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Sneek Peek - "The Blue Hour"

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Post  Sid Seadevil Thu Apr 28, 2011 3:14 am

Okay, let's kick things off with the opening chapter of my forthcoming second novel - The Blue Hour.

This piece of deathless prose was originally due for release around the middle of last year. But unexpected circumstances conspired to delay the launch - which is now provisionally set for later this year. But, before you ask, it's a modern-day noireish detective mystery thriller, (Well, at least that's what I keep trying to convince myself it is), with a slight hint of a supernatural/fantasy overtone.

Things to remember: What you're seeing here is the rough, unedited first draft in all its warts-and-all glory. So do try to keep that in mind please. If what you're about to read actually interests you, who knows - I might just post chapter 2.

Right, enough preamble: I've been putting this off long enough. Sit back, take a large dose of soothing medication, because right after this break comes Chapter 1 of...The Blue Hour.


Last edited by Sid Seadevil on Thu Apr 28, 2011 3:16 am; edited 1 time in total
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Post  Sid Seadevil Thu Apr 28, 2011 3:15 am

Chapter 1

I didn’t need to be sober to know I was in deep, deep trouble.

There were three of them. I’d encountered their type before – but never from the viewpoint of an imminent victim. I was frightened. Not the purely reflexive, instinctive fear felt whenever you smack up against the unexpected - the unknown. What I felt was the clear, calculated fear of the informed; the deeper dread that hitches a ride on the coattails of pre-existing knowledge. So, I was frightened.

I had cause to be.

They were the very worst kind of predators. Opportunistic, practiced and utterly devoid of anything vaguely approaching any kind of meaningful human empathy to which their luckless prey could appeal.

At best, they would rip what they wanted from me and perhaps afford me the accidental favour of a quick death. At worst, tender flesh would rip and tear; bones would shatter, teeth would break – all of them mine. And I’d be left lying on the rough, wild, untended ground in the wake of their passing; alive, after a fashion. Alive and left to face years of nightmares, self-loathing and the never quite shaken feeling of being unclean. Soiled. Damaged goods.

I would have gladly handed them the contents of my purse, such as they were, without a second thought or instants hesitation, if I hadn’t already been certain that what they were far more interested in was the contents of my underwear - rather than anything of material value I had to offer. Another piece of knowledge I could have happily continued living without.
So I just went on backing away. Step by carefully placed step - while they continued moving forward, step by carefully placed step. Always just out of reach of a good solid kick. Silently, sickeningly smugly secure in the certainty that whatever resistance I had to offer wasn’t going to be enough. And so, victim and predators, we continued our silent, music-less last deadly dance.

Belatedly, futilely, I realized that I should have left the party early, instead of waiting until the very last dregs of reasonably priced supermarket wine had been wrung from the neck of the very last bottle.

I should have waited for a cab, rather than attempt the reasonably short, staggering walk home.

I should have topped up my credit-less mobile, rather than splash out on a new pair of sheer black stockings to decorate legs which would have garnered as much leery appreciation from the losers present at the party if I had turned up with them unshaven and painted a bright scarlet.
I should have taken up the offer of a quick fumble and ultimately unfulfilling tumble with the portly friend-of-a-friend’s-friend’s-sister, who spent most of the party following in my unsteady wake like some over-libidinous version of Marley’s Ghost.

I should have known better than to take the stupid shortcut across the waste ground at the back of the always deserted industrial estate at four thirty in the bloody morning.

I should never have bothered getting up yesterday morning.

I should have been anywhere but here. Now.

But I was here. Now.

And so were they.

I felt the dew chilled metal of the fence roughly caress my bare back through the ridiculously thin fabric of the shawl I had picked up during my holiday in Rome the year before last. At the time, the shawl had seemed pretty. Now, it just seemed pretty useless. I would have liked to have blamed the rippling shudder the fence drew from my now uncomfortably clammy skin on the unseasonable bite of the pre-morning air. But I wasn’t quite that stupid – or that drunk. All evidence to the contrary. For all of a moment, I actually seriously considered opening my dry-lipped mouth and screaming for all my lungs were worth. But why bother. The only living things that would have heard it were birds, possibly the odd urban fox, and the cheaper booze than even I’d stoop to, fueled trio, who were now fanned out in a rough crescent around me. Effectively cutting off my final chance to make a last blindly desperate cut-and-run break from my pathetically inadequate defensive position. And they would only enjoy hearing it, anyway.

The hunt was almost over - they were going to bring me down. And the only comfort I could take was that they weren’t going to walk away totally unscathed. Whether they realized it or not, they were going to leave their tell-tale, scabby calling card behind them. Alive or dead, skin samples would eventually be found and collected from beneath whatever remained of my fingernails. Bloodied knots of hair torn out by the roots would be extracted from my tightly clenched fingers. Once the suspects had been rounded up and brought in, deep and raw bite marks - which after examination would be confirmed as matching my dental records, would be measured, photographed and catalogued. DNA would be sampled and, if my former colleagues had done their jobs professionally, convictions would eventually be secured.

Oh happy days.

There were only moments left now. Their collective body language spoke wordlessly of the final, killing lunge they were poised to make. Mangy jackals ready to snap their putrid jaws closed on a pathetic, sad and bedraggled wine-soaked Bambi who had stupidly allowed herself to become detached from the relative safety of the heard.

Ridiculously calmly, I recalled randomly from somewhere that the French call this time l'heure bleue – “the blue hour”. The time between dawn and sunrise - or dusk and sunset - when the sun is below the horizon, and the world is awash with a hazy blue shadowed hue that suspends us between the accepted divisions of light and dark. It should have been beautiful. For me, it was now only beautifully deadly.

It was at that crucial moment, that a deep, rich bass baritone voice inexplicably shattered both the natural morning silence and inherent terror of my personal situation, by beginning to cheerfully sing Jerusalem.
It was a lovely tune, no doubt - ask fans of the Last Night of the Proms, they’ll eagerly confirm it. But, ironically, it also happened to be one which I happened to loath with a deep and all-consuming passion. Since childhood, in fact. Since being exposed to the trauma of having to sing it at morning assembly each and every school day for six long, painful years; to the cringing accompaniment of heckles and jibes from the massed cliques of the “cooler” kids.

In fact if it wasn’t for the slender promise of possible salvation its hated lyrics were taunting me with at that moment, it’s highly probable I would have happily beaten its singer to death myself for crimes against my fragile sensibilities.

Instead, I silently allowed myself just the faintest glimmer of hope.
It was a luxury that, given the three jackals now tensing into ultimate attack positions, I couldn’t realistically afford.

I grasped at it anyway.

Although I couldn’t have suspected it then - that simple decision was fated to change everything.
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Post  The Co=Ordinator Thu Apr 28, 2011 8:58 am

Oooh, so that's what it's called.

Very much looking forward to this novel. whenever it finally sees the light of day!

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Post  Sid Seadevil Thu Apr 28, 2011 9:10 am

Why thank you again, old bean. The good news is now I've finally got a little time to myself it should be seeing publication well before the end of the year.

All that's really remaining is cover design and getting the damned PDF conversion process absolutely spot-on first time for the printer.
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Post  The Co=Ordinator Thu Apr 28, 2011 9:12 am

Sounds like one for my Christmas present list then!

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Post  Sid Seadevil Thu Apr 28, 2011 9:16 am

The Co=Ordinator wrote:Sounds like one for my Christmas present list then!
Excellent. A copy as good as sold already. Why, I've made myself a promise that if I sell more than a dozen copies before Christmas I'll finally sit down and writer that Shadowchaser sequel.
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Post  The Co=Ordinator Thu Apr 28, 2011 9:27 am

You know that I'm genuinely awaiting the return of Martin Thorn.

And you know what, that just spurred me on to put up a very brief review at amazon. 5 star of course. Very Happy

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Post  Sid Seadevil Thu Apr 28, 2011 9:36 am

The Co=Ordinator wrote:You know that I'm genuinely awaiting the return of Martin Thorn.

And you know what, that just spurred me on to put up a very brief review at amazon. 5 star of course. Very Happy
Why thank you, old fellow. A review is always welcome.

Oh, and as for those squabbling Thorne siblings - let's just say that you might just hear a little something from them in the foreseeable future to tide you over until they return in their next adventure. Which currently has the working title...

Shadowchaser: The Ruination of Heaven.
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Post  The Co=Ordinator Thu Apr 28, 2011 9:53 am

Spoilers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Post  Sid Seadevil Thu Apr 28, 2011 10:28 am

The Co=Ordinator wrote:Spoilers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
*checks my diary*

Oh...oh. So we've not done that bit yet...
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Post  writingmum Fri Apr 29, 2011 7:09 am

Lovely bit of prose and it is an intriguing premise. Would like to read more.

Just a few things... call the shawl 'chic'...or something...'pretty' is naff and it doesn't suit the character, also remove the 'e' off bleue (should be bleu)

I also loathed 'oh happy days'. It was a jolt in an otherwise velvety descriptive narrative.

Hope you don't mind my comments. I tend not to mince words when i review. Hope that's okay.

Good job and good luck.
Wx
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Post  Sid Seadevil Fri Apr 29, 2011 7:51 am

writingmum wrote:Lovely bit of prose and it is an intriguing premise. Would like to read more.

Just a few things... call the shawl 'chic'...or something...'pretty' is naff and it doesn't suit the character, also remove the 'e' off bleue (should be bleu)

I also loathed 'oh happy days'. It was a jolt in an otherwise velvety descriptive narrative.

Hope you don't mind my comments. I tend not to mince words when i review. Hope that's okay.

Good job and good luck.
Wx
Thanks for the always welcome and really rather flattering comments, mumsy m'dear.

Your points are as well taken as they are made. In my defence (what, you thought I wouldn't have a defence ready); this is the first draft and so the spelling of "bleu" is one of those little slips that I noticed but simply ignored at the time to be fixed later. As for your other points. Consider them seriously taken on board come editing/rewrite time.

As for reading more: I might just be persuaded to include Chapter 2 - if my arm's twisted gently enough. Smile
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Post  writingmum Fri Apr 29, 2011 8:35 am

[quote="Sid Seadevil"]
writingmum wrote:

As for reading more: I might just be persuaded to include Chapter 2 - if my arm's twisted gently enough. Smile

I must insist on it. Very Happy
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Post  Sid Seadevil Fri Apr 29, 2011 8:59 am

writingmum wrote:I must insist on it. Very Happy
Okay, consider my arm duly twisted. But this is the last time.

After all, I do want people of actually go out and buy the blessed thing! Very Happy

It follows after this short word from our sponsors...
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Post  Sid Seadevil Fri Apr 29, 2011 9:03 am

2

First there was simply a shadow. A shadow barely discernable amongst the deeper shadows of the unruly, out of control vegetation which lined the borders of the narrow meandering path. The same path I had staggered and weaved along mere minutes earlier. The path that linked the wasted space I, and my assailants now occupied with the main thoroughfare. Roughly a couple of hundred yards beyond and now totally out of sight. Then the shadow moved. Detached itself from the larger body of darkness and stepped fully into the still hazy, faintly deep blue illumination cast by the cloudless open sky. Coalescing with its final step into the recognizable, unmistakable – agonizingly welcome by me - shape of a man.

Oblivious to my existence, my imminent mortal danger, and my nerve-jangling distaste for his choice in music – the shadow which has become a man continued to sing.

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green
And was the holy lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen –
He was tall and burly. He gave the appearance of being as solid as a side of beef hanging from a hook on a slaughterhouse rack. His features were almost impossible to discern. Shadowed as they were by the snapped down brim of the battered and strangely anachronistic grey fedora sitting firmly atop a large head supported by a bullishly thick neck.

-- And did the countenance divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among those dark Satanic mills –

His plain, simple white cotton shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. Allowing his grey/silver silk tie to hang carelessly loose and relaxed across his impressively deep chest. The matching silver/grey light woollen suit he wore was clearly expensively tailored – and cut in a style as unusually anachronistic as his head gear.

-- Bring me my bow of burning gold
Bring me my arrows of desire
Bring me my spears o'clouds unfold
Bring me my chariot of fire –

Rounding off the ensemble, he wore a tan belted trench coat. Which flapped around his imposing bulk in the light pre-morning breeze like a pair of skittishly restless wings.
He was quite literally a dream come true.

In that breathless instant, to me, he was the physical personification of each and every one of the fictional knights of justice and vengeance whose exploits I had avidly devoured over and over again from my father’s well stocked bookshelves. He was Dick Tracy, Philip Marlowe and Mike Hammer, all rolled up into one wonderful godsend of a saviour.

Then the faint, fragile ember of hope which his magical appearance had fanned into a flame in my now near to panicking mind found itself extinguished. Snuffed out by one soul-crushing, unbelievable realisation.

He was just going to keep on walking by. Oblivious to everything talking place around him.

Oblivious to me. To my need.

To the very real. Very deadly, danger that I faced.

I could have cried.

I did cry.

“Shut it, you stupid bitch!” The jackal on my far right barked with angry derision. Breaking the trio’s silence for the first time. He flashed a sickly, uneven nicotine stained set of teeth in what I guessed he thought was a superior smile.

An instant later, the jackal lost his smile. Along with his teeth – and the use of his jaw.
For a man that big and bulky, the stranger moved almost impossibly fast. Seemingly without effort, he pirouetted in mid stride. One huge fist flashed out with tremendous force, connecting with the side of smiling boy’s narrow jaw. Bones popped with an almost shocking loudness. Muscles and tendons tore. Tore like ripped paper, as a disgusting mixture of teeth, blood, spittle and discoloured mucus erupted from the ravaged mouth. Trench coat billowing behind him like a pair of misshapen wings, the big man kept on moving.

Two long strides brought him level with the middle joker. This one was ready. Ready and competent. Almost as tall and only just lighter than the stranger; the jackal dropped into a classic boxer’s crouch. Fists clenched, arms raised defensively. Piggish eyes narrowed and calculating. He was confident. He was also outclassed. The stranger’s wide left shoulder went down, signalling the launch of a strong left hook. Piggy shifted his stance to block the anticipated impact. I doubt he even saw the straight right which arrowed devastatingly into his solar plexus. But he certainly felt it.

He folded like a deckchair. And as his chin when down, the stranger’s well tailored right knee went up. The two met roughly around Piggy’s oversized belt buckle. Only one of them could win. It wasn’t Piggy’s chin. The impact sent Piggy recoiling like an over-stretched rubber band. His big body snapped back with almost sickening force; causing it to jack-knife and literally lifting him from the ground. When he came back to earth – it was hard. I heard an odd sound. It took me a moment to realise the sound was my own delighted laughter.

And still the stranger kept moving.

Three jackals had suddenly been paired down to just one. He was short. He was young. He was almost painfully skinny. He was also holding a gun. It wasn’t a toy gun – and he clearly knew how to use it.

Pallid finger light on the trigger; arms drawn close to his body and left palm cradling the weapon’s ugly butt for stability. He calmly lined up his intended target. Looks were deceiving. He was clearly the most dangerous of the trio. One glance at his unblinking, coldly glittering eyes was enough to confirm that he had killed before. Killed and enjoyed it. He intended to enjoy it again. Then he intended to enjoy something else afterwards. Me.

The idea failed to appeal. So I did something about it.

At the sight of Skinny and his handgun the stranger has skidded to a total halt. Not out of fear – that I could sense. Whatever, whoever he was; he was clearly a professional. A smart professional at that. In choosing to stop where and when he did, he forced Skinny to shift the angle of his body slightly in order to keep his target in clear line of sight. Which meant that I was now on what I judged to be the very edge of the jackal’s peripheral vision.

It was his first mistake. I made certain it was also his last.

I launched myself at Skinny with all the rage, frustration and anger my still half inebriated body could summon. With a scream that would leave my throat tender for days, I flew forward. Even half cut, long hours, days and months of ingrained training kicked-in and took control. By the time I’d covered the short distance from the fence to Skinny’s position, I was ready for him. Ready and eager.

My purse reached him before I did. It should have been just a light clutch bag. Just large enough to comfortably hold the usual knick-knacks any woman takes along to a party to ensure she remains presentable all evening long. It should have been so. But thanks to the combination of my credit less mobile and the hefty, half empty half bottle of Whiskey it contained, it was anything but. It impacted on Skinny’s right shoulder with all the force of a hastily aimed rock. It was enough to both unsettle and unsteady him.

It could have been worse. It could have been even heavier still. But I had lightened the load before throwing it. I had lightened it by removing the heavy set of brass knuckle-dusters I always carry with me. Hey, what can I say. They hold real sentimental value for me. They were a present from my father. He gave them to me just before I left the house on the evening of my very first “real date”.

Not for the first time, I thanked god for my father’s foresight.

The heavy metal propelled left jab I threw had my entire momentum and body weight behind it. As the ‘duster impacted with the soft area surrounding the kidney, I twisted my wrist savagely counter-clockwise. I took great satisfaction in Skinny’s literal howl of agony. I took even greater satisfaction in jamming the tip of my stiletto heel deep into the tender flesh at the back of his right knee at the same time. In natural response, the leg folded under him. He half went down. Half wasn’t nearly good enough. I used my non ‘duster encased hand to land a solid rabbit punch to the base of his scrawny pencil neck. I was rewarded with the soft, but welcome, sound of something cracking. It might have been his spine. It might have been one of my own unprotected knuckles. I didn’t know. I honestly didn’t care. I was on an adrenaline high.

I was still on that high when a strong hand lightly placed itself on my shoulder and a soft voice said one simple word into my ear. “Enough.”

He was right. It was enough. It had been enough about five minutes earlier. Before I finally ceased kicking the prone and totally inert body of Skinny into what must have been for him, blissful unconsciousness. Breathing heavily, and feeling slightly chilled by the cooling sheen of perspiration bejewelling my skin; I stepped back.

Then I stepped forward again and landed one final kick to the disgusting, huddled mess laying before me.

I felt so much better.

I was still feeling so much better when I violently threw up all over the weed infested ground at my feet. I followed up that charming performance by pitching head first into my own pit of deepest blackness.

Or to put it succinctly. I passed out.
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Post  writingmum Fri Apr 29, 2011 9:12 am

Sid Seadevil wrote:2


Or to put it succinctly. I passed out.


Love that line! Smile
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Post  Sid Seadevil Fri Apr 29, 2011 9:16 am

writingmum wrote:Love that line! Smile
Why thank you. That's actually one of my favourite lines from the entire story.
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Post  The Co=Ordinator Sat Apr 30, 2011 12:18 am

Excellent stuff my dear Sidney. Prose spot on!

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Post  Sid Seadevil Sat Apr 30, 2011 12:29 am

Thank you yet again, old fellow. I only hope I've managed to maintain the tone and quality for the remainder of the book. Well, you'll be deciding the yourself in due course.
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