An exercise in creating rising tension.
DCI Jack Broom hated
the Dale centre multi storey, didn't know why he'd parked there. Sat
between the spiky architecture of the Norman church and the smooth
Victorian curves of the wool exchange only exaggerated its
monstrousness. The other buildings here felt real, lived in,
designed to bring you in and through them, to be part of them. The
car park was blocky, aggressive, as mechanical and cold as the
scattering of cars that had been left there through the day. No paths
or aisles, just roads making him feel like a kid again, walking along
giant's pavements.
A shiver went down
his back as he moved from the street and the concrete cube blocked
out the sun
Don't step on the
cracks, Jack, don't step on the cracks.
Five storeys to go, he thumbed the lift, moving from one leg to the other as he waited reading the graffiti. John -heart- Jane. Jane crossed through, below it 'jane is a slag.
'Not any more,' he said, under his breath, 'unless your tastes run to
necrophilia.' Again, that cold shudder running through him as the
lift stopped with a metallic, angry squeal.
He waited for the doors to open.
They
didn't. Somewhere in the upper levels an expensive, highly
tuned engine coughed into angry life.
An Exercise in Writing Dialogue.
'Daddy,' Lizzy pulled
at the quilt, her voice rising to a shriek, 'Daddy, daddy wake up.'
'It's too early,' the
words came out as a groan and he pulled the pillow over his head, 'go
to your Grandad, Lizzy'
'Grandad is sleepy,'
she pulled harder at the quilt. 'I want cbeebies. Grandad won't wake
up.'
'Then try again,' he
pulled the pillow down harder, willing the world away. 'I'm hungover,
Lizzy. I just need left alone for a little.'
'I can hangover the
bed,' he heard tiny enthusiastic footsteps scamper around to his side
of the bed and turned his head away from the sound. 'Do you want to
see?' she asked.
'No, Lizzy' Daddy is
sleepy,' he willed her away with a wince, 'go to your Grandad.'
'Have you had some of
Grandad's special sweeties, Daddy?'
'Lizzy,' his voice came
out through the pillow muffled and fuzzy, exactly like he felt,
'Daddy is very tired. Go to your Grandad.'
'I've had some of
Grandad's special sweeties,' he could hear her twirling round.
'Grandad smells, he smells like the cat.'
'The Cat's dead Lizzy,
gone to be with jJesus. Now please, just give me half an hour.'
'I feel sick Daddy.'
'Well,' he tried to
pull the quilt up over his head, his weak hands slipping on the dirty
material 'tell your Grandad.'
'I feel sleepy too now
Daddy,' she let out a huge yawn. 'Grandad's special sweeties make you
sleepy don't they?'
'Yes, yes they do,' his
head was pounding. 'Why don't you go lie down with Grandad, Lizzy.'
'I'm going to be like
Grandad,' she said, walking out the door, her eyelids beginning to
shut.
'You do that
sweetheart,' said Daddy, 'You be like your Grandad.'
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