the-story-teller

The sound of footsteps approached. Dusk had started to settle and he couldn’t make out who it was. The trees were thick around the small area, blocking out a lot of the light, distancing him from anyone else that might be around at that time. Not that anyone would, that’s why he liked to be here; it gave him time to think to reflect to be alone with just his thoughts.
He squinted as he noticed the trees part. The person was someone larger than him – taller and bulkier, and they were wearing a thick parker jacket; the kind with the fake fur trim around the hood. He knew enough people that wore that sort of coat, but didn’t recognise the walk. He stood up; his heart was beating a little too quickly. He didn’t know why but he knew that he had to get out of there quickly. The footsteps got louder and faster as he turned around, and within a few seconds it was clear that this person was running straight for him.

It was starting to snow. It was the first real snowfall for as long as he could remember. It would be perfect. A perfect, dark, white night, not that he’d planned on doing anything yet. He hadn’t got to know him well enough, to figure out his every move, his every little detail, his habits, the times when he liked to be alone. No, tonight was just a coincidence, being in the right place at the right time, with his right emotions. Of course he’d planned to kill him, there was no way that he could not kill him, especially after what he’d done.
Of course, it would upset him, over the time he’d got to know him, he actually got quite fond of him. Had circumstances been different then he could have seen them become friends.
The snow was the perfect covering. He’d seen enough cop TV shows and read enough crime thrillers to know that the snow would be able to preserve the body, confuse the timelines or whatever. The darkness would provide the perfect covering and the trees would create a deadening of the sound of his silent screams.

He didn’t look back often, but the footsteps behind were getting louder and closer. He tried to run faster, but his legs wouldn’t carry him any quicker. He threw off his jacket in the vain hope that it would make him go a little quicker. But it was pointless; he felt the cold hard hand on the back of his neck before he was forced to the ground.
He struggled and squirmed, trying hopelessly to break free of the man’s vice-like grasp. He was strong, but his attacker was stronger. He clawed at the jacket to try and get a grip enough to force his arms open, but his fingers were numb from the cold. His over riding thought was that after everything that had happened, this was more than just a coincidence. He stopped struggling for a few second to try and regain his thoughts.
His attacker just kept pounding at his face. He had to act quickly or his eyes would be swollen shut. He pulled the hoot down just in time. He saw his attacker before it all went black.

One forceful blow to the head was all it took to make him blackout. He hadn’t expected it to be so easy… in fact, he felt a little disappointed that it was so easy. A few punches to the face and he was gone. Still, he couldn’t complain it would make his task easier. He quickly undressed his victim. Hoping that the coppers would think it a sexual assault or something, but of course it wasn’t. It was all about throwing as many people off the scent as possible. He’d had a chance to perfect his task. Tom something or another was his first. They said that you never forget your first, but Tom was just a dress-rehearsal before opening night. And tonight was that night.
Not that anyone could or would think him capable of such atrocity. After all, wasn’t he the grade-A student, the good son, the best friend, the shining example of today’s youth. He smiled at the thought as he squeezed the neck just a little harder. Wanting it to be over, yet wanting it to last.
So what if he’d seen his face. He wouldn’t be able to tell anyone soon anyway. In fact, he thought it gave him even more power. He’d stuffed the old Iron Maiden tee-shirt in his mouth to stop him from screaming should be come around before he died. It was all going too well. Then he got excited as his victim started to come around.

It was for the briefest of moments, but he was awake again, a throbbing in his throat as his attackers hands tightened around his neck, wringing the very life out of him. But it wouldn’t be so bad, would it. ‘So this is what death feels like,’ he thought as everything around him blurred into blackness. He was cold and hot at the same time, a feeling of being so tired yet complete awake. Dull to everything, yet more aware of his senses than ever before. He could feel the warmth of the blood trickling from his nose and eyes and the cold of the snow on his naked body, the taste of blood and his old Iron Maiden tee-shirt stuffed in his mouth. He felt comforted somehow; like death wasn’t the end or there was something better than this life waiting for him.

CHAPTER TWO

Steve woke up early. It was a habit that he’d never been able to break. Ever since he could remember he’d always been a morning-person; one of those annoying people that are at their perkiest when everyone else was at their most miserable. Of course it worked in reverse. Just as everyone else was getting ready for a night on the tiles, Steve was ready for bed.
Last night had been too late for him really. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed it, because he had – or at least enjoyed meeting with Debra Lansing, and was looking forward to hearing from her again.
Sherlock had also got used to Steve’s habit of waking early, and wouldn’t allow him anything like a lie-in. No sooner had Steve opened his eyes than his great golden retriever was on the bed licking at his face. It was a rude wake-up call at the best of times, and even less wanted this morning.
He struggled to open his eyes... it was light and probably later than he thought it would be. He managed to force his dog off him and off the bed, and the sound of four heavy footsteps on the stairs was a sign that he’d have around ten minutes to get up and ready to go for a walk.

It was already a beautiful September morning; even at seven o’clock it was fresh and the sun was breaking through the dark pink and orange clouds. The short walk from his terrace to the newsagents took him fifteen minutes – diverting through the park, past the bus station, past the candle shrine for someone that had been knocked over by a speeding car three weeks ago, and into the one-street town. Hillsbridge was the stereotypical candy-box image of a rural country village. It had a school, a handful of shops, one pub and not much else. The rest of the county had passed it by, leaving an almost idyllic village that was not as deep into the countryside as it wished. Just a few short miles away were the major motorway connections, a route into a larger town with good rail and bus connections and more Starbucks that there should be in England. But for all its quaintness, it offered Steve exactly what he wanted – a simple quiet life.
It had been five years since he’d moved to Hillsbridge. After he and Debbie divorced, the mid-terraced house in the country was all he could afford. Of course, with the skyrocketing property market, he could easily have doubled his money, but he’d quite grown fond of the town.
It had been an amicable divorce; they were never bitter, never argued, and still keep in touch regularly. Steve always said that he loved her just couldn’t live with her, and that feeling was mutual. She had taken their son and moved back to Leeds where her parents were. It wasn’t an ideal situation, as it meant that Steve could only visit at weekends, but it was working for them. He’d even managed to spend some time with his ex-wife’s new husband, Gavin and found him to be a decent friend.

Sandra Davis worked out of a converted garage in her modest home. Her husband was head-chef in one of the classier hotels in the area, and with her wages as a literary agent, they were doing quite well for themselves.
She had been working for Jenson & Reynolds Literary Agency for the last ten years. She enjoyed the job, the creativity it allowed, and the fact that she could work from home. She had a good solid author base, and had a reputation for taking on new talent and bringing out the best in them.
When Steve presented his manuscript for his first novel ‘Fear’ all those years ago, she had said it was rough and dirty – exactly what the British crime reader likes. She had signed him up straight away, much to his amazement, considering the amount of rejections he’d had up to that point.
They had a good working relationship – she’d leave him to his creativity for just the right amount of time, before turning his work around to editors and proofreaders ready to be sent back for further drafts. She kept out of his way, and he kept out of hers. It worked well for both of them.
She greeted him at the driveway. One of the benefits from working from home in the summer was that she could tend to the garden between client meetings. She was on her knees, a trowel in one gloved hand and a bunch of weeds in the other, stuffing them into a black plastic bin liner. She got up as his car pulled into the huge driveway and walked over to the black Renault Clio.
‘Thanks for last night, it was good party.’
‘That’s bullshit Steven, I know you hate those things… but thanks for coming. How did it go with Debra?’ She had been trying to set him up with someone for a while, and had failed miserably on most occasions. It seemed that this one might be the start of something. Not that he was looking for anyone or anything.
‘She’s nice and despite the utter embarrassment of us being so forcefully put together like that, we had a good time. In fact we’re going to meet up for a coffee.’
‘Coffee? Really? When?’
Steve smiled, ‘not that easy. You want details, you’ll have to work for them.’
She removed her gloves tossing them to one side and led the way to her office. Inside the room was more humble than the exterior suggested. An unassuming oak desk was surrounded by Ikea bookshelves and a B&Q office chair. In the far corner were some comfortable looking sofas, a small coffee table and what could be best described as a kitchenette – a few cupboards, a sink, kettle and an array of fruit.
Steve sat on one of the sofas, emptying the contents of his folder on the table. It was a pretty standard format for a meeting – she’d talk, he’d write. They didn’t meet on many occasions and usually held their conversation over the phone.
She messed with the kettle, fixing them both a cup of tea. She reached out a plate full of biscuits and put them down on the table. ‘It’s good and bad news I’m afraid, Steven.’ She said putting a cup of tea down in front of him. The cup looked best chine and the teaspoon clinked against the saucer as it landed on the table.
‘Good news first, soften the blow.’ He said, becoming quite concerned about what the bad news could be.
‘Walkerman TV has contacted me with regards to proposing a DCI Grendle mini-series. They’re suggesting just a four-episode series – the kind that’s on ITV on a Monday night.’
‘That’s great! Oh my God, are you serious? A TV show with my characters?’ He felt like a kid on Christmas morning. He never expected anything like that.
‘That’s the good news.’ Her tone went flat again as if the bad news was really bad. ‘My bosses have been approached by your publisher to get something back out onto the shelves quickly. They’ve heard about the proposal from Walkerman and want to cash in on the potential hype.’
‘How quickly do they need something?’ What she had told him hadn’t really sunk in yet. He was still high after the news.
‘They want at least a chapter – two if possible to go into the paperback print of ‘Punishment’.’
‘That’s fine, what about what I told you yesterday?’
‘No. See it from there point of view, they’re looking at a potentially huge deal here, if it’s successful we could be talking about a long running series. They don’t want a womanising man that’s been thrown out by his long-suffering wife. It doesn’t make good TV.’
‘Isn’t this my character though?’
‘I wish it was just that easy. They want a dependable hero, not an anti-hero.’
‘So what does this mean? How long have I got?’
‘If this TV series comes off then people will be clamouring for Grendle and existing fans will be looking for something new.’
‘So how long are we talking?’ He insisted a little stronger.
‘Three months, six if I can push it.’
‘Six months? You’re saying that I need to get a firm idea of a story and something specific enough and completed enough to publish? In six months?’
‘Think of this TV deal, Steven. It’s a good thing. It will mean a lot of publicity, a lot of promotion, a lot more book sales.’
‘Do you think we can get Ray Winston in to do it? He’d be a great Grendle, don’t you think? Or that guy from Eastenders.’
‘This isn’t time for being smart, Steven. This is important. Listen, they don’t want much, just a chapter remember – hell it could be just some rambling about Grendle, just not the kind of rambling you want. It doesn’t have to contain an outline to a story.’
‘I know but its something, isn’t it. You know that I was planning on taking Chris on holiday.’
‘I’m sorry. You’ve got three months, take him on holiday you might even find some inspiration…’
‘… in Benidorm?’
‘I’m not the one with the creative juices, Steven… and there’s no need to be curt with me.’ She put her cup down on the table and walked over to her desk. She rummaged around for some papers, ‘this is a fax copy of the proposal for the TV show. It’s got the details about running times, costs, and a lot of stuff you need not concern yourself with, but it does give timescales and proposals for plot lines. It’s your character, your property, and ultimately your decision, of course. Take this, think about it, go get sunburn and comeback with some ideas on this,’ she fluttered the paper before putting it down on the table, ‘and a chapter.’

Martin Franks looked anxiously at his watch. He was aware that he’d been sitting in the bar for the last ten minutes and was already fifteen minutes into his lunch break without the merest hint of food… and Steve was late.
Martin hated his job, hated his boss, hated the building he was in and the restrictions it all put on him. Working for poor pay in obnoxiously stressful conditions for little credit or little reward. But he had his priorities, he had a car loan, a mortgage, and wife and a child on the way. He needed his job and needed the money. He couldn’t afford to give his boss any more ammunition to fire him with, and that meant returning to the office on or before time.
Just as he reached for his phone, the door to the Horses Head opened, letting in a breath of fresh September air and letting out the smell of stale beer and greasy chips. .. and in walked Steve, causal as anything, looking around for his friend.
Martin couldn’t help but look at his watch again. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Sorry, couldn’t find anywhere to park. So what’s good?’ he asked picking up the dog eared menu from the table.
‘You’ve got a chicken burger on the way. What?’ he questioned as his friend gave him a strange look. ‘I had to order. I don’t want to give that bitch any reason to give me the boot.’ Martin took a deep breath and a drink of his Diet Coke, wishing it was a pint of Guinness. ‘Sorry, it’s been a hell of a morning, and I don’t know how much longer I can hold out on this.’
‘Take it easy; just think of that little bundle of joy. How’s Karen doing, anyway?’
‘She’s OK, she said that if she could stop pissing and puking every few minutes she’d probably enjoy this pregnancy.’
‘How long until she finishes work?’ Steve interrupted as the waiter brought over two overly-greasy chicken burgers with limp chips and a grey salad.
‘Last three weeks and she’s dreading giving up work. You know how much she loves that job.’
‘Look on the bright side, you could always give up work and become a full time house husband.’
‘If we could survive on one wage, don’t think I wouldn’t give it serious thought.’ Martin stabbed viciously at his chips, piling as many as the fork could cope with, then stuffed them into his mouth. ‘So, then mate I want details. How was the party last night? Did you score?’
‘You make it sound like a meat gallery. But…’
‘Shit, you did, didn’t you? You hooked up?’
‘Just because you’re married and responsible, it doesn’t give you the right to live recklessly through me, you know. But yes, I met someone last night. But it’s not like that, so you can get your mind out of the gutter.’
‘Details?’
‘No. Not yet, other than she’s hot.’
‘Miserable bastard. So if you won’ talk about that, how’d this morning go?’
‘The meeting with Sandra? Could have been better.’
As they ate, Steve recounted the meeting with his agent. He told Martin just about everything and there were no secrets between them. They met at college, both wanting to better themselves. Martin was getting out of his rugby career because of injury and needed to get qualified if he was ever going to make a living and Steve was researching a book. GCSE English seemed to be the least likely place to start a blossoming friendship, but the two hit it off that first night had remained the best of friends ever since.
‘So, what happens now?’ Martin removed his small round glasses and wiped the lenses on the bottom of his polo shirt.
‘I don’t know, I guess I do as suggested, think about this TV deal and start planning for the next Grendle book.’
‘Wouldn’t it be cool if you could get that bloke from Eastenders?’

‘Chris? Your dad’s on the phone,’ Gavin yelled upstairs from the kitchen, ‘and make it quick, dinner’s in ten minutes.’
The sound of thunder roared down the stairs as Chris Sawyer emerged from a marathon gaming session. ‘Dad!’ he said excitedly, ‘I just got to level fifteen, and it’s so cool. Should be no problem facing Gigamonster. Billy Jenkins is still just a level twelve, and he’s struggling.’
Steve had no concept of what his son was talking about, but agreed and laughed at what he guessed were the appropriate places. He wished he was part of the Playstation generation and understood the jargon and slang that went with the games, but he wasn’t. In fact when Chris went off on one about his latest RPG, Steve felt as though his son was talking in a different language. ‘I need your help, buddy,’ Steve said, trying to veer the conversation into something he felt as though he could join in on. ‘I need to start a new book, and I’m fresh out of ideas.’ Chris hadn’t read any of his father’s books – the subject matter wasn’t something he wanted a twelve year old to be reading.
‘What about a book about space travel?’
‘It’s got to be about Grendle, unfortunately, but space travel sounds exciting.’
‘Oh… Ok… I don’t know. When we had to write a story about someone we didn’t know we were told to find a name from a phone book and write about what we imagined their life to be. Me and Billy found a name of a plumber and we wrote about him going to people’s houses and the strange things he finds. Why don’t you do the same?’
It was potentially a point in the right direction. Although a phone book and currently alive people was perhaps a little unorthodox for a crime novel.
‘Dad?’
‘Yeah, sorry, I tripped out there a moment. Listen buddy, ask your mom and Gavin if you can come down for a few days at half-term. Sherlock’s missing you.’
‘Really? You mean that? Can I come down?’
‘Only if your mom and Gavin say it’s OK. I’ll call you tomorrow and let me know them, alright?’

‘So this is what death feels like,’ he thought as everything around him blurred into blackness. He was cold and hot at the same time, a feeling of being so tired yet complete awake. Dull to everything, yet more aware of his senses than ever before. He could feel the warmth of the blood trickling from his nose and eyes and the cold of the snow on his naked body, the taste of blood and his old Iron Maiden tee-shirt stuffed in his mouth. He felt comforted somehow; like death wasn’t the end or there was something better than this life waiting for him.
And he didn’t care much that he’d never see his family again, or his friends or his girlfriend. Not after everything they had done to him. Every little lie, every little snigger behind his back. The lies, the deception, the cheating; it was all part of their little game to make him feel like he belonged, that everything was alright. But it wasn’t alright. Nothing was alright. Everything that he believed in and trusted was a complete and utter lie.
Then he felt the urge to fight. To prove to everyone that it wasn’t right what they’d done to him. That he was right. That they shouldn’t have their fun at his expense. He started to move, but whoever it was on top of him was heavy; his chest felt as though it were being crushed under a dead weight. Despite his best efforts he couldn’t move the perpetrator. He tried to grab at whoever it was that was taking his life, but his hands were too numb to feel anything, his senses deadened by the sub-zero temperature. He struggled to even think what he could do to try and move this person.
Then slowly and silently it was over. His body twitched its last, he breathed his last, then he went limp under the hands of the man that saw fit to play God.

Enraged and afraid and excited he stood and surveyed the scene. The signs of the struggle and footsteps were soon buried under the heavy snowfall… and within a few minutes so was the victim. Discarded like a piece of rubbish, partly hidden under the bracken, not even properly buried. He smiled as he thought that the animals would soon start getting hungry. Then it would be all over. No one could identify bones, he thought. And if they could, they couldn’t point the finger at him. Not him, not the grade-A student, the good son, the best friend, the shining example of today’s youth.
He didn’t look back, not once, not after he left the small area of heath land that had been witness to the crime. Not that he could see much anyway – it was dark. Night had fallen quickly, and up on the heath land there were no lights, just the blissful silence of emptiness. Perhaps that was why he liked it so much, he enjoyed being alone from what he could see. He had got to know him quite well lately, what with following and stalking seemed such a harsh word, but he couldn’t think of one better.
Within a few minutes exhaustive run, he was back in his street, amongst the post-Christmas traffic and the eerie orange glow of the streetlamps. He pulled the hood up to cover his head from the glances of drives and to keep the snow from his hair. He smiled as the thought that he was safe, and no one would know what he’d done.

CHAPTER ONE

‘The miles kept on rolling as the DCI’s life became nothing more than a smear in his rear view mirror. He knew it would be the last time he’d ever go there, the last time he’d fall into his old routine. Everything that he’d worked so hard to keep precious and separate from his work, would become nothing more than a memory, a fading photograph of a happier time. All because of one mistake, a wrong call of judgement, and now he’d be paying for it for the rest of his life. He had been fighting his demons for too long and relying on the wrong people to fight his battles alongside him. Maybe he was being selfish and shouldn’t have allowed her into the dark parts of his mind, but he needed someone to understand. Before he started, she seemed so pure, an angel to his devil. That’s why they were so good together – two opposing sides of the same emotion. But now when she looked at him, he could see that look in her eyes. That look that Celia had given him for the last fifteen years; the look that said, “how can you go on like nothing happens?” Celia should never have ever found out. There was no reason for her to know what he’d been doing and with whom. He hadn’t seen anything wrong with it at the start – they were after all kindred souls, friends, colleagues. Was he naïve? He certainly didn’t think so, but perhaps in retrospect sharing his inner most turmoil with someone as beautiful and understanding as Grace could only lead to one thing…’
Sandra interrupted Steve, ‘That’s great…’
‘But?’ He interrupted back.
‘Are you sure you want to be doing this, heading in this direction?’
‘Why?’
‘Think about the repercussions… Grendle’s always been the anti-hero and that’s what the readers love about him, but are you sure you want to turn him into a womanising, cheating bastard?’
‘That’s a little harsh, besides he’s been halfway there already on several occasions. Surely it was just a matter of time before he went the whole hog.’
‘With Grace?’
‘Why not?’ He put the draft manuscript that he was reading from into the folder and left it on the dining room table. As he listened to a few of her reasons why it wasn’t a good idea for Grendle to go off with Grace, he walked up stairs and opened his wardrobe, eyeing up the rows of beige and cream and denim.
‘Listen, just don’t rush into this. I’ll catch up with you later. You are still coming, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah, I’ll be there.’ Steve held the phone between his shoulder and ear, while parting the clothes looking for something that resembled a suit. ‘Just don’t leave me alone with those people.’

Steve Earnshaw smiled politely at everyone that dared to glance his way. It wasn’t that he was purposely rude or anti-social, it was just that he didn’t want to be part of that crowd; that crowd that giggled politely with each other, that sipped nervous champagne while chancing derogatory looks at those that hadn’t done quite as well, weren’t wearing the right suit, that hadn’t sold as many books. He didn’t want to have any part of that crowd, because he was all the things that that crowd despised. He wasn’t wearing the right suit… in fact he wasn’t wearing a suit at all – just an ill fitting jacket and shirt left open at the neck; he didn’t laugh smugly at the so-called jokes, he hadn’t sold as many books, and he didn’t even like champagne. So he stood in the corner feeling like a modern art museum piece, smiling politely at anyone that dared to question who or what he was. He got the derisive looks from those that thought he might be there to serve canapés or flutes of bubbly.
Instead, he just stood there, wishing that some travesty would happen – one of the chefs burn the crudités and the sprinkler system activates. He looked around the room, trying not to catch eye contact with anyone. He caught sight of himself in a mirror, he looked a mess, his dirty blonde hair refused to stay in anything resembling a style and his sandpaper stubble and long sideburns suggested he’d be more appropriate entertaining the guests rather than be one of them. He was about to off and leave when he caught sight of the elegant and thoroughly down-to-earth Sandra Davis, his agent. She waved at him and signalled him over.
‘Steven,’ she refused to shorten his name, ‘this is Debra Lansing, the woman I was telling you about.’
What woman, he thought, then he realised it was Sandra’s thin-veiled way of trying to set him up with someone. He smiled politely at the young and impossibly attractive woman.
‘Debra, this is Steven Earnshaw… a wonderful crime writer and thoroughly decent chap. I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,’ and she disappeared almost as quickly as she’d arrived.
There was a moments’ uncomfortable silence as the two looked nervously at each other like teenagers at the high-school disco. ‘This is embarrassing.’ Debra said eventually. ‘I supposed she didn’t tell you about me, because she didn’t tell me about you.’
Steve smiled, ‘that’s Sandra for you. She’s been trying to fix…’ he paused a little embarrassed. She had been trying to set him up with someone for a while, with mixed results. ‘Are you new to the agency?’ he said, hoping that she hadn’t picked up on his near miss.
‘Yeah, I signed up with Sandra a few weeks ago, she’s got my debut at the moment for editing and proof reading.’
Steve remembered what it was like being a novice novelist, and was grateful for the support and encouragement that Sandra offered him when no one else would even open their door to him. ‘She’s good, really good… just a lousy matchmaker.’
Debra smiled and pushed her long black hair behind her left ear and blushed a little. ‘Don’t think me ignorant, but what about you?’
‘Me? I’ve been with Sandra for the last seven years. She’s helped me through four novels, ‘Fear’, ‘Forgiveness’, ‘Mortality’, and ‘Punishment’. I’m working on a fifth at the minute… or should I say stalling on a fifth. The creative process sucks at times, others it flows like a river.’
She giggled at little, an honest sound not the half-hearted grunt of their peers. ‘Tell me about it. I’ve been trying to write a follow-up to the one Sandra’s got and nothing.’
‘What do you write?’ he asked genuinely interested in her.
‘Horror. Not the Stephen King sort, but psychological horror.’
He was amazed that someone so beautiful would be interested in something like that.
‘Think the movie Seven rather than anything else, dark, amoral and a little bit twisted, and you’re close to what I’m trying to aim for.’
‘Sounds interesting, really, we should compare notes sometime,’ he remarked off the cuff.
She paused again as if contemplating something. ‘Don’t think me forward or anything, but would you like to go for a coffee sometime… just coffee and talk about our book problems.’
It had been a long time since anyone had asked Steve out and he really didn’t know how to react; flattered, of course, but a little embarrassed and very pleased. ‘Sure, it sounds good.’ He rummaged in his pockets for something and brought a small notepad and pencil from inside his jacket. ‘I never leave home without it. You never know who you’re going to meet or what you might see that you could use… Also it’s handy to give someone your number on.’ He scribbled his telephone number on the piece of paper and handed it to Debra. ‘Tomorrow or Thursday would be good.’ Now he felt as though he was the one being forward.
She took the piece of paper and stuffed it into her small black purse. ‘Thursday would be good. I’ll call you.’ She turned and within a few seconds was engulfed in a sea of people.

Steve hadn’t remained at the party much after that. It wasn’t his scene and after bidding farewell to Sandra, promptly left for the hour-long journey back home.
Steve lived in a small-mid terrace in a quaint, chocolate-box ideal in the country. After the divorce five years ago, it was all he could afford, but now it was home – he was comfortable in it and it served its purpose in providing a roof for him and his loyal golden retriever Sherlock.
Sherlock greeted him at the door, as usual extremely excitedly. Steve pushed the dog off his legs and walked into the kitchen. There was a message on his answerphone: ‘Steven, it’s Sandra. Sorry I forgot to ask you if you could come over to the office tomorrow morning, there are some things we need to discuss, ten o’clock if that’s alright. If I don’t hear from you I’ll assume you’re coming.’
It was almost one when Steve decided to get himself to bed. He wasn’t tired or perhaps he’d gone past it. He’d tried to watch an old black and white movie but hadn’t got the concentration, and Sherlock kept looking at him as if asking when he was going to go to bed.

Piczo