered the ferret in the bath she couldn’t get rid of its stink. She was starting to wonder whether the bath made it even worse. And the carry on as she tried to dry it. All the keening and squealing and wriggling and nipping. You’d think she was murdering it. She’d had to explain to the neighbour’s children when they’d tapped on her door, their eyes all pink and teared up, that it was simply the ferret’s bath time and they were welcome to take over the task any time they liked, just say the word. Oh, and here’s an idea, if they’d like to keep the ferret they only had to ask.

Katherine did need a wig, though. Ridiculous to think she could go undercover without one. That was for Netflix, not Edinburgh’s Old Town. Janet had worn a wig herself for a few months after all that furore over Edward. She’d rather enjoyed the subterfuge. The blond bob had suited her. Especially with the sunglasses. She’d turned heads. Even got the odd wolf whistle. She’d walked from the hip instead of the knee. Lengthened her stride. Bought a new handbag that swung from her arm instead of her shoulder. Borrowed some orange corduroy wedges to match. She’d even tried smoking, just a cigarillo or two on Saturday evenings. She’d never inhaled, but she’d perfected the pout and the deft heft of it between her two fingers.

Where do you buy a wig these days? And what about the quality? This wasn’t Janet’s business. It was Katherine’s wig, not hers. But Janet had to know the how. It was her cloud. Her Cyril. Her rescue mission. It had been different in the 70s. Her wig didn’t need to look that good. Hadn’t needed to be fool proof. There’d been no CCTV, no social media, no camera phones, no busybodies wandering around capturing your every move.

This time the wig would have to look natural. More than natural. It would have to have character. Depth. A history. Katherine would no longer be Katherine. She’d be a gangster (or whatever they called themselves). And the wig couldn’t make her look prettier. That wouldn’t be right. Or fair. Not if it was being paid for out of the Contrails budget. The wig was for the return of Cyril. Nothing more and nothing less.

Janet looked down at the ferret. It had finished the cat food and was lying on its back at her feet. She bent down and tickled its belly. It curled up its toes and dooked, clucking like a hen that’s just laid an egg. How could she have thought of killing it? She would ask the neighbour’s kids to name it. Why did she care about the Syrian cushion anyway? The trip had been a disaster. And the woman that had made it was probably dead.

To be continued.

Tags cloud, ferret, serial

serial

The Cloud. Episode 45

1966, Sydney.

A Greek restaurant on a Saturday night in downtown Sydney. Two tables on the small patio out the back of the restaurant. The patio is dim, lit only by a weak bare bulb mounted on the wooden wall of the restaurant, and a candle in a bottle on each table. The patio is hemmed by high walls, recently white-washed. The paint smells of fresh chalky concrete. One wall is adorned with tumbling plants, the others with blue and white ceramic plates. One table is empty. A couple occupies the other table.

She is in a tight green dress, the hemline well above her knees. Her skin is not yet tanned. Freckles dot about her bare arms. Her hands flutter around her face. Her eyelashes and her lips have been thickened for the occasion. She is leaning back on her wooden chair. Every few minutes the weeping cactus plant on the shelf behind her head tangles in her hair and she pulls away, laughing. She doesn’t say much. She doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. She’s not sure what the right thing is. She is waiting.

He is in a blue-checked short-sleeved shirt. His trousers are not worth describing. He may be wearing sandals. If he is, it will feel more agreeable. His dabs at his brow with a cotton handkerchief are rhythmic and methodical. His face is pink, a malady brought on by the heat and the alcohol. It’s difficult to hide a pink face. He looks like he’s trying.

His glass is nearly empty, hers is almost full. The thick pine scent of the retsina is sticky sweet. It reminds her of treading barefoot through the forests back in Scotland. The pale brown spindles jabbing at her toes.

A small black (hand glazed?) bowl swanks large green glistering olives. The bowl’s white partner is empty. The man gestures to the bowl. For pips, he says. It’s not easy to eat an unpipped olive in a decorous manner. The woman, trying olives for the first time, takes her cue from him. She punctures the soft flesh of the fruit with a wooden cocktail stick. Pops it into her mouth fast before the olive drops off the end. Chews the pulp around the stone. Holds the stone in her mouth for longer than is comfortable. Spits it into a cupped hand and drops it into the white bowl. She waves away his signal for her to eat another.

Is there anything you don’t eat, he asks her, running a finger down the menu. She shakes her head. She is too shy to say. He knows the chef, he says. Anatoli. He’ll cook us the best of the best. The waiter, bursting through the plastic string door curtain with a smiling flourish, brings them a small tray of warm pita breads and a plate of dolmades. They look like babies. A row of babies tucked in tight in viridian swaddling. Stuffed with grape leaves, he says to her. They’re divine.

He picks one up with his fingers. Come here, he says. And open your mouth. She hesitates. She is not sure about the leaves. Come on, he says. She leans forward. He twists the dolmade into two pieces. She closes her eyes. The mixture of leaf and rice is soft, sensuous on her tongue. Delicious, she says. He wipes a line of brine from under her lip with a finger. She can’t believe she said delicious. What a ridiculous word. He puts the other half in his mouth and chews. Another, he asks. She nods. Of course, she says.

The waiter returns with his note pad. Scrawls the order down with a chewed down pen. The woman understands none of it. She trusts the man to do the right thing. The waiter leaves and the man calls after him. Georgios, could we have some music? Greek music for the princess here. He called her princess. She blushes. The music starts a minute later. (If you’re reading this aloud, stop and find a version of Zorba on Youtube. Crank up the volume as the tempo increases. Tap your foot. Click your fingers..That smile you have? That’s the woman’s smile, too.)

I love it, she says. I knew you would, he replies. She dances her fingers on the table. He reaches across and touches her hand. It’s nice, he says, being with you. She doesn’t reply. She looks down at her plate. She grins. He likes her. He really likes her. It’s been hard, you know, he says, these last couple of years in Oz. Took me ages to fit in. But now you’re here. And it’s home from home. He dabs at his brow.

The waiter bursts through the door curtain with a tray. A long red strand of plastic wraps around his neck. He flicks it the way he always flicks it. He’s a flicking expert. Madam, he says, kolokythokeftedes, compliments of the chef. Anatoli’s special. He puts the plate of courgette balls down on the table. Eat those and I’ll be back with the moussaka and the souvlaki. Aren’t you lucky, the man says. He’s never done that for me. The woman blushes. This, she is sure, is the happiest night of her life.

To be continued.

Tags clouds, romance, Sydney

serial

The Cloud. Episode 44

February 2020, Edinburgh

Katherine sent the plan to them a couple of hours after the meeting. It was in Excel. Janet didn’t do Excel. Not because she didn’t understand computers. Of course she did. She just did words better than numbers. Why put words in cells when you could put them on a page? She scrolled through the columns, sighing and tutting.

Cyril. (There’s no column for Cyril. Why hasn’t he got a column. Have they all forgotten what this is about? Katherine will have to add him in. Straight away. Note to self to tell her..)

Budget. £15,000 operating budget. All receipts to go to Bessie. Bessie will refund within 24 hours. (Why is Bessie insisting on paying all that money. Where did she get it? Patronising. Still, a PI expensive. If they want to pay up to them. B feeling guilty?)

Communications. WhatsApp. Everyone to change email passwords regularly. No talking to the Press. (For God’s sake, who’s going to hack my email? It’s a cloud not the bloody First Minister. I’ll forget the new password a minute after I’ve changed it. Should have argued about the press at the meeting. Be better to have press interest. Flush them out. Note to self – bring that up at next meeting.)

Katherine. Prepare and keep project plan up to date (DONE). (Not as organised as she wants us to think – found her note on the table after she left – can’t even draw a cloud!)

Katherine. Set up new profile on social media for undercover. (Can’t wait to see the pictures and the wig. She has to wear a wig. Could I choose the wig? Can’t look too pretty. Threat to Amy. Has she thought that through? But attractive enough for Dan? Hope she doesn’t irritate Amy. Could ruin the whole thing.)

Jeremy. All decisions to go through him. He’ll respond within six hours. (Easier to keep the peace and just let him think he’s the boss. and anyway we need him. Wish Katherine wouldn’t goad him. How did Bessie bring up such a chauvinist pig? She’s supposed to be a feminist.)

Jeremy. Will hire investigator by end of week. (At least I got him to get a women. Hope she gets on with Katherine. She’s bossy. Might think it’s competition. Exciting, a private investigator.. Can’t wait to meet her. Hope she doesn’t investigate me. Have to prevent..)

Bessie. To put together a file on ARPL. Everything in public domain. (Why Bessie – isn’t a researcher? Is J trying to keep her away from the important stuff?)

Janet. To write a full brief for the PI on the details of the theft by Thursday. Include photos. (Why do they insist on using the word theft. Demeaning. Sounds like a pair of shoes or an old purse.).

All. To keep looking up. (Glad I got that in. He might have escaped and is trying to get home. So dangerous. How would he know how to get back? They wont recognise him. But I would. Especially if he tinkled. Miss his tinkles.)

All. Next meeting on Friday (on-line). All to report on their actions. (Will K come in her disguise?. J would be angry. Can’t have any falling outs.)

To be continued.

Tags clouds, serial

serial

The Cloud. Episode 43

1966, Sydney

Two long raps and a short. Two long raps and a short. Everybody in the Waters family knew the Inspector always knocked twice. Views diverged on the purpose and value of his visits.

Eric, with tight lips and clenched fists. ‘He’ll have nothing new to say. Just leading us on.’

Edward, throwing stuff out of the laundry basket. ‘Has anyone seen my rugby shirt ask him why he looks at Janet that way the creepy little shit.’

Bernadette, with blinked back tears. ‘He’ll have a date this time. He said he would. He has to.’

Janet, with flushed cheeks and a check of her fingernails. ‘Just going to my room (to change).’

Bernadette opened the door and let the Inspector in. He followed her through the hall and into the kitchen. Eric got up from the table and went into the garden, slamming the screen door behind him. Edward, having found his rugby kit, shouted goodbye, that he’d be staying with a friend overnight, and left via the front door. He didn’t say anything to the Inspector.

Janet stood in front of her open wardrobe and studied the three dresses, the four skirts, and the five blouses. She was bored with yellow, tired of polka dots, and wanted something different. Something grown-up. But she had yet to start her new job, and, without her own money, there was no chance of a new outfit. Not unless the Inspector paid. But they weren’t at that stage. Not yet. And, if Janet was honest with herself (she wasn’t always), they’d only been on one actual date. One date, one kiss, one ice-cream and a large stick of pink candyfloss to share.

The green dress was shorter and tighter than the others. Bought in a sale the one time she’d be into the city centre to shop. Her father had frowned when she’d brought it home and asked how much money she’d wasted on it. Edward had said it was the same colour as the slime down at the sewage treatment works. Her mother hadn’t even noticed. The Inspector hadn’t seen the green dress. She’d been saving it for something special. For when he invited her out to dinner. She changed into the green dress.

‘Hello, Janet,’ he said, as she walked into the kitchen. ‘I was just telling your mother we have a date for the inquest.’ Janet stopped. Her stomach knotted. Heat rose up her neck and into her cheeks. She’d been sure that this wouldn’t happen. All that international law of the sea stuff would be too complicated. What could they say without a body? They’d call her as a witness. She’d have to swear on something. The bible maybe. Or the queen? Did they even do that in Australia?

Bernadette was wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘I’m so grateful,’ she said to the Inspector, ‘for all you’ve done for us.’ The Inspector nodded. Patted her arm. Janet poured herself a glass of water from the jug in the fridge. Leant back against the wall. Whose side was he on? How could he have done that to her? Put her in front of the coroner? What’s the point of bringing that stuff up all over again. She gulped back the water.

‘In three months,’ Bernadette said to her daughter. ‘It’s a long time, but at least we know it’s coming.’ Janet couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t look at the Inspector. He’d betrayed her. Just kissed her to get her to say something. Open her up. Ready her for the prosecution.

‘You look nice,’ the Inspector said. ‘Are you going out somewhere?’ Janet shook her head, left the kitchen and returned to her bedroom. She pulled the dress off, changed into her old clothes, and threw the dress into the back of the wardrobe. She lay face down on the bed, put the pillow over her head, and wept.

Two long raps and a short. Two long raps and a short. That was her door, not the front door. Janet sat up. Yes, she said. The Inspector opened the door.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Janet. Just wondered whether you’d be free on Saturday night?’

To be continued.

Tags clouds, serial, Sydney

serial

The Cloud. Episode 42

February 2020, Edinburgh

The first official meeting of the Save Cyril Operation (SCO – code named Contrail) was in a boutique hotel, tucked away in a side street in Edinburgh’s West End. Jeremy had sent out the invitation via the new WhatsApp group. Bessie had told Jeremy, inadvertently replying to all, that it wasn’t happening in HER room. Jeremy, also replying to all, had noted that he had already booked the PRIVATE dining room and there was no need to shout. Janet hadn’t dared to reply to any of the messages until she had checked with Katherine on how WhatsApp worked and would the police be able to monitor their conversations?

Janet was the last to arrive. She sat down at the round table and took a peppermint from the bowl, unwrapped it, put the wrapper in her jacket pocket, and popping the clear sweet into her mouth. She poured herself a glass of water, took a sip, and rolled the slap of the cold liquid and fresh menthol over her tongue. She hadn’t been in a private dining room since she’d retired. They hadn’t changed. The trolley by the door had two black thermoses, a plate of individually wrapped shortbreads, and a bowl of half-hearted oranges. No one ever took the oranges in meeting rooms. Presumably, thought Janet, because it was impossible to peel and eat one without spraying orange juice over oneself and the other participants.

The room was windowless, deep grey, and tarted up with maroon and teal furnishings. It wasn’t a colour combination she would have chosen. It made her nauseous.

‘When you’re ready, Janet,’ Jeremy said. Bessie gave Jeremy a sharp look.

‘She’s on time,’ Katherine said. Jeremy flicked open his iPad. Katherine wrote something at the top of her blank notebook. Janet picked up her pen and rolled it between her fingers. She was underdressed. That is, if Jeremy was the standard. Jeremy’s white shirt was fresh, his lilac tie unstained, and his cufflinks chinked in just the right place above his wrist bones. Bessie had also made an effort. A long loose sky blue dress with dungaree straps. A silky crimson shirt. Thick silver bangles that jangled every time she moved. Janet hitched her chair closer to the table. Her tights were suddenly too brown, her skirt too tweedy, and her functional flat shoes an abomination.

‘I assume,’ said Jeremy, ‘that you’ve all heard the police aren’t following up the theft in Glasgow.’

‘The kidnapping you mean,’ Bessie said.

‘So I’ve made contact with the owners.’ Jeremy slid a finger across the iPad. Janet, facing him, couldn’t see the screen. Katherine stopped writing and looked up at him.

‘That wasn’t your decision to make,’ Katherine said.

Jeremy continued, ‘they want to stay out of it, in the background, but they’re happy to contribute funds as and when needed.’

‘Funds?’ Janet said.

‘Yes,’ Bessie replied. ‘We may need to hire someone. You know. An investigator. I mean the police aren’t going to do anything which is why we’re here and Jeremy has experience using experts. He has a whole network and he’s written so many contracts. There are several in Edinburgh. We should get a great price.’ Katherine interrupted her.

‘I said I would go undercover. Why are we hiring investigators? Janet hasn’t got much money.’ Janet stared at Katherine. What did she know about her financial status?

‘I am in the room,’ Janet said. All three looked at her. ‘And it’s my cloud. My Cyril. Why are you all taking over?’ She stopped, not knowing what to say next.

‘Of course,’ Bessie said. ‘We’re all here to help you, Janet. I’m sure Katherine was just being thoughtful. Anyway, we’ve got the money issue covered. There’s nothing to worry about on that front.’

‘I’m not a charity, Bessie.’ Janet’s cheeks were hot. She put a hand to her face, trying to cover them. How had she let them get to this stage? She was perfectly capable of dealing with it. She’d managed much worse successfully. What had happened to her? Was this age? They were treating her like a child. Worse. Same as her mother. She took another mint, straightened her back and looked at each of them in turn for several seconds. Jeremy nodded at her. Bessie twisted her bangles. Katherine blushed and wrote something down on her pad.

‘Let’s get back on track, shall we.’ Jeremy tapped the table with a slender white finger. ‘I’ve done a bit of research. That pair, Dan and Amy…’

‘I’d already done that. We know who they are. Animal rights activists. Can we just get on with it.’ Katherine’s lips were tight.

‘If you’d stop interrupting me I would get on with it. So, Amy and Dan are part of a group operating across the UK called Animal Rights and Protection League. ARPL for short. The others that were with them were probably satellite members – extra cover but not the brains behind the operation.’ He slid a finger across the screen again. ‘It seems they are well funded, and have effective legal support. They’ve been charged three times, been through the judicial system, and found not guilty each time.’

Jeremy carried on talking. Janet worked her way through the mints. Why were men so pompous? Katherine got up and made herself a cup of tea from the thermoses. She interrupted Jeremy every few minutes. Bessie looked across at Janet several times, smiling and jangling. Then there was silence. They were waiting for her to say something.

‘Sorry?’ she said. ‘Could you repeat that?’

‘We have a plan, ‘Katherine said. ‘We need you to agree to it.’ Janet scratched an itch on her elbow. What was wrong with her? She seemed to have lost several minutes. She leant back in her chair.

‘Could you just summarise it’ said Janet. ‘I’m fed up with you all arguing. Jeremy,’ she looked at him, ‘you didn’t do your research on me.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Jeremy.

‘I’m a lawyer,’ Janet said. ‘Retired, but a lawyer.’ Jeremy studied his cufflinks. He didn’t reply. ‘So, go through the plan again and make sure we all understand. And agree. We’re wasting time. Cyril could be anywhere.’ She got up and walked over to the tea trolley. Poured herself a black coffee and took two of the biscuits. ‘And,’ she continued as got back to her chair, ‘Katherine is going undercover and no decisions involving money will be made without checking with me first. But you can hire an investigator. And it has to be a woman.’

To be continued.

Tags cloud, kidnap

serial

The Cloud. Episode 41

1966, Sydney.

A police inspector drapes an arm over the bare shoulders of a young woman. The woman’s face is hidden under the flop of a wide-brimmed hat. A yellow polka-dot ribbon swings from the hat, tickling the sun-bleached hair on the Inspector’s arm. The arm spans an age gap of eighteen years.

A man spinning clouds of pink candy floss has lost a shoe. Children notice and point. Parents keep their eyes on the prize. Maybe the missing shoe is part of the sell. Maybe not.

The bar across the beach is tasselled with dogs waiting for their men. The dogs pant pant piss. Most of the men piss out of sight. At least three of the dogs will be named Bluey.

A small child runs into the legs of the police inspector with a melting ice-cream in a cone. The Inspector’s navy shorts are dolloped white. The Inspector laughs, wiping at the cream with his fingers. The child’s mother offers the Inspector a red balloon on a long string. He shakes his head, no.

Eucalyptus rubbed between the fingers is a medicament for some. A memory of something lost by others. The woman selling it from a basket promises an end to flies and a future flushed with fortune. New migrants invest handfuls of unfamiliar coins in her augurs.

So we sailed up to the sun. Til we found the sea of green. Try to see it my way. I’m picking up good vibrations. We can work it out. She’s giving me excitations. Smooth tanned feet everywhere drumming to the beat.

Immigrants are surprised by the rain’s vertical nature and its mocking insistence on dribbling where it shouldn’t. Most didn’t pack umbrellas. Those that call themselves locals lie on the beach, face up, and just carry on.

The young woman has never seen so many people on a beach. Has never felt sand so hot. Has never smelt that salty sun oil barbecue sweet. It’s her first time out in a bikini top and a matching mini. She could be on the cover of a magazine.

A police inspector leads a young woman down through the crowds onto the steaming sand. He is holding her hand. Guiding her steps. Picking past the picnickers. Kicking a stray football back to a group of running lads in black shorts. He takes her to the edge of the water. Removes his sandals. Then hers with a grinning bow. He throws them all back up the sand.

The water will be colder than it looks. He lifts her up. She shrieks. He wades in deeper, holding her just above the ocean. The waves crash up to his waist. He is soaked. She is salt sprayed. She is laughing. She has her arms around his neck.

The kiss yokes the Inspector to a murder. The kiss yokes the young woman to the Inspector’s yet to be declared bastard child.

To be continued.

Tags cloud, mystery, serial, Sydney

fiction serial

The Cloud. Episode 40

February, 2020. Edinburgh

A scene. Katherine’s living room. Early evening.

Inside a large opulent living room. Curtains pulled. Lamps switched on. JEREMY is sitting in a large armchair. KATHERINE is standing by the fireplace. JANET is sitting on the edge of a chaise longue. BESSIE is sitting on a sofa. All have glasses in their hands.

Katherine: I propose a toast.

Bessie: To us. The Cloudbusters.

Jeremy: Mother, for God’s sake…

Bessie: Jeremy, allow me some fun for once in your life.

KATHERINE and JANET exchange glances across the room.

Jeremy : Fun? This is organised crime, Mother.

Bessie: You’re so like your father.

Jeremy: Every time you bring him up. Every goddam time.

Bessie: There’s a reason for that.

Katherine: Heh, come on. Drink to whatever you want – but drink!

Janet: To Cyril.

Jeremy: A cloud…

Janet: Clouds have rights too

Jeremy: I’m not saying they don’t.

Bessie: You signed up for this, Jeremy.

Jeremy: Only because it was your long lost friend with a, let’s say (he pauses), an odd background.

Katherine: Don’t be an arse, Jeremy, not in my house.

Jeremy: Just saying how it is.

JANET stands up, walks to the fireplace and puts her full glass down on the mantlepiece. KATHERINE pats her arm and takes a slug from her glass, which is nearly empty. She tops her glass up from the bottle. She offers it to JANET. JANET shakes her head.

Bessie: I’m sorry, Janet. He’s just tired. Such a long drive to come up here. He’s an expert you know. On all these gang things. Kidnappings are his speciality. Doesn’t leave room for charm.

Jeremy: You’ve no idea what my speciality is, Mother.

Janet: Jeremy, if you don’t want to be here…

Katherine: There’s the door, Jeremy. No room for men like you in my house.

JEREMY puts his glass down on the floor and stands up. He steps towards the door. BESSIE stands up, follows him to the door and takes him by the arm. Whispers in his ear. He whispers back. They appear to be arguing.

Katherine: Anyway, did you hear the news? There’s been another cloud kidnap. In Glasgow. A car parked in the Merchant City apparently.

Janet: Can’t believe anyone would leave their cloud in a car. How irresponsible.

Katherine: Really stupid. Must have going to the theatre or something.

BESSIE and JEREMY come back to the centre of the room. JEREMY sits down, puts his hands on the back of his head.

Bessie: He’ll help.

Jeremy: Correction. I actually said I’d lead if we keep it professional. It’s not a game. I’ve got two days here then I’ll be managing the operation by phone.

Katherine: Who decided you’d be in charge?

Jeremy: It’s obvious, isn’t it.

Janet: Does it matter? I just want Cyril back.

JANET turns her back to the others and faces the wall. She takes a slug of wine from her glass.

Bessie: See what you’ve done, Katherine? Why not just let Jeremy take charge? He knows what he’s doing. He’s trained. The military and everything. He’s even been to wars. To top tables. Remember that piracy case in Somalia. The one with the oil tanker?

Jeremy: Could you please leave it out.

Katherine: I don’t know what oil tankers have to do with clouds. And I don’t need a man telling me what to do. I’ve enough of that at work.

JANET turns around and faces the room. She has her glass in her hand and it is empty.

Janet: It’s my cloud. I just want him back. If you can’t agree just leave. (There is a long silence.)

Katherine: OK, OK, Jeremy, but mess it up and you’ll be responsible.

Jeremy: If you let me do my job nothing will be messed up.

Bessie: That’s it. We’re agreed. I propose a toast!

BESSIE raises her glass. JANET follows. KATHERINE AND JEREMY do not look at each other and raise their glasses half way.

To be continued.

Tags clouds, Edinburgh, kidnap

fiction serial

The Cloud. Episode 39

1966, Sydney.

Philip’s death shunted his parents’ ages forward a decade or more. Bernadette’s fingers gnarled into the twisted uselessness of broken twigs. Her once straight back diminished to a stricken stoop. She seemed perplexed when asked a question. Bewildered by mundane tasks. She’d start and stop. Or finish then start over again. She’d leave the broom, brush end up and colonised by spiders, parked up against the mantle piece in the living room for days. Or abandon a bucket of dirty water in the middle of the kitchen until Edward would kick it over and step wet grime through the house. She’d sit in the tin bath, knees up, arms wrapped around her legs in cold shallow water until Eric, prompted by Edward, would remember to rescue her before her skin wrinkled to a shrivel.

Eric’s thick dark hair moulted into a thin white cap. He became a man with only two moods – melancholy or fury. The moods flipped as probabilistically as a spun coin. Heads for melancholy. Tails for fury. Or heads for fury. Tails for melancholy. Janet came to predict her father’s mood by the feel of the old house as it pre-empted Eric’s emotional status. It sighed and settled in sorrow. Or it was taut and crackling in anger. Even in his absence, in the long hours that Eric was out at work, the house kept the dark sentiments going.

Edward went to school, came back, and went to school. He was alone, then in a pair, and finally promoted to the most popular group of boys in the school. His leather satchel developed an uneasy rash of stickers. His skin oxidised, his hair bleached and he extended upwards beyond his father. He patted his mother’s arm, nodded to his father, and cleaned his rugby boots on the back step. He was never in the same room as Janet. He ate his meals in the back garden, or stood, tapping his foot at the kitchen door, until Janet got up to leave. On Saturdays he disappeared with a rolled up towel, a packed lunch, and his bus money, returning late in the evening with salt-slicked hair and grazes on his shins. Sharp lines separated brown skin from pale, denoting the length of both his shorts and his sleeves. One evening he turned up with a black coral necklace scooped around his neck. No one said a word.

Janet enrolled at the University of Sydney in the school of law. She would start in the following February. Neither of her parents noticed the accolade that this should have brought upon the family. Nor did they notice Janet’s sudden switch in interest from English literature to the legal profession. In the meantime Janet searched through the classified ads for an admin job in a criminal law office. Two months after her arrival in Sydney, she would pull on a smart blue skirt, tie her hair back into a sharp tight pony-tail, and start her new role for Mr Shepherd LL.B.

The new arrivals had, like all new arrivals, attracted attention in Macaulay Road. Did the neighbours know about the Waters’ bereavement? If so, they kept schtoom. And if so, they behaved magnanimously. (Or they held a dark fascination for the horror the family was suffering and they wanted to get in closer to have a dig around in the misery.) Grief is not a social butterfly. It isn’t invited to dinner parties or trips to the zoo, or a family day out to Manly Beach. And if, on occasion, grief is invited to these events, it declines through reticence or silence.

So the neighbours in Macaulay Road, despite their unswerving and collective efforts, didn’t manage to get over the Waters’ doorstep for months. Instead they left entreaties just inside the garden gate. A passion fruit pavlova in a Tupperware box. A small rubber plant in a large hand-painted terracotta pot. Pretty white crocheted doilies with dinky weights on the corners to keep the flies off food. Handwritten cards in smudged ink with telephone numbers and invitations to barbecues. Janet would rescue these offerings and dump them on the kitchen table. A day or two later her father would caress the objects with both hands before standing up and dropping them silently into the bin.

The Inspector was the only person to visit the family in its first season of mourning. His visits were initially regular, and greeted with angry questions from Eric and pleas for further investigation from Bernadette. Did the Inspector obfuscate? Perhaps. He mentioned the coroner. The lack of a body. The complexities of the law of the sea. Maybe there’d be an inquest. Maybe not. He was working on it. He’d wipe his brow down with a cotton handkerchief and Janet would bring him a glass of cold water. Sometimes she let her hand brush over his. And sometimes his pinky would move just enough for Janet to pinken in the cool glum of the kitchen and hold out hope that something more than the rub of a finger would be forthcoming.

To be continued.

Tags grief, immigrants, Sydney