Hi All, since it's been a while since I posted any fiction, I thought I'd share this. It's the first chapter of my new novel 'The Palpable Obscure' - a story that follows Edinburgh ex-detective Max Milligan on his journey to find a reason to live. Enjoy!
Who
shall tempt with wandering feet
The dark
unbottomed infinite abyss
And
through the palpable obscure find out
His
uncouth way
- John Milton
pal·pa·ble/ˈpalpəbəl/Adjective
1. Able
to be touched or felt.
2.
(esp. of a feeling or atmosphere) So intense as to be almost touched or felt.
ob·scure Adjective
adj. ob·scur·er, ob·scur·est
1. Deficient in light;
dark.
Prologue
Duddingston Loch, Edinburgh
- February 15th
1987 -
Faster
than he could realise it, the world began to hurtle up towards the sky, and the
boy was pulled into the green and blue demon’s lair that lay beneath the ice.
As he plunged into the murky water, time began to slow down and he felt the icy
lake’s long watery fingers gripping him, slowly working their way up his body.
The water felt like blades, tiny shards of glass working their way under the
boy’s skin. They slowly worked their way up his legs and pulled his body under,
the searing cold hitting the boy’s chest and knocking the breath out of him. He
reached his hands high into the sky in one last scramble towards his world,
when he felt an icy finger take hold of his face and pull him under, choking
for breath. He held on tightly to what little air was in his lungs as he sank
deeper. The pain paralysing – his brain was telling his arms to swim, but his
arms wouldn’t oblige. They lay limp at his side, paralysed by the cold. He
would die here. The boy looked up towards the light at the surface, and as his
body forced him to exhale, he watched the bubbles float gently up towards it.
He could feel his vision fading now.
It
was time to let go.
I
Marchmont, Edinburgh
- Twenty four years later -
‘Just
do it, man! Stop wasting time.’
Max
could only hear Virgil’s husky voice very faintly, gurgling through the thick
blanket of water that covered his face. The lukewarm bathwater had stung his
eyes for only a few seconds as he looked up, soaking in the last earthly sights
he ever hoped to see. He could vaguely make out the mottled outlines of his
bathroom ceiling swimming above his head. He fought the urge to cry – he didn’t
want to go that way, weeping like a baby.
Death
was the only thing he had thought about for a long while, and now, at last, he
would be able to welcome it. His work was done; he had nothing left to care
about – only death. He would embrace it at last, and let every last part of his
miserable life slip away to nothing. He probably wouldn’t have chosen drowning
- that was Virgil’s idea - but it seemed like an easy enough way to do it, and
in the end, he thought, it didn’t really matter how he did it. In a few seconds
he would be gone, and drowning would be as good a death as any. He had always
imagined that the last few seconds would be filled with thoughts of his life –
of the little beauty he had seen in his youth, but all he could think about as
he lay there, holding his breath, was how his body would look when they found
it. He imagined some detective, someone he had known, no doubt, strolling into
his bathroom, notepad in hand, and finding Max’s body, all blue and ivory,
bobbing in the bathtub.
Poor Mr. Milligan,
they’ll say, he
thought. What a tragedy, they’ll say. No
one had any clue he felt this way! He imagined everyone’s pity. He despised
their pity.
‘You’re
stalling. Just let go, Max. Exhale and let your lungs fill with water. Let the
pain all slip away.’ Virgil’s voice bubbled out from the distance, and Max
could just see his head rippling above the surface in the corner of his eye.
Max
held on tight to the air in his lungs. He was
stalling. Just a few more seconds. Suddenly
he began to doubt himself. He began to feel afraid. Was this the only way? He
tried to find some thing to cling to, a reason to stay; some beauty so perfect
that it could save his life. There was none, of course. There had been so many
long ago, he thought. So many questions, so much beauty – so much life and
experience ahead of him. Stop it.
Virgil’s right – just let go. He had nothing to be afraid of - life was the
terrifying place. Life was where the demons dwelt. But death would be
different. Empty. He longed for the emptiness. He longed for the nothingness.
He longed for nothing.
Max
snapped his eyes tightly shut, and as the darkness enveloped him, he slowly let
out the air from his lungs, and it poured out into a torrent of bubbles which
disappeared above his head, popping away to nothing on the surface. He was
ready now. He began to feel his body sinking ever so slightly deeper into the
bathtub.
Just
as he began to open his mouth, and prepared to let the lukewarm water course
into his lungs, he began to hear something. A loud beeping noise was bubbling
through the water, and he instantly recognised it as his smoke alarm. Without
really thinking about what he was doing, Max instantly sat up in the bath and
the piercing sound became instantly louder as the water drained from his ears.
‘What?’
Virgil looked down at him from his perch at the side of the bath, seeming
undisturbed by the whole situation.
‘That
noise,’ said Max, trembling. ‘There’s someone in my house.’
‘There’s
no one in your house, Max, it’s just in your imagination, just get on with it,
before you lose your balls.’
But
Max knew what he was hearing – this wasn’t his imagination. He climbed to his
feet and negotiated his shaking legs out of the bathtub and onto the bathroom
floor. For a second he stood motionless, just listening to the piercing beeping
which stung his ears, and the drip-drip-drip of his saturated suit depositing
his bathwater onto the tiled floor.
‘For
Christ’s sake, Max, it’s nothing,’ snapped Virgil. ‘Just finish it – now.’
But
Max had already begun to make his way towards the hall, apparently with little
care for Virgil’s pushing, leaving tiny pools of glistening water in his path.
There
was someone there alright, Max could tell. After a thirty year career as a
detective, Max had learned to trust his intincts. His flat didn’t feel right,
it felt disturbed. There was definitely someone there. When he reached the
hall, he began to slow his pace down, and he crept, almost tiptoeing towards
the kitchen. As he reached the illuminated archway that led into the kitchen,
he felt many emotions welling inside of him, but mostly he felt anger. I can’t even kill myself without someone
breaking in and interrupting me. He looked around for a weapon, and after
seeing nothing more suitable, he picked up a cane from the hat stand in his
hallway. The cane had a real ivory handle and had belonged to Max’s grandfather
– it had been his pride and joy and Max was certain that he would disapprove of
him using it as a weapon.
Slowly
he tiptoed into his kitchen to see his toaster spewing smoke, and a tall, dark
haired man in dirty, ripped clothes standing in front of it, waving a towel to
try to dissipate the smoke.
‘Who
are you?’ snapped Max from the archway that led into the hall, his cane held
defensively in front of him. ‘What do you want from me?’
The
stranger instantly swung around, and stood, frozen on the spot looking at Max,
before bolting for the door. Max could hear the squelch-squelch-squelch coming
from underneath his feet as he ran after the intruder. A much younger man than
Max, he quickly bolted out of the house, and left without explanation.
Max
stood at his front door, which was still swinging open, and listened to the
man’s footsteps echo down the stairwell. He knew there wasn’t a chance in hell
of catching him, so he stood there and listened until the footsteps died away
and once again all he could hear was the drip-drip-drip of his soaking clothes.
‘No
one here then?’ Virgil’s voice coming from the hallway startled Max. ‘I told
you it was nothing.’
‘There
was a man,’ snapped Max. ‘He was in here just now. His clothes were all ripped
and he looked like shit. And he was making…’ Max walked over to the toaster on
his marble worktop, which had now stopped spewing smoke, and pulled from it a
charred slice of Hovis. ‘…Toast.’
‘Oh,
come on Max,’ sighed Virgil, ‘you have to be kidding.’ He began to walk slowly
towards Max, rolling his eyes. ‘You mean to tell me that at the exact minute
you’re finally ready to do it – that precise second we’re gonna do what we
talked about all these years, a man walks into your house and ruins it?
Bullshit, Max – you’re full of shit. That’s just a little too convenient, mate.’
‘He
was here, in my house,’ pressed Max. ‘I saw him; I’m not making it up.’
‘If
you keep doing this you’ll never escape, Max,’ said Virgil, turning his back in
disgust and walking back towards the bathroom, raising his voice more and more
the further away he got. ‘There’ll always be an excuse; you’ll always find a
reason to pussy out. This isn’t a game, Max. This is atonement.’
Max
dropped the charred toast onto the worktop, and turned to follow Virgil. Maybe
he was right. Maybe he did make this
guy up. It was very convenient timing after all. As he turned, he noticed
something lying there next to the toaster. It was a scrap of paper. He picked
it up and read the handwriting that was scrawled across it.
‘Dear
Max, d’
Dear
Max? He was here. Max hadn’t imagined
him. But who the hell is he? And how does he know my name?
~
Kathy
Heath clambered up the stairs, struggling to keep the recently cracked plant
pot in her hands held together, and to keep the banana plant which it housed
from falling to the ground. She now cursed herself for lugging it all the way
up to Marchmont; but when she had seen it at the office, she thought of her
recently departed new boss and decided to return it. The detective under whom
she had worked, Max Milligan, had left recently (she wasn’t quite sure if had
left of his own accord or not - it was all a bit strange and sudden), and he
had forgotten to take his plant, (which he adored), with him. He had always
seemed such a sad and lonely creature, and Kathy thought it would be a good
deed to return it, and also she wanted to wish detective Milligan all the best
in the future.
Soil
was beginning to leak from the cracks now; as Kathy began the last flight of
stairs. Some idiot had come tearing down the stairs and through the close,
knocking Kathy, and the plant pot, over in the process. He had stopped to
apologise, but not long enough to help Kathy up, or to help retrieve the
cracked plant pot. Bloody idiot, thought Kathy. Why can’t people look where
they’re going?
Kathy
scaled the last few steps and came to the third floor, panting for breath, and
immediately spotted the door labelled ‘Milligan 3F/2’. As she walked over to
it, she noticed that it was sitting slightly ajar.
Max
sat in his armchair, still dripping wet, holding his ivory handled cane across
his lap. The world in front of him was a blurred sea of colours, rippling in
drunken waves. Suddenly, through the silence, Max began to hear creaking coming
from the hallway. Yes… footsteps – he’s back, he thought. He took a tighter
grip of his cane and stumbled to his feet, and before long, a figure appeared
in the doorway.
‘What
do you want from me?’ roared Max at the top of his lungs. ‘Why are you in my
house?’ Then, as he looked closer, he saw that this was no man. As his eyes
began to focus, he realised that it was a woman, standing timidly in the
doorway holding a banana plant.
‘Sorry,
Detective Milligan… I… I didn’t mean to disturb you… I was just bringing your…
and … and your door was open…’
Max
looked closer and recognised the girl. ‘Kathy?’
‘Yes,
Detective Milligan. Sorry, I just wanted to bring you your plant… it’s just you
always seemed to love it so much, I thought you should have it with you…’ Kathy
eyed Max’s soaking clothes and the cane which he held defensively in front of
him. ‘Are you… okay, Detective
Milligan?
Max
sighed and slunk back into his seat. ‘I’m fine,’ he growled.
‘I’m…
I’m sorry about your plant… it got a bit cracked. Some guy knocked me over as I
was coming up the stairs, and-’
‘A
guy? What guy?’ interrupted Max.
‘I
don’t know,’ said Kathy, still visibly quite afraid. ‘Just some guy… he came
tearing down the stairs like the devil was chasing him.
Maybe
he was, thought Max. ‘Was this guy wearing a green jacket and a baseball cap?’
‘Yeah,’
replied Kathy. ‘Do you know him?’
Max
coughed and lit a cigarette, which obscured his face in a cloud of smoke. ‘No,’
he said, almost laughing, ‘but he seems to know me. He broke in here just now,
to my flat.’
‘My
god,’ replied Kathy, feeling the fear that had been welling in her slip away,
‘are you okay? Did he hurt you…what did he take?’
‘Nothing,’
growled Max, feverishly puffing at his smoke. ‘In fact it looked like he was
leaving something…’
Kathy
took a couple of steps towards her old boss, which clearly made Max
uncomfortable.
‘Thanks
for bringing me up my plant, Kathy...’ he said, ‘…but I think you’d better go
now. I… I need to be alone just now.’
Still
Kathy advanced ever closer. ‘Are you hurt? Was there a struggle? Is that why
you’re all wet?’
She
was getting far too close, and now, more than ever, Max needed privacy. ‘Please
Kathy,’ he shouted, startling the girl. ‘I – need – to – be – alone!’
Kathy,
ever the Good Samaritan, put aside her own fears of the ever more irritated,
clearly drunk man in front of her, to ensure that he was okay. ‘But… detective
Milligan… you’re soaked to the skin and out of breath…You’ve just had a break
in! I need to make sure you’re okay before I-’
‘Leave
me alone!’ roared Max, trying to get to his feet. ‘Don’t people knock anymore,
anyway?’ He had to get rid of her. He couldn’t bear human company just now. He
needed to be alone.
‘…the
door was open…’
‘That
doesn’t mean you can come waltzing in here, sticking your nose into my
affairs!’ Max got up and began to stumble towards the hall, reaching for his
overcoat, snapping again. ‘If you won’t bloody well leave, then I will. Show
yourself out, Kathy.’ And with that, he left Kathy alone in his flat, slamming
the door behind him.
Kathy
stood, dumbstruck, still holding the cracked banana plant in Max Milligan’s
hallway, desperately trying to make sense of what had just happened. How
ungrateful, she thought.
Overall
there are a number of benefits. Freedom and complete control are two major ones.
Ultimately, I'm responsible for how successful I am. I have the final say with
edits, book cover, blurb, formatting. If the book bombs, it's on my shoulders.
A rather scary situation in a way. The real problem comes when, for example, a
book isn't selling.You might not know why. People buying books on Amazon don't
exactly fill out questionnaires on why they decided to skip your book. But so
far, the benefits far outweigh the drawbacks. 
Arthur
C. Clark, Stephen King, Raymond Chandler, Richard Matheson and Ray Bradbury.
Those are the big boys I admire the most and I've learned something from each
one of them. 
People
who are thinking of going the self-publishing route often have visions of
overnight success. That does happen, but I think people's expectations have to
be in line with reality. It's a ton of work and it never stops. Between
writing, promoting and everything in the middle, there just aren't enough hours
in the day. That's the reality check. As far as tips, I guess I'd recommend
that self-published authors not try and rush their work to market. Put it out
when it's ready and please have it edited by a professional. You can get this
done for 2-3 hundred dollars and it makes all the difference. Sure, even legacy
books have typos, but we need to change the public perception that we're a
bunch of lazy hacks. Having a great story you intend to fix on the fly isn't
good enough. If you think of it as a business that requires a certain level of
initial investment then good things should follow. 
Lots.
I have writing projects lined up well into 2013. Most of it is top secret
though. What I can tell you is that Hive II is next on my plate and after that
a horror novel involving Nazis. But I may have already said too much… 
.png)
