UG is close...

I've finished what really amounts to a polish of Underground Guy. There was some shifting around of bits in the fist five chapters but overall it rolls along and builds the way I wanted it to. I'll need to input these adjustments and do another pass, just to be sure, but then it should be ready to go.

Something interesting is how Devlin got a bit harsher during this pass. And how he winds up taking even more responsibility for his actions. There's one bit at the very end where I'm not sure if I like how I'm working it...and may change it...but I like how it ends the story so I may leave it alone. Won't know till I return to it.

This is not a mainstream book, by any stretch of the imagination, so I doubt it will ever sell a lot of copies. It's a combination of mystery, suspense, character study and gay sex. Hardly NY Times kind of stuff. But that doesn't mean I'll let it slide on anything. It's going to have my name on it, so I want the book to be as solid as I can make it.

I may be fooling myself about this, but I don't care. I like what I wrote. Truth is, I'm fucking proud of sections of this book and how the mystery comes together at the end. I don't explain it; I show it...and have Devlin nearly killed in the middle of it. Of course, afterwards he puts his spin on it, but it's hardly like an Agatha Christie explanation.

If all goes well, I'll have it out in e-book by Thanksgiving. I'm trying to drum up interest in it by that time, just to see how that works, but who knows if anything I do will make a difference in sales. I'm hardly on the level of Random House or Simon & Schuster, but we shall see.

I'm going to let this sit to get some distance, again, and spend much of October working on a submission to a writing program at Universal Studios. I need to provide a screenplay, a treatment for a different screenplay, a personal narrative, a resume, 1-2 letters of recommendation, and an applications form, all for projects that have wide audience appeal while commenting on one's cultural perspective.

That's going to be a rough one...and probably a waste of time...but never let it be said I used my time wisely.

Eating out is not worth it...

I don't know if it's me getting older or tired of the lack of choices in Buffalo, but the last few times I've gone out to eat the meal's been mediocre, at best, and cost $20-25 (including tip). I stopped at Sticky Lips, a BBQ place in Rochester, not long ago that's had decent brisket before...but this time it was half-fat and the coleslaw was tasteless. Same for the so-called cajun corn. The green beans were okay, but only because they had bacon in them.

Tuesday I ate at Chili's because I wanted a half-rack of ribs...and it was served on a tray with a sheet of crap paper under the meat...and it was boring. Their corn on the cob was undercooked and bland. Their coleslaw was mayo-based and meh. And the sauce was made with brown sugar, I'd swear.

Tonight I stopped at Wegman's to get some groceries and saw they had a fish & chips bar. I've like their fried fish in the past so got that for dinner...and it was tough. Seriously. The batter that used to be on their fish and chips was light and tasty; this was thick and required a lot of chewing. The coleslaw was okay but the fries were cold by the time I paid for the meal and sat at a table.

I've run into this more and more, lately, where the food being served is just crappy. Even McDonald's is getting in on the mess-you-up attitude. I liked their signature burger with avocado and pico de gallo, but they stopped offering it. I've never really liked their other burgers so usually would get a fish sandwich...but even that is tasteless and slopped together so poorly, I can't eat it.

I don't think it's my taste buds going. When I steam my corn on the cob at home, I love it. Same for green beans and when I cook a burger or make a tuna casserole. I even like my deviled eggs more than those in a deli. And I like Stouffer's frozen meals and there's a new brand of pork bowl that's really tasty and can be nuked. And today for lunch I had some Chili from Wendy's that was pretty good.

So maybe I'm just getting picky because eating out costs so damn much. Meaning I don't do it much, anymore. I thought I pulled back from it because I travel a great deal so have to deal with restaurants, but no...I just don't like paying a ludicrous price for a meal that's not that good.

I dunno, maybe there isn't anything new about it, really. The worst meal I ever had was 20 years ago in Chicago. I finished a packing job for Heritage Book Shop and went into the city to look around, and would up having dinner at a McCormick and Schmidt's. I was seated at a table by the kitchen door. Given a glass of wine that was of Mogen David quality. Had a Caesar salad so drenched in garlic I couldn't eat it. Got my steak medium rare when I'd asked for medium well, and a potato that had been rebaked at least once, probably twice. I complained, so they took the cost of the potato off and comped me a cheesecake that was like Marie Callendar's quality...and the damn meal still cost over $100. In 1998!

Sigh...maybe I should just stick to Stouffer's...

Wondering...

What do you do when you can't stop dreaming? When all that matters is the possible and not the reality of your world? When you look at the stars and see hints of the Milky Way, knowing how much more there is to know and see and understand and yearning for it even as you know you'll never be able to take it all in? It's not possible. Yet still you dream.

I don't write screenplays, anymore. It's a pointless exercise because 90% of being a screenwriter is selling your work. It doesn't have to be good; I've seen so much crap made, it's no longer even a cliche...it's proof that quality does not matter. What matters is building networks and knowing people and being the right kind of guy they want to work with and make money off of. If you can't schmooze, you lose...it's as simple as that. Yet still I dream.

I've written 15 completely original screenplays and sold none of them. Had none produced. Barely got a nibble on one 15 years ago, then it got tossed aside...not because it was bad or mediocre or even too good for the production people, but because it was set in Ireland. That's all. The guy who signed the checks didn't want to make a movie set there.

I should have seen this was how it would be, thanks to how the first work-for-hire script I wrote wound up. I adapted 2 books on Beryl Markham into a screenplay for a couple of women who wanted to produce it. The final script won awards...but it turned out they didn't really have the rights; they had a handshake option which vanished when Sydney Pollack decided he wanted to do the story and bought both books. He wouldn't even read my script; and it wasn't because it was bad...it's because I wasn't established. So all the work I did was for nothing, unless I'm willing to try and buy the rights from his estate for more money than I made in the last three years.

Awards didn't matter. Quality didn't matter. Even having an agent didn't matter. What mattered was how well you played the game and how close you got to people who did matter. So now I write books and I've made more than I ever did working in film. And I'm happy with my books. With my characters. With how they turned out and yet...

Still I dream.

One image changes everything...

I saw this photograph on Facebook, in a private group, and it has taken hold of me in ways I'm still trying to sort through. Yes, I love the composition and muted colors washed in blue, the harsh lines of the rock and soft water whispering around it...and the young man is beautiful...but it's something so much more than just artistic.

This photo...a man at the height of his youth sitting on the edge of the abyss, naked, cold, gazing out at nothing, his posture slightly stooped, his shoulders hunched a bit forward, his almost hidden hands being palm up in, adding to a pose of near surrender even as his gaze across the ocean is simple and direct. It could be the start of a thousand different journeys. Or none. He could be ten feet up from the water, or a hundred. There's no telling. He is caught in a form of limbo.

This photo...it connected me with Brendan without a thought. Nearing the end of the story. As he faces the reality of his world and has no idea how to accept it or process it or understand it. All he can do is become a part of it. Caught in his own form of limbo.

This photo...it gave me the ending of the book...the true ending...

Well...Brit slang slung...

I knew half of these...

And the rest would be fun to know...

BTW, I think I love Simon Pegg...he was a perfect Scotty...

APoS making way for UG

I have the outline for APoS as tight as I can make it, especially since once I start working on completing the first full draft it's going to change. But I see the line of Brendan's life, now, from 10 year old who's not sorry his farther died to 25 year-old driven into the realm of the IRA's factions. I think the journey there will be like a rollercoaster ride...I hope it will.

I'm getting back to Underground Guy, beginning tomorrow. I have it printed and a red pen ready and waiting. My goal on this pass will be to cut back on Devlin's explanations of what's going on and just let the story flow. He likes to chatter, Devlin does, and that's a failing in something like this. Of course, it's also bad for Brendan to do, so I'm using UG to hone my style in preparation for that.

I'm still haunted by how I get Devlin to finally feel the horror of what's going on...and how his actions caused some of that in his own victims. I can't believe I made a serial rapist the lead in this book...buts it's not the first time I've done that. Curt's one in How to Rape a Straight Guy, and Alec becomes one in Porno Manifesto. Antony is, to an extent in Rape in holding Cell 6, but only to protect himself, while Alan is not the center of Bobby Carapisi, so his nattering on about what he does is not only less important, I hint it's not true...that he's taking responsibility for actions he did not perpetrate.

Jake, of course, is the polar opposite of a rapist in The Vanishing of Owen Taylor, since he was the victim of one. Daniel in The Lyons' Den, would never dream of hurting someone in that way and Adam is too innocent to even consider the possibility of such a thing in The Alice '65.

I think it's the fact that Devlin combines Curt's anger and self-justification for his actions with Antony's need for revenge over his lover's death that makes it so important he be slammed with the reality of what he's done. Him falling in love with his last victim is really fucking crazy...and I like it.

I have that to an extent, when Curt connects with Shayes, but it stems more for his sense of ownership than emotional need. And I don't spend much time on his change of heart. So it's important to get this right, and I think the fact that it's freaked me out is good.

So I guess we'll see how this goes...

I get so damned involved...

I've gone over the full outline of APoS and made some adjustments, but now all I need to do is write the bridges between sections already written. The spine of the story is pretty much set. But it wasn't easy, and this time it wasn't Brendan who was the issue...it was a moment I tossed into Underground Guy that's been haunting me.

And I do mean haunting. I'm locked in on this one little moment in the whole friggin' book that has jolted me in so many ways...none of it planned. This is the section --

---------

“Bloody hell, BOSS!” Berridge cried. “Boss, I got him! Got Hanlon.”

We all bolted over to look at his monitor.

A camera positioned across the street from the Holborn entrance showed Liam Hanlon exit with a crowd, stop at the corner to put something in his mouth, then jaunt across the street and out of sight.

“Run it, again,” Sir Monte barked.

Berridge did.

“Pause.”

He did, right at the point Hanlon fiddled with a package.

“Now frame by frame.”

Berridge ran the video in slow motion, showing Hanlon put a white capsule in his mouth, chomp on it, slip the package back in his pocket and head on.

And I felt a sledgehammer slam my gut.

“Thornton,” Sir Monte barked from a thousand miles away. “Was there anything in the coroner’s report about drugs in Hanlon’s system?”

I remember hearing shuffling, behind me, but it wasn’t necessary. I let myself whisper, “It’s gum.”

I think Sir Monte glared at me. I only caught him in my peripheral vision because I was too locked on that image of Hanlon, bright, smiling, heading straight for -- Jesus, for his death.

“Pope, answer me!” Sir Monte snapped, cutting through the fog in my brain. “What do you mean?”

“Chewing gum,” I muttered. “He’s gonna. Meet somebody. Somebody important. Can’t have coffee breath.”

“Here’s the report, Boss,” Reg said. “Nothing about drugs.”

“Chewing gum?”

“Um -- half a packet in his trousers. Peppermint.”

“Was he still chewing it? Was it still in his mouth?”

“None noted in the report, Boss. Nothing at the crime scene, either.”

I think I stopped breathing. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the image of that doomed man. I heard the words but could make no sense of them.

“Berridge, High Holborn’s single direction there, correct?”

“Yeah, Boss.”

“Find CCTV down the next block. Check every vehicle that passes through from this point on, for the next twenty minutes.”

“Livery,” I managed to say. “Hire. Hire.”

Sir Monte seemed to look at me, again, echoing, “Yes. No taxis or lorries, just hire cars.” He nudged me and I almost looked at him. “Pope? What is wrong with you? You’re white as a sheet.”

I gasped in some air and said, “I’ve done that. Thousands of times. Pop some gum before. Before meetin’ a client. I -- I can’t -- I can’t stop -- stop thinkin’ what he -- what he’s -- ”

Sir Monte knocked me onto a chair. I landed, hard, and it jolted me enough to where I could focus on him. And breathe.

-->

-------------

This is the moment when Devlin realizes what kind of beast he's been, and the realization is tearing him apart, which is what I wanted. But it's the gum bit that gets to me. I just needed Hanlon to do something before crossing the street so threw that in because it's so simple and natural and...well, that made the moment too real for me.

This is just a book about a serial killer who's caught by a serial rapist...about as nonsensical a Hollywood style premise as you can have...but this moment...and one later, when one of the people involved hangs themself because they heard another victim scream as he was being killed and can't stop hearing it...I wonder if these bits are too real for the story.

No...they are too real...the fucking are...but I'll be damned if I take them out...

Mr. Rogers...

A bit more of APoS, 1981...

This is a few hours after Brendan was brutally interrogated by 3 constables. He managed to escape them and get back to his mother's, but he knows it's only a temporary fix; the British will be looking for him, next, but he's too hurt to seek other shelter, yet. Maeve is his younger sister.

------------

The clanging of trash bin lids signaling the approach of an Army unit. First thought? They’ve exhausted their search of Long Tower and are coming for me. The doctor’s pills had taken enough effect by then so I could crawl from the bed, pull on a pair of pajama bottoms and a shirt, grab my passport and cash and stagger down the hall for the stairs. I had no idea where my boots were and hoped I’d find them by the settee and --

Maeve bolted from Ma’s room, wrapped in a robe, grabbed me by the arm and yanked me in, saying, “You’ll never escape them. Come here.”

Ma was awake and as angry as ever, but she looked at me and pointed to the wall next to her, whispering, “Under my bed. There’s a space.”

I didn’t hesitate but forced myself to crawl over her and slip down the narrow space between her bed and the wall to find the planking had been removed and there was just room enough to crawl into. My back was pressed to the motor of her bed and a spring dug into my hip and I was beginning to feel serious hurt, again, but unless they moved it away from the wall, they’d not see me.

I heard the trucks stop, outside, then pistol dropped down on me and I grabbed it off the floor as Maeve snarled, “Don’t use it! I removed the bullets.”

Now there was pounding on the door and Maeve crying, “Hang on, for God’s sake!” as she rushed from the room.

More pounding and the sound of splintering wood and Maeve snarling, “Stop it, you bloody bastards! I’m here to open it!” Hinges creaked and she continued, “I’m filing a claim for this! Breakin’ my door without givin’ me the chance to -- “

“We have a warrant to search these premises,” snarled a British voice. Army.

“I don’t understand,” Maeve cried as several boots stormed in. “Please, be quiet! My mother’s ill and -- ”

“Collins, Stanley, you check the back,” snapped the British voice. “Worrell, Edwards, you’re upstairs.”

I heard two men clump up the steps and burst into the room. Ma screamed at them, “You bloody animals! I’m sick, here, and you blunder about like bloody bulls in a shop! What the devil do you think you’re doing? I’ll file a complaint! This is against the rules of engagement and -- ”

“Sharrup, ye feckin’ ‘ag,” snapped one of them and I felt my blood boil at the bastard. “Sor, we got not’in’ but a sick awl bitch!”

“Worrell, watch your language! Check the other rooms.”

“What’re you lookin’ for?” came Maeve’s voice.

“Sit down, sit DOWN!” snapped the British voice. “Now, are you related to a man named Brendan Kinsella?”

“What d’you want with him?”

“Answer me!”

“He’s my brother, and what of it?”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“It’s been years! For all I know he’s dead!”

“He was with you at a peace gathering and before that, he was seen at a party and -- ”

“You don’t mean Jeremy?”

“Jeremy?”

“Jeremy Landau,” Maeve said in her best withering tone. Christ, she sounded so much like Ma at that instant, I thought she’d somehow got out of bed and gone downstairs. “He’s an American Jew, NOT Irish, not a part of him.”

“Nothin’ in the back rooms, sir, but we found some men’s clothes.” A normal British accent.

“Bring them down.”

I heard them clump down the stairs.

“Those are Mr. Landau’s things -- ”

“So where is this Mr. Landau?” snarled the British voice.

“He left on the evenin’ bus for Galway and the Cliffs of Moher and -- ”

“’Merican labels on ‘em, sor.”

“Did you find anything else?”

“This bag with more clothes, shoes, nothing else. The bed’s been slept in.”

“I just haven’t made it,” snapped Maeve. “He’s not due back for a week so -- ”

“Sit down!”

“But these are Mr. Landau’s things!”

“Why is he staying with you?”

“My mother’s sister lives in Houston. He knows her oldest son. He’s put up with us while here and -- ”

“Nothin’s in th’ back, sor,” came a new voice. “An’ the washroom’s clear.”

“What about the upstairs?”

“All th’ rohms chicked awt. Nair a sigh o’ ‘im.”

“Maeve, are you all right?” It was Mrs. Haggerty’s voice.

“Keep outside,” snapped the British voice.

“I’m a friend of the family, and I’ll come in if I please!” Mrs. Haggerty snapped right back at him.

Then Mrs. Fitzgerald’s voice cried, “We’re watchin’ yous!”

“I got a Polaroid!” cried another woman. Mrs. McClatchey?

I have to say, I never thought I’d be happy for the day a bunch of old hens would come pecking about in someone else’s business, but they changed the tenor of British voice’s snarls.

He gave a great sigh and said, “Leave that. Outside. Miss Kinsella, I’m going to check on the information you gave me -- ”

“Do it,” snapped Maeve. “And if you DO find my brother in this country, you bring him to me and I’ll show you what true punishment is. His mother’s upstairs dying of the cancer, putting up with bloody Brits storming through her house for no good reason and he’s off hiding somewheres? He can’t come see her? You bring him to me and he’ll find more than the back of my hand to his face, he will!”

Her voice headed outside and other women’s voices chimed in with catcalls and rude comments, even after I heard their Saracens start up and drive away. The hens had pecked the British Lion to near death, it seemed, and I nearly lost myself and laughed about it.

The voices lowered to self-congratulatory murmurs so I made myself slip out from under the bed and peek up over the side to find Ma glaring at me in question. “Brendan, what is this about?”

I forced myself to climb out over her as Maeve proudly came up the stairs.

“Did you hear it,” she said.

“Every word,” I replied, out of breath. “You’re a wonder, Maeve.”

“Just because I want the Troubles to end doesn’t mean I can’t handle the bastards in the meantime.”

“Brendan Kinsella, you tell me what this is about!” Ma’s voice was tight with anger.

My face was showing serious bruises, now, so I looked straight at her, pointed to them and my nose, and said, “What you see. Here. Was me being interrogated by three constables. They want to know who helped Danny plant the bomb. They know I know his name.”

“What makes them think you know?” Maeve asked.

“They know I was there.” I said, still looking at Ma.

She blinked. “And they’re still lookin’ for that name? That’s why they’re lookin’ for you?”

I nodded.

Ma looked at me with the purest confusion, as if she didn’t know me, then she turned away. “Maeve, I -- I’m out of water and I need my pills.”

Work day...

I needed to get some diagrams and instructions worked up for a probable job in the UK, which I'd love to have gone for but already have jobs set up in San Francisco and Seattle...and, maybe...just maybe...LA...though they're taking their time getting back to us on it. So we've got a guy in London who can do it, since it's a fairly low-key packing job.

Anyway, I spent a fair amount of time on Photoshop getting the info ready, and now will take the JPGs in to the office to combine into a single PDF. And maybe get back to normal, tomorrow.

I did work up a sketch, yesterday, for what Brendan could look like in 1981, as he's returning to Derry. I'm not completely happy with it, but neither do I dismiss it. I kind of like his soft haunted eyes...but I was trying to make his mouth look like he was biting his lower lip and it didn't come out that way, and if I added one more bit to it, I was going to ruin it...so I stopped.

I used an actor who was born in Armagh, in Northern Ireland, as the basis. Colin Morgan. He was in Merlin and some other things, and while most of his photos were too...I dunno...dorky or goofy, I found a gif of him licking his lips while looking straight into a camera that was interesting...and caught a frame just before he lets his mouth open, again.

I may give it another go or keep looking for an image. I've only got a few thousand I could dig through. I could also try to use the bloodied photo of Brendan to work up a version that's neat and clean...but I've got to think about that. That photo has a close to religious significance, to me.

I'll decide tomorrow; I'm tired...

Details matter...

I decided to change Brendan's journey home to transit straight into the UK, and found out during my research that flights to the UK from Houston did not go through Heathrow but Gatwick. So dug more into it and added my new info into the opening of Brendan's return in April, 1981...in the middle of the IRA's hunger strike. Jeremy is Jewish and fought in the Yom Kippur war, so he and Brendan share a special bond...because they both know what death looks like.

------------

A friend of Aunt Mari’s worked at American Express in The Galleria, so she found me the best way home. I flew out of Intercontinental on B-Cal to Glasgow via Gatwick, where I caught a short-hopper to Derry’s Airport on Logan Air. It was neither fast nor cheap, but I had savings enough to cover it and was comfortable enough to catch some sleep on the long haul.

Uncle Sean told me he’d pay the ticket, but I wanted nothing from him. He called me independent to a fault and I knew he meant it gentle, but only because he’d finally noticed I’d shut him off since my beating, and spoke to him only when necessary, and how I was never around to work on that old Volvo, again. I simply wanted nothing to do with a man who’d let family be abused in such a way. Perhaps I should have told him why, but I never did because he was Aunt Mari’s husband and she’d done backflips for me. To have caused them all that disruption would have been a cruel way to repay her for all her kindness and generosity, not merely since I’d come there but in the years before. So I paid for my ticket, cashed all my savings into pounds and when I said goodbye at the airport, I knew I’d not be back.

None of them asked me how I was getting into Derry, what with me not having legal papers, and I offered no explanations. The less known by all, the better...except for Jeremy; it was him got me home without trouble.

Since he’d returned from Hong Kong, his position at Garrison Petroleum had settled him into Houston. His knowledge of the expanding Chinese market for oil and the discussions underway between London and Peking to hand the territory back at the end of the Brit’s lease (despite Whitehall’s insistence otherwise) made him far too important to be let go. So he handed me his passport and said, “With that mustache and sideburns, you look a lot like my photo.”

“I dunno, Jeremy; I can’t see it.”

“Sure, just lighten up your hair, cut it a bit shorter so it’s not so curly.”

“Without hair to hide me, I’ll look even less like you.”

“Fine -- Everett’ll slip your photo in for mine. I know they look for stuff like that, at immigration, but he’s an artist; he can pull it off.”

“But will he?”

“I’ve already talked to him.”

I cast him a sly look. “You and him’re mates, again?” He just smiled. I flipped through the passport, saying “You’ll need it back.”

“How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

I shrugged. “Maeve says she’s fadin’ fast, then there’ll be the wake and family to settle. A month, maybe. Six weeks.”

Forever.

“Don’t stay any longer; it’s due for replacement in a couple months and I have to send it in, so I’ll need to get it fixed, first.”

“I dunno, Jeremy -- really, do I look the part of a Jew?” I said it smiling.

“What does a Jew look like, bitch? And your dick sure as hell is Jewish. You’ll pass, so long as you don’t talk with that brogue.”

I snapped into a Texas twang, “Yor right a-bout tha-yat, little feller. Better if’n Ah talk lahk a fo-ohl.”

“Shit, don’t talk much at all. And when you do, whisper.”

I chuckled and slipped the passport into my back pocket. He swatted me arse and sent me out the door with, “I want post cards and letters!”

I didn’t look around but waved my hand back at him, as if in agreement.

Everett helped me shift my looks to better suit Jeremy’s description -- first lightening my hair a couple shades then adding red highlights, and he worked his magic on my mustache and sideburns, as well. Then once my hair was cut back, we got a couple Polaroids snapped at a photo shop and he set to work. And he had no end of trouble exchanging out Jeremy’s photo for mine but once done, to my eye it looked damn good -- and I looked damn strange.

“This isn’t a good look for you,” he said, “but that should help. By the time you get to the desk, they’ll be so sick of dealing with Americans, they’ll probably just give it a glance, stamp it and tell you to fuck off.”

“In true Brit fashion.”

“What’d you have to give Jeremy for this?”

“Promise to give it back when I return.”

He hesitated then asked, trying to be playful, “What’re you giving me?”

“Well...I could go to Rocky Horror in a gold Speedo and blond wig.”

He smiled, almost sweetly. “You -- you’d really do that?”

“I enjoy it, well enough. Susan Sarandon’s got a nice set on her.”

He laughed. “Shit, you’d make the perfect Rocky. So, they keeping your stuff in the pool house?”

No, I sold what I could and gave away the rest. “I got a storage unit. There’s too much of it.”

His expression froze and he looked at me, hard, as if he knew I wasn’t planning to return, then grabbed the back of my hair and pulled me close to kiss me, long and deep and French in style. Tender but needy. I let him.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were filled with hurt. “Is that how you kissed her?”

“Vangie? Yes.”

“But not -- ”

Joanna? “No. It would’ve put her off, and I’d do anything to keep that from happening.”

He nodded. “Like what I just did.”

“Have I run screaming down the street, yet?”

He stroked a thumb over my right eyebrow. “Considering your luck with girls, maybe you oughta try a walk on the wild side.”

Been there and tried that. “With you?”

He laughed to himself. “Me as Frankenfurter, you as Rocky. Yeah. Sure.” He was hurting and he’d been such a mate to me, I couldn’t help but nod. He took in a deep breath. “Keep the dream alive. Okay. I’m gonna hold you to it, Pug.”

I yapped at him in answer and we parted with him laughing.

Two days later I was on a plane for home.

I took a window seat, and flying back I watched the passing clouds, peaceful and soft in the nighttime sky and --

Father Jack sat next to me, sipping a brandy and casting me furtive glances as he pretended to read his missal. He checked his watch then signaled for the stewardess and water appeared before me along with a pill and I accepted both, obedient, and turned to watch the clouds and --

Lightning flashed between two huge banks of thick black cotton. Twisting. Turning. Glimmers of life dancing like the furies and giving meaning to things that could never truly live. It was as if the heavens were warning me, Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.

I merely lay my head against the plastic and sighed, I must.

-->

Finding solid ground...

It ain't easy to do when you're busy talking to people in your head, but it seems by doing sketches of faces of my characters I'm able to center myself. Somewhat.

This sketch is of Jake Blaine, the hero of The Vanishing of Owen Taylor. It captures him so well, I'm startled. I used a photo of the same model as on the cover...and makes me want to try even harder to get the book to selling well.

I haven't done one of Brendan, yet, because I haven't found the right look for him. I have an image of him bloodied and in shock, but that's not what I want. I'm seeking one that's strong yet sensitive and wary...not a tall order. I decided this when I wrote a section that makes me very uncomfortable...but is right for him.

This is after he's returned to Derry and been brutalized by an RUC interrogation. The only reason he hasn't been arrested by the British Army is due to the rioting caused by Bobby Sands' death. The armed forces are too busy trying to keep control to worry about a man who's back in the country illegally. He's rushing his mother to the hospital because she's finally succumbing to cancer and they're stopped and roughed up at a British checkpoint until a captain comes up to see what's going on.

-----------

He returned my passport to me. I hit over to the driver’s side and Jimmy made his way into the passenger side. A jeep pulled out in front of us and we followed it across the Craigavon Bridge to the Waterside and the massive Altnagelvin Hospital.

The Rover was easy to drive, even on the right side, and having the jeep ahead of us helped me keep in the correct lane. So as we drove, Jimmy leaned back and whispered to me, “He don’t believe you, the Captain.”

To be honest, I hadn’t given it a moment’s consideration till that moment, but deep within I knew he was right. So I nodded. “Will he check on my passport?”

“Is it stolen?”

“Borrowed.” Jimmy cast me an eye, just as we whipped onto the bridge. I realized the Callaher’s Cigarettes sign was gone, and the absence of it seemed to mock me as I murmured, “But with my photo slipped in.”

Jimmy sighed. “Then he’ll contact your state department for verification. Does this Landau fella look at all like you?”

“If I lost three stone and had the look of a hawk, maybe.”

“Shite. When we’re at hospital, call me wife.” He dipped his finger in his own blood and wrote the number on the back of my left hand. “Tell her all that’s happened.”

“I’m sorry for this, Jimmy.”

“Sorry for what? I thought you were who you claimed. I’d not seen this Jeremy lad, before.”

“Won’t matter.”

“Yes it will. I’ve relatives in Newcastle. Caera’s to call them if I’m snatched, and they’re to call their solicitor, and he’s brother to a member of Parliament. I won’t be much troubled.”

“You’ll beat the Brits at their own game, you will.”

“It’s nice to think so,” he sighed then added, “but you...”

I nodded and we said not another word till we rolled up to A&E.

Nurses and doctors swarmed out to meet us. Seems the Captain had rung ahead to inform them. They took Ma over and carted her to Urgent Care, Maeve giving them all the details of her health, while I called Jimmy’s wife then stayed with him to see he was tended to. He needed but three sutures to close the wound. An hour later, a man named Kelly appeared from out of nowhere to see Jimmy got home well enough.

He was hesitant to leave me and Maeve. “We can wait, Brendan.”

“No, Jimmy. Go. We’ll grab a taxi once Ma’s settled in.”

Kelly took him by the arm, nodded at me -- I don’t recall him saying word one in my direction -- led Jimmy away...and I was left alone. And I luxuriated in it.

I noticed it was fast approaching noon and I was feeling it, having had no breakfast. I strolled over to the café, had a fry-up and tea, then bought a cheese sandwich for Maeve with a lemonade drink and went looking for her.

After five different nurses sent me wrong (two of them deliberately, I’m sure), I found Ma and Maeve in a dormitory room, curtains rolled up to hide them. Ma was on oxygen and an IV, with monitors connected to keep track of her heart and other vital signs. I noticed the catheter had been re-established and what fluid was in the bag was a hideous brown. She looked asleep, her skin drawn even tighter across her face, her mouth open and all her teeth revealed, more dead than living, already. Maeve sat beside her in a hard wood chair.

I brushed her arm with the lemonade bottle and offered her both it and the sandwich. She shook her head, no, then thought better and accepted them. She opened the bottle and sipped some lemonade. I waited. She finally rose and led me outside the curtains.

As she opened up the sandwich, she said, “Time’s come.” I only nodded. It was hardly a surprise. “Doctors say she’s into renal failure. Soon she’ll be in coma...and then...”

Her eyes filled with tears and her voice whispered into silence. I held her close.

“Have you made arrangements?” I asked, suddenly realizing I’d never bothered to even wonder about it, before. As if doing so would mean Ma’s death would come sooner. Silly thing to think, but there it is.

Maeve nodded. “I’ll ring Rhurai to come. He can get hold of Father Jack -- ”

“Don’t. The Brits won’t let them over -- ”

“They’ll let them come for this. The British aren’t such horrible people, Bren -- ”

“You can say that, after what just happened?”

She pulled back and looked at me, as if I were a stranger. Pulled off a bite of the sandwich and nibbled on it. “I’ll be back directly. Thanks for the sammie and drink. And I’ll send up a priest.”

She wandered off, seeking a phone. I stood there, watching her go, and I noticed this curious absence of feeling within me. Maeve was fighting to keep herself in control as our mother lay dying. A woman who’d been one of the reasons so many years of our lives were hell. A woman who’d sliced anyone to bits if they disagreed with her in any way. A woman who’d brutalized not only me with her words, twice since I came here, but also Maeve and Rhuari. And who’d made sure I understood her hatred of Joanna, even before the bomb. A woman who’d been more than cruel in her existence. And Maeve was devastated that soon she’d be gone from our world. And I felt nothing about it, not one single solitary emotion.

It was odd, just standing there, unconcerned one way or the other how things went. And I knew when Ma finally did die, there’d be no change in my emotion. Oh, it wasn’t a conscious knowing; just the intellectual idea that death was coming and the person it called upon laid no claim to my heart or soul in any way, any longer. My love for the woman -- love that lasted even after she’d disowned me -- now it was as dead as my Da, and my sole feeling was for the pain Maeve, Mairead, Rhuari, Kieran and Eamonn would feel at her crossing the river into the unknowable world.

A groan cut into my reverie. I slipped back to Ma’s bed to find her awake and looking about. The oxygen mask kept her from being able to speak, so she whimpered and her hands clawed vaguely at the air. I took her right one, so cold and frail, and sat beside her.

“It’s all right, Ma. It’s Brendan. I’m right here.”

She didn’t look at me. Just said a word over and over and over. I couldn’t make it out so leaned closer. Lifted the mask a hair and heard, “Priest. Priest. Priest.”

I went cold. Death was here and she wanted a chance to make her last confession. I wondered if my sister would send the priest first or call Rhuari.

“Maeve’s gone for one,” I said, not knowing if Ma could hear me. “She’ll be back soon.”

She kept saying it. “Priest. Priest. Priest.” Over and over, her eyes dancing about the room, her free hand still clawing at the air is if trying to keep death away. She had the look of fear about her. Terror in the quiver of her voice. I think she knew -- no one would come to absolve her of her sins. Not before it was too late. Were I to bolt out and down to the chapel and find one of the holy fathers sitting in a pew waiting for me and drag him back at a full run, I’d not make it in time. The little light in her eyes was already fading. Her voice growing softer. Her hands shaking with fright.

So I removed my coat, rolled down my sleeves and buttoned them, buttoned my shirt up to just under the collar and pulled the neck of my white t-shirt up so it could be seen above it. Then I found Maeve’s rosary and took both Ma’s hands and kissed them and said in a lowered voice, “I’m here, Mrs. Kinsella.”

Her shaking stopped. Her eyes shifted to me, still unfocused but aimed at mine. She almost seemed to smile. “Father? Father? I’m dying, Father.” She drew me closer. Her voice a whisper. “Bless me...Father...for I have sinned. It’s been -- it’s been...so many years since...my last confession.”

After all those years at mass? Truly?

“God be with you, my child. What do you wish to tell me?”

“I need to...to be rid...hate in my heart, Father. There’s so...so much hate in my heart.”

“Release it, then,” I whispered. I’d no idea if I was doing this right. I hadn’t been to confession since I was twelve, and even then it had been a cold affair with Father Jack. “God will know you have -- have cast it aside.”

“So much hate, Father. My son...so much hate.”

I held my breath. Which of us was she referring to?

“Do you hate your own child?”

“Made him...prisoner...my hate. He’s dying.” Eamonn, preparing to starve himself to death. I was almost relieved. “Make him stop. Please, Father. Make him stop. Not right. But I...I put him there. Not right. Make him stop.”

“I will.”

“Make him stop. He’s the eldest -- the one...the most important...”

Right to the gut, as usual. “I’ll see to it.”

“Promise me, father.”

“I promise. Sleep well, my child.”

She seemed to relax. Took hold of the rosary -- no, gripped it and rubbed one of the beads with her thumb and whispered, “Hail Mary...full of grace...the Lord is with thee. Blessed art...art thou amongst women...and blessed is the fruit of...of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now...at the hour of our death.”

I’d never heard my mother repeat the rosary, before, and the feelings it brought me were terrifying. Anger. Hate. Pain. Betrayal. She was doing all she could to make her passage into the next world as easy as possible, and she had no right to do that. Not after the scars she left on me and other children she’d borne. Shrieks of fury filled my heart at her vicious hypocrisy, and I near leaned in to whisper, “You’ve killed all your sons, you bitch. Eamonn will die thanks to you, just as Brendan has already died and Rhuari and Kieran will, as well, all thanks to the hatred you filled us with. I’m ashamed to be of your blood.”

But I said nothing. Just watched her hands move slower and slower, and her lips whisper lighter and lighter, and let her ease into her sleep as if she were one with the angels. The rosary was tangled in her fingers when she finally ceased to move. I waited a moment, looking at her as if she were only napping, then I hit the call button for the floor nurse.

A stout woman came floating up to check Ma. “She’s into coma, now,” she said.

Maeve appeared behind her, disbelief on her face. I rose and took her into my arms and held her as the nurse went to call for a doctor. And my sister wet my shoulder with her tears.

The priest she’d called for never showed.

Bloodied but unbowed...so far...

The last few days have been a battle royal with Brendan over A Place of Safety. Today was the biggest. I worked out a way to have him arrested twice after returning to Derry from Houston and it not seem like repetition. It was rolling along great and he was in honest danger for specific reasons while being beaten by constables, one of whom was a former friend, and him getting away from them worked well enough, but then the only way I could figure him truly escaping them was to hide in a church...and I slammed headlong into a brick wall. Because if I did that, it cut out 75% of the rest of the book.

He doesn't put back together the gun he hid for his brother, Eamonn. He won't be at home when his mother starts dying. He won't see his second ghost after returning to Derry. Nothing more till he's caught by the British, and then it would be totally different from what I had.

It took me forever to finally accept he had to have another way to escape the constables...and I worked it out so it makes sense, even if it is a bit too easy, now...but that little shit made me bleed for it. Hell, I've ended each day with a headache, this week, thanks to this story. By the end of the evening, I couldn't face typing anything more so let the blog go.

And probably my glasses. My thought is, I need stronger ones.

I think Brendan believes the changes I made in the beginning chapter -- gutting a lot of the chat about who's who and how many kids and all that shit -- means those details will be removed, completely. I'm just shifting them to later. Things to learn as the story goes along, like someone who's just made a new friend and is learning about them in steps and stages. I want them worked in naturally, not force-fed to the reader. That kind of thing is boring.

So I wonder if he's stopped trusting me. Maybe he never did, completely, the way he keeps testing me. I dunno. All I know is I now have 42 pages reworked and ready to plug back into the story.

And they fucking hurt...

Found it...

I tracked down one piece I was looking for...the bit where Brendan has just seen Eamonn off to be part of the People's March from Belfast to Derry. He sees Joanna in front of a pricey department store, with some friends. It's between Christmas and New Year's in 1968.

------------

We headed up Shipquay...and I saw Joanna, again, standing in front of Austin’s. She was with friends, all dressed in mini-skirts, fur-trimmed coats and boots, chattering with each other about something in the store’s windows. Again, her golden silk flowed down her back, this time in a pony-tail from under a knit cap, and her cheeks were as rosy as freshly-picked apples. Her stockings were black and complimented both her outfit and her form. I thought I was seeing an angel and wished only to gaze upon her.

So I stopped still. She and her friends kept chattering as they headed down Shipquay to Castle, oblivious to one and all about them. Oblivious to my heart no longer beating or my breath no longer part of me or my mind capable of anything but the thought of how glorious it was to see her, once more.

My mates had gone a number of yards before they noticed.

“Oi, Bren, what’s this?” Colm yelled at me, breaking my spell -- until she turned at the sound of his voice and saw me and seemed to recognize me and offered me the tiniest of smiles and I near died from the joy of it.

She’d smiled at me.

She’d smiled at me.

I gave her a wave and a nod. She turned back to her friends and they continued on. I backed up the street to join me mates.

Colm looked at me with a wariness while Paidrig lit up a fag and offered me a pull on it. Both tried to act like men, but something about them struck me as foolish and childlike. Danny just smiled to himself, something he’d do far too much, still. I handed the fag off to Colm and as he smoked I said, “I’ll join you later, lads. I’ve errands to run for me Ma.”

“That’s never kept you from Wee Johnny’s before,” said Colm, his breath smoking as he spoke.

“I’m the man of the family with Eamonn at University. I’ve responsibilities. I’ll be down with you later.”

Then I headed down Butcher towards home before they could say another word. Only I turned right on Magazine and rushed down in time to see Joanna and her mates heading cross through the gate to Waterloo. I followed them all the way to Wellworth’s, careful not to get too close or be too obvious. Their voices were musical in their happiness, and their attitudes spoke of pleasures too simple for me to ever understand. Just a group of girls out for some fun on the wrong side of the river.

In Wellies, they went straight to the records section and flipped through the rows they had. Idle and chatting about nothing and everything, until Joanna pulled out a 45 with a squeal.

“They have it!” she cried, and her friends gathered around. They rushed over to a clerk and had him play the song -- I Never Will Marry -- then laughed as they sang:

I never will marry, I'll be no man's wife. 

I intend to stay single all the days of my life... 

When the song began in earnest, they danced a sort of jig mixed with the Twist, giggling along with the words. 

I acted like I was interested in some albums not far away, watching them from the side of me eye. Then Joanna caught me looking, once, and smiled to herself. She knew what I was doing.

A friend purchased the record, then she and the girls left.

I jumped over to where she’d been looking, found another copy of the record, grabbed it up and paid for it, intending to give it to her when I caught up to her, outside...but they were gone, like ghosts. I searched Waterloo Place and a couple of side streets, but found nothing. I guess I’d scared them off with my clumsiness. So I went home.

APoS is taking over...

Or maybe I should say, Brendan is...except he's being difficult. I know I wrote a bit where he sees Joanna in a Wellworths store in Derry, looking at new records with her girlfriends, and he winds up buying a single of the Johnstons' "Banks of Claudy" because she and her friends listened to it. But damned if I can find it in any file, anywhere. And it's driving me nuts.

So I'm going through every version I've written of A Place of Safety...and finding I saved a lot of the same Word docs 3-4 times in different folders. No wonder I can't find anything. I'm about halfway through them...and also sorting out other docs that I want or need as well as finding old emails to a couple of men in Derry...and step by step and shifting only the items necessary over to a new folder. Then the rest will go onto an external hard drive and away from my laptop, so as to minimize future confusion.

What's positive about this is, I found a couple of details I'd forgotten about and added them into the story...like when Eamonn brings home a pistol and Brendan takes it apart to hide it from him. And an outline redoing a part set after he returns to Derry, where he's arrested by the RUC and interrogated.

A far more important arrest happens later, when the British find out who he is, and the two were clashing as being too similar. I needed space between them but there'd be no excuse for that. If the Constables couldn't get what they wanted from him, they'd hand him over to the Army. Plain and simple and wrong for the story. I was close to dropping it, but couldn't figure out how to get the followup moments to work without that setup.

Well...somewhere along the line I'd worked that out and it actually makes a lot more sense, now. And carries a greater emotional impact. I hope. I don't think I'd have remembered it had I not been digging for that bit.

I finally had enough and needed to clear my brain...and iron, so I watched Ball of Fire, with Gary Copper and Barbara Stanwyck. It's a romantic comedy using Snow White and the 7 Dwarfs as its basis. She's a nightclub singer in love with a mobster; he's an English professor working with seven other professors on an encyclopedia. When she has to hide out, she horns her way in on them to help Gary Cooper with slang...and upends everyone's lives...including her own.

The script was by Charles Bracket and Billy Wilder and it was directed by Howard Hawks. For some reason, what Howard Hawks did with this movie so angered Billy Wilder, he started directing so no one could ruin another one of his scripts. I like what Hawks did, so have to wonder what Wilder would have done differently.

Though I doubt it would have turned out as well, to be honest.

More of APoS...in Houston

This is near the end of Brendan's time in the city. It's Spring 1981 and Brendan's helped a friend move into a new apartment...

-------

The walk down Memorial to Shepherd is pleasant, with trees and Buffalo Bayou winding past, for a bit, but it all felt incomplete without Vangie, as if none of it were true or real or even worthy of my attention. I missed her, terrible, and could do naught about it.

During one of our furniture runs, I’d had Jeremy drive past her home -- and it had a realtor’s sign in front, with a pending notice on it. It hadn’t affected me, really, since I knew they’d planned to sell and move...but it was still something to gnaw at my throat, considering how quickly Rene had moved his brood back to New Orleans. I’d silently wondered where she was working, now. If she’d gotten on with Tulane, as she’d hoped. If they had a nice home in the Garden District, near her grandparents. If she’d find a nice lad of the same color and background who could make her happy.

Of course, Jeremy knew and understood, but it was Everett who’d caught me off guard with his comment, “Sometimes you don’t realize what you have until it’s taken away.”

We were having a beer in the kitchen as Jeremy did laundry in his new machines, as happy as a new wife who’d just discovered the joy of washing clothes. I was feeling weary and felt the need of a bath and had the cold beer against my forehead, letting the cold of it seep into my soul. Everett had removed his shirt and it looked as if he’d been exercising; his slight tummy was trimmer and his chest fuller. I’d thought about removing my own shirt just to get the sticky material off me, but he didn’t know about my beating, yet, and I felt no desire to discuss it, right then. So on it stayed, and it was quickly becoming quite irritating.

“Give him time, Rett,” I said, not really paying attention to him or his mood. “He’d fresh back from -- ”

“It’s not Jeremy,” Everett said. “It’s not you. It’s not even about me. It’s about being in a situation and not knowing what that situation truly is, not until you’re out of it. And then you wonder what the fuck happened. How could it happen?”

I looked at him, and suddenly I thought of Danny and his thousand yards stare. “What’re you talking about?”

“You know, I’ve worked for that fuckin’ grocery chain for twelve, shit, thirteen years. Workin’ my ass off. Last minute changes in the specials. Complaints from idiots about my layouts. Doin’ more than needed to be done because I thought that’d protect me if they ever found out I’m gay. I thought if I made myself important to them, that’d be my insurance. But it isn’t. It can’t be. They don’t give a shit about anything I’ve done, and now that I’m about to lose it and I’m lookin’ back, I can see just how miserable that fuckin’ job made me. I whined, yeah, but I couldn’t really see how fucked up it was, not while I was in the middle of it.

“I’m good at what I do, Bren. Damn good. But because of this -- this one aspect of my life, I feel like I have to take shit from assholes because I couldn’t possibly have it as good anywhere else. And now I’m about to turn thirty-five, and I’ve got nothing to be proud of.”

“That’s a harsh assessment.”

He almost smiled. “I mean, career-wise. Having a guy like you as a friend, that does make me proud. Knowing Jeremy once loved me, that makes me proud. But I can’t think of anything else that does. I can’t think of anything I’d happily put in a portfolio to show my work off. When I started, I was helping sell cabbage. I’m still helping sell cabbage. That’s not much to brag on.”

“So what’re you gonna do?” I asked.

“I’m giving notice on Monday. I’m not going to let them run my life, anymore. I’m not letting anyone.” He finally looked at me with a sideways glance, his expression filled with hurt, and I could still see him wondering if there was some way to get me over to his side of the fence. But then he smiled and the expression softened as he asked, “Is that what happened with you in Northern Ireland? You finally saw what a fucked up place it was and got the hell out?”

His question gave me a lot to ponder, because in truth it wasn’t until I was here, with Aunt Mari, and had put a year’s distance between me and the place that I saw how insane it was. It’s a horrible thing to consider, but deep within I’d begun to see that bombing as being my saving grace. Had I stayed there, I’d have wound up in the IRA or PIRA or an H block or dead at the hands of God knows which side, since both were as apt to kill their own for not being perfectly in accord as kill those they considered enemies. I’d gotten hints from Mairead of Colm being deep enough into one of the Republican groups to be wanted by the RUC and the Brits. And Eamonn had grown even harder and more radical in his hatred for the Proddies while in Long Kesh; now he was in the H Blocks, he was seen as a hero and treated as such by those who’d only recently arrived. That would suit him.

But what had bothered me most was Ma’s shift into a warrior’s mother. Mairead said nothing to me about her newfound religion, but it came across in her letters when she’d sometimes give a careful sigh at how Ma disparaged her peace group and its attempts to bridge the ever-growing divide between Catholic and Protestant in that snippet of land. She’d mention how Ma refused to watch her wains for the day she needed to be in Belfast for a meeting, so she had to ask Mrs. Donnelly to do it. And how Ma would make her weekly travel to visit Eamonn and come home glowing about how well he looked and strong he’d become in The Cause. And how Mairead had been in a cutting argument with Kieran on him chucking stones at an army PIG, trying to get him to understand he could be hurt or killed if the soldiers inside felt too threatened, and Kieran’s response had been that he only listened to Ma, not his traitor of a sister. So being away from that had saved me from being gently worn down from the unceasing nature of it.

Just before he’d left for Hong Kong, Jeremy told me an interesting little fact about frogs. If you put them in hot water, they instantly jump out. But if you put them in cold water and heat it, slowly, so very slowly, the frog adjusts to the growing temperature and doesn’t move, not before it kills him. His follow-up comment had been, “That’s why I’m leaving; I refuse to become another boiled frog.” I’d laughed at him, but now I understood all too clearly what he’d meant and could see how true it was of any creature...and the fact he'd returned to Houston was of no consequence; I still could see its relevance to Everett’s situation.

“You’re smart to leave, Rett,” I said. “And I’ve got some scratch put aside, if you need.”

He smiled and shook his head. “There’s something wrong with this picture,” he said. “Jeremy’s the Jew but spends like a blond trophy wife; you’re Irish and I’ve never seen anyone so tight with a buck.”

We’d left it at that, but now as I was walking up to Shepard, I was seeing how blind I’d been during my time with Vangie. I’d ignored the looks sent our way. Paid little attention to the slow service and bad tables we’d gotten in restaurants. Not really understood the danger behind that cop stopping us en route back from San Antonio. Even as things had grown harsher around us, I’d been so lost in my love of her I couldn’t see the danger building. Uncle Sean had...and had tried to warn me. Even Aunt Mari, in her gentle way, had suggested I should be more careful in my actions. And now that she was gone, I could see how if we hadn’t left to live in a world more accepting, the strain would have ended us, sooner or later, no matter how much we loved each other. One can only go so far in their battle against the world before it crashes down on them.

As it had on me not a month past.

A Place of Safety...

Working on APoS...and this is near the end, after Brendan's been interrogated and released by the British...interrogation that included torture...

-----------

It took me little time to figure out we were not headed for Derry but were aimed deeper into Antrim, aimed for The Republic.

I turned to Kieran and asked, “How’d you get out of Derry?”

“I didn’t. It’s locked down with no one allowed in or out. Ma’s wake was under surveillance, as was her funeral.”

“Then she is buried.”

“We tried to hold off, Bren. But we’d no idea how long you’d be held and Father Pat felt it best to be done with it. He preached a good one at her service -- about the evils of the Brits and how they’d even prevent a lad from seeing his beloved mother off to the next world.”

I couldn’t help but snort at that one. “So you were there?”

“I snuck in.”

“Where were you before?”

“I can’t say.”

“Who taught you how to drive?”

“Bren, I’ve been boosting cars since I was twelve.”

“That’s when I started working on them.”

“I’m told you’re good at it.”

I nodded. “Where you taking me?”

“To Colm. He wants to see you.”

I knew what this meant -- more questions...and a bullet if they didn’t suit the questioners. I smiled and leaned back in the car. It was now dark enough to rest my eyes. Who’d ever have thought night would be a blessing?

We drove up to a farm on the border, then Kieran hid the car in the barn and a man sent us a signal and Kieran popped into a hole in the ground to sneak through a tunnel. I hesitated, flashing back to the rooms at Castlereagh and the long corridors, but Kieran looked up at me, wary, wondering if I was going to run. A sure sign of guilt, that. I made a show of stretching my back and legs, took a deep breath and forced myself to climb down the ladder.

There was no room, just straight into a dark corridor with light only from Kieran’s torch. It wasn’t so very long a one but it was long enough so by the time we popped out, I my shaking was out of control and I was near to panic.

Kieran looked at me. “You don’t like tight places?”

I shook my head.

Then several men surrounded us, all dressed in black. They motioned for us to follow them and headed for a small low building just the other side of a hill. I stopped at seeing it.

Kieran nudged me. “It’s just in here.”

“No,” I said. “I won’t go in.”

“C’mon, Brendan, Colm’s waiting.”

“I won’t go in a room.”

“You’re that afraid? My big brother, scared to even so much as face his friends for what’s gone on and -- ?”

“I’ll face them out here! I’ll not go inside.”

His mates grabbed me and tried to drag me into the building, and suddenly I was like a wild animal, screeching and kicking and clawing and biting until they let me drop to the ground. And I stayed there, flat on my back gazing at the stars.

Kieran glanced between them, embarrassed, then snarled, “I’ll be right back.”

His mates continued to stand around me, as if on guard. I didn’t need to look at them to see the confusion on their faces. It was cold, out, and the dirt was surely colder in their eyes, so what sort of fool would kick and bite to be let lie there except a madman. And it’s best to let madmen be. If only they knew how right they were.

Oh, dear God, the heavens glistened with tiny diamonds on deep purple velvet. Watching. Silent. Heartbreakingly beautiful. Not in the least concerned with the stupidity of men. They’d existed a billion years before me and would exist a billion more after, and who was I to think my sad little seconds of life in comparison were of any true importance, next to them? They were the true alpha and omega. They were the true never-ending light. Not even God could own them, let alone man.

I cannot begin to describe the peace I found just looking at them. Just letting them glimmer and shine and wonder at my fixation on them. At my feeling as one with them. Were I to die, I halfway thought I’d join with them to gaze down at other fools like myself, children too stupid to know anything of truth or love or belief. Would I weep as they sometimes do, the hints of their tears streaking across the sky for an instant? Would I watch innocents like Joanna and myself try to build a world between ourselves alone and question their assumption that such a thing was possible? Would I see the same hideous actions practiced in every corner of this pathetic little planet against men of black skin and yellow skin and brown skin and red skin as well as white? Would I even care enough to care?

I actually began to hope that I’d be left there to just lie until the light of day chased the stars around to the other side of the world. I needed no guards. The gentle stars wouldn’t let me move, not so long as they had watch over me. Existence was meaningless aside from those tiny white dots in the still darkening ink above me. I almost began to smile and --

Footsteps whispered up, careful, uncertain. I sensed someone squatting beside me then Colm’s face drifted into my line of sight. Concern filled his eyes.

I half grimaced, half smiled and softly croaked, “Colm, please -- you’re blocking my view.”

“What’s this, Bren?” he asked, just as softly. “You planning to claim madness as your defense?”

Defense? Can a true state of being excuse anything? Can loss of your soul mean all is well? Can hate so vicious it rocks your very being be accepted as your punishment? It sounded to me like I’d been tried and convicted, all without a moment of explanation on my part. Not that I could offer any that would be believed. The whole point of this insipid little play was to ignore the facts and laugh at the truth and believe only the tales of idiots. Man’s true fate.

I stared at Colm. “I will not go in there.”

“Brendan, come along, you’re playing the part of a fool.”

“Listen to what I say, Colm. I will not go into any room. Ever. Do with me as you will, but you will do it in the open.” I shifted my eyes back to the sky. Drew strength from the pinpoints of light so high above me. “You will do it under the stars. So they can bear witness.”

“Then we’ll drag you in.” He started to rise.

I didn’t move. Didn’t even look at him as I snarled, “If you try, me China, I will rip your fucking heart out, do you fucking understand me?”

He stopped. Glared at me. “Listen to me, me ‘China’,” and he all but spat the word out, “the only thing standing between you and a bullet in the head, right now, is me.”

Christ, he was so serious, so full of his own sense of meaning and grandeur and heroism, just like that fuckin’ Brit commander -- I had to laugh at him. “Then you better fucking move, lad,” I choked out, “for there’s some have decided I’m taking that bullet, whether I deserve it or not, so save yourself. Step aside. I’m not worth the hell it’ll bring you to back me.” And I kept laughing, lost in the meaninglessness of it.

“Jesus Christ -- what the fuck is this? I’m trying to keep you alive!” He was actually angry, which only made me laugh harder. He dropped to one knee and grabbed me by the hair and snarled, “Answer me one question -- what did you tell them?”

I couldn’t speak, I was still so choked with laughter, so he slapped me. Twice. I was just able to shake my head. His grip tightened in my hair.

“Don’t tell me it was nothing! They had you in there but four days, and now three of our lads’ve been lifted by the peelers. Your own brother was nearly taken at your mother’s funeral, so what the fuck did you tell them?”

I think he was planning to hit me, again, but I’d begun to regain control so he just released me and leaned back on his haunches to wait till I caught my breath, once more.

Finally, finally, I was able to whisper, “I -- I don’t know -- what I told them -- or if I told them anything. Half the time I wasn’t there. And the other half -- tell me, Colm -- how can you talk when you’re drowning in a room void of water?”

“Arra, talk sense!”

I lay back, exhausted, still breathing hard, and gazed back at the stars. “I lay like this. On a table. My face covered by a cloth. And I was drowned. Over and over and over. Naught but a cold dead ceiling to bear witness. What you do to me now is nothing...nothing...nothing compared to that. Just do it out here, no ceiling above me. Please.”

Salesmanship is not my forte...

I've been casting around for new ideas on how to promote The Alice '65. So far everything comes with a price tag...$150 seems to be the average. Ads here, mail-outs there, e-blasts all over. One company does one-sheets geared to people who buy for libraries. Facebook and Twitter both want to boost my posts for various amounts of money, even though neither one has even begun to pay off on anything else I did through them.

I've considered doing the postcard thing, again, but that seems to get no traction, either. Book stores will offer it as a title they will order, but won't put it on their shelves. I've donated copies to libraries and to readers on Goodreads and BookDaily and gotten 2 whole reviews. I got it put into a librarians conference. I was going to ask a friend's daughter to do a review on her v-blog for books, but I got no response from anyone and now she's off to college.

I'm trying a new log-line for it.

After a family tragedy, Adam Verlain wanted nothing but a quiet life, and his job as a book cataloguer for a small London University was perfect for that. But then he was forced to travel to Los Angeles to pick up a rare copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland from the actress who inherited it, only she wouldn't give it to him unless he did her a favor, first. He agreed...and then she proceeded to turn his safe, secure world upside down.

Or would this be better?

After a family tragedy, Adam Verlain wanted a quiet life, and his job as a book cataloguer was perfect for that. Then he was sent to pick up a rare copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland from an actress, and his perfect world turned upside down. (It's my Twitter version.)

I'll start sending this out...maybe see if I can do some sort of flyer to mail. After that, I'm out of money and out of ideas. The book's been available for 6 months and I've sold 13 copies. Not good. Needless to say, JK Rowling I'm not.

Maybe I should submit for induction into Oprah's book club or for a Pulitzer in literature; that'd be a laugh...

These words drive me nuts...

To Lay and To Lie drive me crazy. I'm never sure if I'm using the right one, unless I'm deliberately misusing them, so here are the rules I use and hope for the best...

(This was bastardized from a much much longer article on Printer Fabulous)

Choosing the correct forms of lay and lie is a big challenge. Without a doubt, they are the two most difficult irregular verbs. The problem is that when we speak, we frequently misuse them. As a result, our ears are used to hearing incorrect forms. So when we spot a wrong form while we are proofreading, it sounds right.

Know the solution.

How do you use lay and lie correctly? First, you must know the definition of each verb.

Definition of Lay
Lay means to put something [or someone] down. Because lay is a transitive verb, a direct object will come after it. A direct object receives the action of the verb. Read this example:

Before returning to the Godzilla marathon on late night TV, Quentin laid his sleeping son Jeremy on the bed and covered him with a quilt.
Quentin laid whom on the bed? Jeremy.

Definition of Lie
Lie, on the other hand, means to rest or recline. Lie is an intransitive verb, so no direct object will follow.

The center of Diane's bed always smells like dog because Reliable, her beagle, lies there every chance he gets.
What is Reliable doing in the middle of the bed? Resting.

Once you know which meaning you need, you have to choose the correct verb form...and then comes insanity. I refuse to go there, so I use the words as little as possible.

Thank God for the man who invented the Thesaurus.

'Nuff said...

I'm seriously considering not paying taxes, next year, if that POS-POTUS is still in the White House. I'm pissed off that my tax dollars are being used by the GOP to fund tax cuts for trillion-dollar companies like Amazon, which paid zero income tax in 2017.

I may be marching to jail.

I'm a hermit

I did not leave my apartment, today. Just worked on UG and finished polishing it up to be printed and gone through in a few weeks. I'm now at 416 pages and 94,300 words. I feel good about it, right now; it'll be interesting to see how I feel once I have some distance from it.

I especially like what I did here, when Devlin has an emotional collapse after identifying with one of the murder victims.

-----------

When I finally regained control, I was lying on the bed and Reg was sitting on it, beside me, holding me like a child. My head on his chest. His shirt soaked by my blood. My nose -- I could feel it still dripping. I shifted a bit. He noticed and murmured, “Pope?”

I didn’t want to hear him. Didn’t want to move, anymore. Just wanted to just keep lying next to him. Feel him breathe. In and out and feel the tender warmth of him.

He trailed a hand around my neck to mingle his fingers in the hair on the back of my head, like I did to him that night in the hotel. It was so gentle and right, it hurt. I gulped in more breath.

“Pope?”

I nodded.

“Are you back?”

I nodded.

“In full?”

I shrugged, sort of.

“Dr. Herries-White’s here. Will you talk to him?”

I nodded.

I heard the man’s voice oh-so-carefully ask, “Mr. Pope, you mentioned you prefer to be addressed as Devlin. May I do so?”

I nodded.

Reg started to get up, but I held him tighter. “Please, don’t. Don’t...”

“Thornton, if you don’t mind...”

Reg hesitated then settled back on the bed, saying, “Yes, sir.”

“Devlin, you feel very strongly about Constable Thornton, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“Can you tell me why?”

I just gulped and sniffed and held Reg tighter and said, “He’s not my father.”

“The men you assaulted were?”

I nodded.

“The explanations you gave us for assaulting Thornton -- ”

“Bullshit. All bullshit. I wasn’t really thinkin’. I wasn’t plannin’. I was huntin’. Just an animal huntin’. Don’t think about your prey. What it means to them. Just think, empty belly needs filling. Empty heart. Empty soul.”

“But with Thornton -- “

“Reg. Reg...”

“You can call me that, sir.”

“Very well. Reg. You did think about your prey, didn’t you, Devlin?”

I nodded. “But was. Was just in. In my head. In my head. Till I saw. Saw...”

I started breathing hard and shaking and Reg gripped me and whispered, “C’mon, Dev, c’mon, back to us. C’mon.”

It was hard to fight back the chaos building in my heart. Took more than a few deep breaths and gulping in of reality.

I could hear Reg saying, “He was watching CCTV of Liam Hanlon exiting Holborn Underground, sir, when this began. He paid particular attention to him putting a piece of chewing gum in his mouth.”

“The gum that was found in the car?”

I jolted upright and looked around. Herries-White was sitting in a chair close to the bed, a similar suit on his, as before, his eyes hard on me.

“The car?” I gasped. “They found the car?”

“Half an hour ago,” he said, his expression not wavering. “Located a chewed bit of gum under the back seat.”

“Oh-my-God, it’s his. His.”

“We don’t know that, Devlin. Forensics is analyzing it.”

“He knew they were gonna kill him. Oh, shit -- shit.”

I was about to lose it, again, but Reg shook me, snarling, “Oi, oi, oi, don’t do it! Don’t you leave us, again. Dev!”

I slammed my eyes closed and used every bit of strength I had to keep from breaking down. My head was pounding and my heart threatening to tear out of my chest, but I manages to take in enough breaths to nearly hyperventilate and force myself to ask, “How. How long. How long’ve I been like this?”

“It’s half-four,” said Herries-White.

“Three hours,” Reg added.

I opened my eyes and looked at him. And saw his shirt was soaked with blood. I put a hand to my nose but it had finally stopped. I felt weak. Drained into exhaustion. A bit dizzy. I still touched his arm.

“Shit, I -- I ruined your -- ”

“Shh, shh, shh, just a Tesco special.”

“Sorry.”

“No great shakes.”

“You -- you can’t go home like that. T-shirts in top drawer. Dresser. Take the Armani.”

“Yeah, me wife’ll wonder where that come from. But you mind if I take a piss and clean up? Will you stick around?”

I motioned for him to go, so he rose and I watched him cross to the dresser and take one of Tawfi’s AX tees and go into the bathroom. He was stiff from having sat with me, for so long, so stretched and flexed and became even lovelier. When I turned back to Herries-White, his eyes were still locked on me.

I looked away.

“You love him, don’t you?”

I sniffed and huffed and shrugged, then said, “I’d just kill anyone who hurt him.”

He nodded. “I’ve seen many cases similar to yours. Soldiers in wartime, whose fellows become more important than themselves. Men who were hard and cruel, but upon becoming fathers gained a surprising level of empathy for any and all children, backed with a fierce protectiveness. You have nephews, am I correct?”

I nodded.

“Do you feel as strongly about them as you do Thorn...Reg?”

I hesitated. Then nodded.

“And your brother, Colin?”

I nodded. “And his wife. But they’re family.”

“So was your father.”

I shook my head. “He was a monster.”

“And your mother?”

“She abandoned us.”

“I understand she was killed.”

“She let him do it. Her way of suicide. Get away from us all.” I didn’t mean to say that but out it came. I couldn’t take it back, nor did I want to.

He smiled. “Devlin, do you know why I’m here?”

“Find out how crazy I am.”

“No, actually, to keep you balanced, at least, temporarily. As I am also involved with this murder case, as an associate of the Metropolitan Police, I cannot be your father-confessor, but I am willing to offer recommendations to others, if you wish.”

I nodded.

“Very well. So I am here because Sir Montief would like you, when you feel able, to return to the station and go over the evidence with him in more detail. Do you think you could do that?”

I looked at him. “What for?”

“You caught aspects on those videos the other officers on this case did not see. Officers trained to seek out details. Caused them to break free of their one-track minds and look closer at all of the evidence, not merely that which suited them. For what it’s worth, thanks to you pointing out the differences in how two of the figures on the CCTV videos were walking, they now believe two different men are involved in these murders. At the least. Sir Monteif is not so arrogant as to think only his men are capable of handling this issue, and would most appreciate any help you might be able to give. Are you willing to do this?”

“Haven’t they talked to Nettles?”

“He hasn’t been located, yet. But he will be; he has an appointment to collect Griffin Faure at his hotel at six pm sharp. I understand one does not dismiss a member of the Faure family.”

“No shit.”

“Are you open to our request?”

I rubbed my head. “In a little bit. First let me double-down on some Advil and make a few calls. I’ll do it on my cell phone so you guys can listen in. Okay?”

Herries-White smiled. “How long do you need?”

“Hour. Hour and a half.”

That’s when Reg came out of the bathroom, fresh and clean and looking so perfect in that shirt, I caught my breath.

Herries-White noticed, of course, and said, “Thornton -- Reg, Sir Montief would like you back at center. I’ll bring Devlin over, when he’s ready.”

“Yes, sir.” He looked at me. “You all right, then?”

I just nodded.

“What’ll I do with this” He held up his bloody shirt.

I motioned to the trash, so he tossed it in and left. And I felt myself shrink, inside. The room felt darker. Colder. Words whispered from me. "All I ever wanted was tenderness. Why is that so hard to find?"

-->

Hard day...

I slept rough and woke a few times with cramps in my right leg...possibly from standing too much. I don't know. So today wasn't the best for me. I tried to get some of UG reworked but mostly piddled, going through boxes of paperwork and crap...until I found an old picture I'd torn out of a magazine.

When I described Reg, I thought I was going off a photo I took 4 years ago, in London, of a guy on the Underground. He's the one who got the whole book started, the way he was sitting there, exhausted beyond belief. It built into this story...and now that the book is in a real form, I can see I was using another man I'd met, even years earlier, as the true description of Constable Reginald Brewster Thornton -- a guy named Pavel Novotny.

FWIW -- Pavel was a Czech porn star about 16-17 years ago. That, in and of itself, isn't such a big deal; I was living in LA and that town was full of them. I'd see them at the gym I went to, clubs, a private movies premier, you name it. And I saw Pavel when I was collecting my mail at the West Hollywood Post Office. On a rainy Saturday morning.

He drove up in a Land Rover. Parked in the 15 minute zone. Came inside and got his mail then sorted through it on a table...and I stopped cold. He was wearing a Gansey sweater, brown corduroy slacks and looked exactly like his photos...no, he looked better. Something about him radiated innocence and awareness. I went all fan-girl and said something dumb like, "Hi, I like your work." He smiled at me, said, "Thank you," in a vaguely Bela Lugosi accent, and left. And I think I giggled.

It was finding his photo in a jacket and black t-shirt that made me realize he was the image I had built of Reg, in UG. So I did this sketch. It's sloppy, but it seemed to set me right and I got to page 177 of the polish. I also cut out about 8 pages and may put them in, later, but not sure where, yet.

He stopped doing porn and got married, years ago...yet I still think of him, now and then...even more than I realized. Which is funny, because he's not my type. And yet...I wish I'd had a chance to do more than make a fool of myself. Talk with him. Learn more about his reality.

I'll be changing my cover to use his face...and this is the first step...

Polishing up the first draft...

I've started going over the first draft of UG just to clarify some parts and make sure things are consistent before I print it up and do a red pen draft. I know I made changes later in the book that aren't supported earlier, and it's easier to work that up now than to mess it up with unnecessary notes.

I also watched an episode of Vera to make sure I was getting what little I do with police procedure right, in the UK. I should have gone to Prime Suspect, not because Vera was bad but because Britbox did the irritating thing of leaving the commercial titles on the video and for a short period the streaming was interrupted. I'm done with them.

I thought of shifting to FilmStruck to watch movies because they've got lots of classics and are working with Criterion, if I understand their spiel right. But 3 out of the 4 movies I checked on weren't available through them...things like Come Back, Little Sheba and La Dolce Vita. I'm not spending $11.00 a month and not getting everything I want.

Anyway, another reason I do a printout of my writing to make corrections is so I have a physical copy where I can make notes of things to add, not just put them in a folder and reread them and try to remember where that is in the file. I separate each chapter with a divider, just like in high school, and bounce around that way.

This is how I worked A65 and how I started working APoS. I'll go through this draft, input the changes and print it up, again, then set it aside and work on getting a first draft of APoS done. My goal is to have that one set up for rewriting by the end of the year. UG I'm aiming to publish around Thanksgiving.

I set goals...can't say I don't that...