Missing
Posted: 14 April 2003
Word Count: 275
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MISSING
Introduction
The rain had stopped as he wiped his face and checked the time. It was nine fifteen. The moon was full and provided a good light source as he removed his binoculars from the
front pouch of his anorak and looked out at the sea. He could see the odd ripple in the black water where the moon shone. Looking back at the beach he could make out the sand dunes and the mass of lights in the villages behind. He focused on the target area and waited.
He saw a light in the distance; it was getting closer. In times gone by the sight of the boat had made his heart race and filled him with hope, but those feelings had diminished.
As the wind started to pick up and the sea grew rough, the boat appeared beyond the ray of moonlight and turned, as it always did, to the north. He stood up from the makeshift stone seat and watched a man gripping the side of the boat while he stared down at the water.
‘Go on. It’ll be your only chance.’ He whispered.
The man leapt out, feet first and disappeared into the darkness.
‘Where are you?’ The adrenaline pumped fast through his body as he searched the sea through the two circular holes. He caught a glimpse of a head bobbing up and down,
hands waving desperately in the air. He wanted to help but knew he couldn’t go any closer.
The boat was now headed back out to sea and there was no sign of the man overboard.
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 Shadowgirl at 09:17 on 15 April 2003
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Oh powerful stuff Gary. I read this holding my breath and had to take a gulp for air at the end! More please...
I love the single line of dialogue in the middle.
Well done.
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roger at 12:50 on 15 April 2003
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I'm not sure I understood this; in fact I know I didn't. Why was it his last chance? And why did the boat leave him to it? But...that was the whole point, wasn't it - an introduction. And what is an introduction meant to achieve? To draw the reader in, wanting to know more. And it certainly did that. Excellent.
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 Nancy at 23:18 on 20 April 2003
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Gary, this is intriguing. What's going on? Which is exactly what you want a reader to be asking! Can I make a couple of suggestions about the writing? I think it would help if it were a bit sharper. For example for the second paragraph you could start with 'Then he saw it, in the distance, a light drawing nearer...'
And perhaps starting the third paragraph with 'As the wind picked up...
Hope this helps.
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Gary at 12:38 on 21 April 2003
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Cheers for all the comments everyone. This is the start of my first novel I completed early last year. So there is another 100,000 + to come! Is this too much for the group? Or should I stick to short stories? I don't know about you lot, but i love to just be given a title or a theme and write something fresh. anyone up for that?
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Jibunnessa at 12:47 on 21 April 2003
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YES.
Want to suggest something?
And, yes, your piece is intriguing, and makes me want to know more. So, more please.
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roger at 12:49 on 21 April 2003
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Yes, Gary, the short story on a theme is a good idea. It's good for the creative process - I'll start you off - BANANAS. If you have any difficulty with that, speak to Beverly. She knows all about them.
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Gary at 20:03 on 21 April 2003
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Chapter 1 then! I want to comment on everyone elses work, so I'm ready and waiting! For the short story challenge how about 1000 words max, theme being 'He stole my wifes' cash card!
Chapter 1
The following day Mac drove up Westerly Height road to the top of the bank at Mount
Pleasant, removed his sunglasses and held his breath in anticipation. He wasn’t
disappointed, the waves were three to four feet high. Mac travelled the three hundred
yards or so to the bottom, pulled up outside the golf club and removed his long board
from the passenger seat of the Chevette. The place was deserted. He gathered his surf bag
together with the board and walked over the first tee to tackle the steep sand dunes. The
sun was trying to escape from behind the clouds but it was still overcast and there was a
chill in the air.
Mac had been to some great surf spots home and abroad but nothing compared to
Elsmere beach. It was twenty minutes drive from his house and he loved it. The sand was
dark yellow with bands of shale and litter was a rarity. Mac had surfed the beach in
December when there was frost on the ground and enjoyed every second of it. It would
be fare to say he was a die-hard surfer.
He sat down on his board, pulled his cigarettes from the front zip pocket, lit up and
studied the waves. That was another thing he liked about Elsmere beach the wave breaks
changed all the time. There was a rip in the centre of the bay and the waves to the south
below the castle ruins broke off some rocks, which increased their quality. To the north
end they varied.
For ten minutes Mac watched and smoked two cigarettes. Once he decided the
time was right to go in, the trick was to get into his wet suit as quickly as possible.
Pulling his gloves and blue woollen hat off he stripped down to his boxers and struggled
into his Body Glove wet suit, which was tighter than last year.
The sun broke through the clouds and sent a beam of light onto the sea. He fastened his
board to his ankle, above his new quicksilver boots and ran to the water’s edge. He
walked in as far as he could before the first real obstacle of a wave came. The water was
ice cold on his face as he dipped under the next wave but it crashed onto his head; his
whole system went into shock and he had what is known as an ice-cream headache,
where the pain shoots through your head, then disappears as quickly as it arrived. Mac
knew he couldn’t afford too many of those so early on in the day.
He got beyond the last wave and lay in wait. The cloud was fast disappearing into the
sea to be replaced by clear blue sky. The next wave to come he let pass, the one after
reared up into a mass wall of dark green and black bursting with power. He spun around,
paddled like hell with his arms, felt the suction under his body and dropped into the space
below feeling the rush that kept him coming back for more. Riding something
unpredictable, with so much force and speed gave him an enormous buzz.
They say that in golf one good shot brings you back the next day; one good wave could
satisfy Mac’s hunger for months. He paddled back and took time out to wait for his next
fix, comparing the last one with his one visit to Hawaii and the North Shore.
After about an hour in the water cramp kicked into Mac’s left foot and then the right so
he decided to take the next wave, no matter how small, into shore and have a breather.
The ride back in was slow and he was happy to wade the last twenty yards. He undid
his foot strap as he left the water dragging his board behind him. As he loosened the top
of his wetsuit and sat on his board, he pulled out a pre-rolled joint, lit up and exhaled to
the heavens.
Rummaging around in his bag he took out his flask and poured a black coffee. The
swell looked to be getting livelier; another ten minutes and after the joint had worn of he
would go back in. Mac felt like his face would explode at any minute with all the heat
being trapped inside his wet suit. The mixture of salt water and sun had burnt his cheeks.
Something caught his eye as he was staring out to sea, lost in a world of smoke and
aimless thoughts. It was down next to the rocks. He wasn’t sure if it was the joint
affecting his eyesight more than usual but he thought that he could see an arm sticking
out from beneath what looked like an old sack. He slowly stood up and headed over. The
sack was washed up next to the green covered rock pool.
As he got closer his jaw dropped opened. ‘Jesus!’ He held his mouth, the black holes
for eyes stared straight through him, the face was so white with blue veins. It was the first
time Mac had seen a dead body. He staggered back and fell, scrambled to his feet and ran
as fast as he could. His head was thumping. The wind whistled past his face as his body
weight took him down the other side of the dunes. Mac was finding it difficult to keep
running in his wet suit but he had to.
He reached the clubhouse with a red face and wild hair, everything was a blur. Hitting
the solid wood door with both hands he burst in and reached for the phone and dialed
emergency.
Mac jogged back over the dunes to get his things. His head was working over time in
the paranoia section. When had he first seen it? Had it been there before he went in and
he hadn’t noticed it? Was he a suspect? He often got bouts of paranoia after smoking pot,
but only when he had to face up to something, like his parents coming home or a knock at
the door. Mac didn’t have to face his parents, just an army of policemen, due any second.
His heart beat increased and he felt the need to rip his wetsuit off to get some air.
A few people were ahead of him after hearing the news in the clubhouse and a
gathering had formed twenty yards or so away from the body. Mac approached slowly
trying to gather his thoughts.
The police arrived before he had even finished packing his things away. There were five
uniformed officers in front that ushered everyone away from the body. Mac was like a
robot, he couldn’t think. He heard his name being shouted and headed back towards the
rock pool, which was now cordoned off with blue and white police tape. The noise of the
crowd was muffled by the sound of the crashing waves as Mac approached the officer.
‘I’m Ray McCloud,’ he said and raised his hand like he was at college. ‘I found…’
The officer let a tall plain clothed man under the tape before answering. ‘Yes we know,
stay around a while a senior officer will need to talk to you.’ He pointed to the right and
Mac stood to the side and waited.
There was now a policeman posted on top of the dunes to stop any other people coming
down onto the beach and those already there were being questioned and then told to
leave. Mac’s heart was racing, he didn’t know why but he felt as guilty as hell. He wished
the dope would wear off, it all seemed so unreal, like a dream. He looked to his left and
got a good view of the stiff body being lifted onto a blue plastic sheet. The dead man
wore a brown suit jacket and looked to be between fifty and sixty.
An inspector Simpson was the senior officer and briefly spoke to Mac before passing
him onto a uniformed officer, telling him he would be interviewed in detail later.
Mac told him what he had seen, hoping he hadn’t missed anything out and gave his
address, before quickly departing back towards the car. The crowd at the clubhouse
nearly filled the car park and Mac saw a couple of people point at him. He kept his head
down and marched past the flashing blue lights of the ambulance and bundled his board
and bag into the car before driving home; a little less stoned, still in shock and still in his
wetsuit.
Half an hour later Mac arrived back home. The journey usually took twenty minutes, but
the paranoia was in full swing. He had imagined that he was being followed home so he
checked the rear view mirror every minute and stayed well below the speed limit, which
in hindsight he thought made him look even more suspicious. He felt guilty and under
scrutiny even though he hadn’t done anything wrong.
Mac lived just outside Heddon by the Sea at Allenhead a small village. He got out of
the car, took his surfboard from the folded down passenger seat and headed out back to
clean it down. Getting out of the wet suit was a mighty relief he could almost feel the
pressure being released from his armpits, which were now red with the constant rubbing,
when he had ran to the clubhouse. Hanging it over the washing line he hosed it down and
tried to take in what he had seen down at the beach, but was having difficulty.
He went into the house, fixed himself a drink of orange juice with plenty of ice and
sprawled across the sofa. Bonny, the family sheep dog, was outside pissing on his dad’s
cabbages. Mac contemplated telling his father what had happened but knew he would go
on and on about how dangerous surfing was, even though the incident had nothing to do
with it. All his father wanted was for him to work the fruit shop like him and every other
generation of his family, the names of which he could scarcely remember. A Saturday
spent surfing was wasted according to his father when he could be weighing plums or
familiarising himself with the suppliers at the market.
They were at the non-speaking stage on this subject unless his father had dared to leave
the house for a couple of pints at the pit club in the village. On his return the beer
loosened his tongue and he would take a few shots at Mac about life and his bleak future
if he didn’t wise up and get into the fruit game. He had another drink of juice, lay back
and fell into a deep sleep.
Mac awoke to the sound of his father shouting at Bonny for over fertilising his
precious cabbage plot at the bottom of the garden. His mouth was so dry but at least the
effect of the joint had worn off and he began to understand what he had witnessed. A
dead tramp washed up, must have had one too many and slipped into the sea without
knowing it. That’s what the officer had said, happens all the time down south he said.
Yeah, that should be a good enough explanation for his parents not to cause him any
grief. And certainly nothing to do with surfing, he thought. In the cold light of day, after a
good sleep, he decided telling them couldn’t do any harm. There were big waves forecast
all weekend and he didn’t want to miss them; dead body or no dead body, a decent swell
had to be surfed.
*
‘Peter Simpson,’ I put one finger in my ear so I could hear what the muffled voice was
trying to say. ‘Yes I will, just leave it on my desk.’
I knew I wasn’t going to be the chief officer on this case, even though they thought it
was only a missing person who had died an accidental death. I had been in CID for three
months and my detective work had consisted solely of one operation, trying to stop the
importation of contraband cigarettes from Scotland. I still hadn’t managed to do that, but
this was an exciting change.
My colleague assumed accidental death, of a man who looked to be a tramp, homeless,
penniless and probably not going to be missed by anyone. I was unconvinced and knew
that my superiors would say that it was my first case involving a death and I was trying to
make more of it than I should.
The scratch marks on the back of the man’s hands, and his missing left index
finger nail stuck out in my mind. He wasn’t wearing any socks with his boots, which if he
were out walking would have been very uncomfortable. He also had an empty wallet.
Motive could have been robbery. I would await the pathologist’s report before making
any further assumptions.
I headed home at five fifteen, which was early for me. This case was praying on my
mind. Being in the force for twelve years had taught me to switch off before I got home. I
loved the job but my family was my number one priority.
When I was first involved in an incident at work that bothered me it took its toll on
Paula and me after only a week. The case wasn’t big or demanding and I was still a
constable, but the thugs involved were into organised football violence, and the ring
leader didn’t live too far from our house, so the threats were on a personal level. In the
end it turned out to be only threats and plenty more followed from other cases.
As time passed we dealt with problems and managed to train our minds to be as free as
possible when we were together. We weren’t any different from other married couples,
and often needed to talk about work but it didn’t take over our lives. This weekend was
special; it was our anniversary. Paula had arranged for our sons, Mark, Phillip and Josh to
spend the weekend at her parents so we could be alone. It would be the first time in seven
years we had had the house to ourselves.
We lived in Perrington, which was inland from the coast and about ten miles south. Not
far to drive, but to live there you might as well be in another world. I parked my new
Vauxwagon Bora on the drive, and entered our bungalow.
‘Paula, I’m home babe.’
Checking through the morning post, I walked into the kitchen. The open plan layout of
our house was magnificent, complimented by my talented wife whose eye for a good
colour scheme had to be applauded. She had opted for cream bench tops and doors with
light grey slate on the floor for the kitchen and matching cream on the living room walls
with a contrast of rustic red curtains and Indian style rug to the timber floor. Anyone who
came here whether it was the first time or hundredth always commented on the unusual
layout.
‘You’re early, anybody would think we had the house to ourselves,’ replied Paula from
the corner of the kitchen. She wrapped her leg round the doorframe seductively and
rolled her eyes at me.
‘Wait ‘til you see what I’ve made for tea. Now sit down and relax, the evening paper
has just arrived.’
‘You know me too well,’ I planted a kiss on her cheek and walked into the lounge.
Sinking into the tan leather sofa I patted Alfy our two- year old boxer dog, who
demanded more attention than the woman of the house. I flicked to the back pages to
check out the sport. On a Friday you could always expect a lot of talk of transfer
activities at our local club and the big fight was on cable this weekend.
No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t get my head around it. The tramp on the beach
seemed to be imprinted on my brain. I don’t know exactly what struck me as being odd
about this old guy lying dead. I think it was because I knew his death could be washed to
one side as easily as he came ashore, and dismissed as a missing person, when the true
cause of death could well be different.
Another factor niggling away at me was that my father had passed away at the end of
last year. He was of a similar age but died of natural causes and had a good funeral. He
had enjoyed his life and was loved by us all. The guy on the beach could be just like my
father for all I knew and deserved to be given a chance, a fair trial if you like and not just
forgotten. I suspected that it wouldn’t be my call anyway, but I was going to do what I
could to investigate the circumstances the way I saw fit.
‘He was dressed too much like a tramp.’
That was it. The dead man was dressed the way people who do not see many homeless
people would imagine a homeless person to look like. Unkempt hair and beard, old
evening jacket, boots with no socks thrown in for good measure.
‘Paula, I’m just popping out for half an hour.’ Grabbing my jacket and camera I
headed for the door.
The sun was setting and was well below the horizon when I arrived. I stood back and
looked at the empty beach. To the south was Elsmere Castle set on a two hundred feet
high hill, half in ruins. To the North there were six log holiday homes, abandoned and
due for removal soon, according to the sales girl at the filling station. The shoreline
headed east into the sea as it went north. Exactly what was at the next bay I didn’t know.
I was guilty of ignorance when it came to the East Coast of Northern England.
I removed the map from my pocket and marked my position. I couldn’t visit the exact
spot where the old man had lay as the tide was in, but just being at the beach did a lot to
get my thoughts going and unanswered questions flowed through my mind. Where could
he have fallen in? What were the tidal times and the conditions over the past few days?
My initial job was to gather as much information about Elsmere beach and the
surrounding area as possible. I removed my camera and took a few shots for reference
when I got home, something that could put me back in this very spot when I needed to be
here. Nothing else seemed to matter. I felt focused and determined, it was a new
challenge. I scribbled a small note in my handbook to remind myself to check the missing
persons file first thing Monday morning.
The ice-cold wind was getting stronger and cutting into my face as I fastened the
remaining two buttons on my suede jacket. I needed the pathologist’s report. That would
save me a lot of time trying to piece together times, cause of death and possible method. I
was keeping an open mind unlike my colleagues. I flipped open my mobile and checked
through the directory of police departments, hoping that there were some equally keen
people working overtime, and not being paid for it.
‘Jim?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Peter Simpson. How are you?’ I held one finger in my ear to silence the crashing
waves and walked back towards the dunes.
‘Hi Peter. What can I do for you?’ His tone was pleasant but sharp. He obviously didn’t
like being contacted out of hours.
‘I understand you’re doing the report for the mystery body washed up on Elsmere
beach.’
‘That’s right. Not usually your area- you must be stepping up in the world. You require
some early information I assume?’
‘If you don’t mind, it’s fallen under my wing, and I could…’
He cut me short, which saved some extra grovelling. ‘No need to explain old chap CID
are all the same. Don’t hold me to any of this as I have yet to confirm my report through
the official channels you understand?’
‘Of course, I understand fully,’ I lied. Apart from in a book I hadn’t even seen a
pathologist’s report.
‘Your mystery man died twenty-four to thirty-six hours ago. I would estimate. Had
been in the water for a while. A head injury and consequent internal haemorrhaging
caused his death. That’s about all for now.’
I paced around staring down at the whirling sand and went down onto my honkers to
get a better reception. ‘Do you think a fall of some description could have caused the
head injury?’
‘Possible. It would be the easiest explanation, but not necessary the only one.’
‘Thanks a lot Jim, I appreciate it.’
I clicked my mobile shut and walked over the dunes to my car. He could have slipped
and fallen knocking himself unconscious, but he could also have been knocked
unconscious by someone else. Either way it wasn’t a drowning as first expected.
My nose was running and eyes watering as I slammed the car door shut, switched off
my mobile and thought of Paula. I tried to shake of my concerns of the case as I drove to
Wine Buster’s just outside our village and picked up a bottle of white called Kuala Creek.
It tasted nasty and cheap to most people, but to Paula and me it brought back the
memories of our youth together. One way or another I was in for a sentimental weekend.
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dsj at 10:36 on 24 April 2003
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Hi Gary
If I didn't say so before, welcome to the Crime Fiction Group!
Well done on an intruiging introduction. I'd like to say more, but would like to read the 1st chapter properly. Would you mind uploading the chapter 1 as a separate item - it's a bit hard to read in it's current form.
Best Regards
DSJ
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jester at 22:00 on 26 April 2003
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Hi Gary,
People surf in England??? ;-) I'll be darned. I'm here in sunny southern California and when the water's at 65 F I think it's too cold. God knows what it is in the north Atlantic. More power to you! ;-)
Anyway, back to the book. Great tone to this. Good rhythm. Nice choice of words. Definitely makes me want to read more to discover what happens.
Here's a few comments that might help the piece. (Keep in mind that I like to be thorough in my critiquing. The comments are meant to be constructive and never to be taken personally).
The intro is fabulous. I'd have to agree with Nancy, however, with her suggestion of "'Then he saw it, in the distance, a light drawing nearer...'" Vary the sentence style. Doesn't always need "He focused, He saw, He did..."
"He held his mouth, the black holes for eyes stared straight through him..." There are quite a few instances of incorrect punctuation. The best thing for this, of course, is to print it out and go at it with a red pen. It's easier to find them on a printed page than a computer screen.
"...into the car before driving home; a little less stoned, still in shock and still in his wetsuit." I thought he took off his wet suit.
"Hanging it over the washing line..." Hanging the *wetsuit* over...
I've gone quite a ways into this and I don't have Mac's description or age. Needs to be much earlier.
Whoa! Suddenly we've switched points of view...in the middle of the chapter! I don't mind two or three different third person pov (one per chapter, not in the same one, please) but to mix third and first in a novel is going to take some fancy writing. I know I wouldn't attempt it. Third was going so well for you. I don't think it's going to be necessary to switch to first, and quite frankly it doesn't work. In third, you expressed the narrative quite nicely. It was very smooth. Suddenly, the jarring first person begins to "tell" everything instead of "showing" and experiencing as the third was successfully doing. I know you're going to hate me for this, but I suggest a rewrite.
I like where the story's going, though, so keep at it. Be sure to end the chapter with a climax so the reader can't resist turning the page.
Looking forward to more.
Cheers,
Jeri (Jester)
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Gary at 17:23 on 27 April 2003
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Appreciate your comments Jeri, the more honest the better I think when it comes to making constructive criticism, but a re-write!!! Looks like it will be a great challenge for me to get you hooked on this one because in chapter three we get our third POV, in third person you'll be pleased to hear. But i'll try! Most people who have read this book find the initial switches in POV a tbit tricky, but loved them in the end. Let me know what you think as we go on.
Thanks for taking the time to check it out.
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jester at 19:24 on 27 April 2003
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Hey Gary,
Don't be afraid of rewrites. I consider myself the Queen of Rewrite! And yes, I have rewritten novels sometimes from page one, changing entire points of view or whatever. Learning not to hold on to phrases or portions of our work and to let them go when they don't work is the hardest of all. After all, aren't we in love with our own stuff? We should be, but as the saying goes, if we love it, let it go. Anyway, I agree it's still pretty hard to put it into practice. I may eventually do it, but I fight tooth and nail not to.
I will happily read the rest with an open mind.
All the best,
Jeri
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