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Chapter Three.

Grudging Thanks

Stephen walked out of the rear entrance and made his way across the tiny, puddle-strewn car park to the street. The car park only had a dozen spaces and they had all been taken by writer’s club members. Stephen wondered what time he would have to get there to claim one of the spaces. He suspected he would need to be there a good half hour before the meeting started.

The club was situated at the bottom of a narrow street on a steep hill. Close to town, the street was popular with drivers as it was one of the few places left without yellow lines and parking meters. Pedestrians splashed their way along the pavement eager to get to their destination and out of the gathering storm.

Stephen held his plastic document folder above his head and jogged up the hill to his car. By the time he reached it the rain had begun in earnest. A clap of thunder rattled the windows of the taller buildings, a few seconds later a crazy zig-zag of lightning lit up the night sky.

Stephen fired up the engine and switched on the headlights. The music of Snow Patrol roared out from the speakers. He began to sing along as he flicked the indicator and eased his way through narrow gap between the lines of parked cars.

Half way up the street he noticed two figures struggling with an umbrella. Stephen hit a button and the window was lowered.

‘Can I give you a lift?’ he called.

Mick glared from under the peak of his cap.

‘No thanks, we’re fine.’

‘You may be fine, Mick, but I’m getting soaked,’ said Mary. ‘Thank you, young man.’

Mick opened the back door and waited for Mary to get into the car. To his annoyance she opened the front door and climbed in next to Stephen. She snapped on her seat belt as Mick grudgingly threw himself into the rear seat.

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Chapter Four

Work Issues

After dinner Charlotte bought her laptop over and went through her collection of digital photographs that she had taken on safari. Stephen was impressed with her detailed knowledge of the animals and places.

‘You should write it all down, Charlie, I’m sure it would find an audience.’

‘Me, write? as in writing something other than an email or a report? I can’t see it somehow.’

‘I read your emails, they were very descriptive, I think you’ve got a real talent there. It just needs polishing up a bit. While you were away, I joined the local writers group. They’re a strange lot, mainly elderly, but they do have some younger members stashed away in a cupboard somewhere. Why don’t you join too? maybe together we could blow away some of the cobwebs and get it functioning again. What do you say?’

‘Writing, hmm, I have to admit I’ve always fancied the idea. My old English teacher said I should be a journalist. It’s certainly worth thinking about. What do they do at this group?’

‘Not a lot as things stand, but they do have writing competitions every month and they have reading nights, so you can get an idea of what strangers think of your work. Family members and friends are always going to be polite about your writing, and while that’s encouraging, it’s not really going to help.’

Stephen put the last few pages of his novel on the table. Charlotte picked it up and read.

‘This is great,’ she said eventually, ‘where’s the rest of it?’

Stephen tapped his head.

‘In here, I’ve more or less got it all worked out.’

‘So, you wrote the ending first?’

‘Yes, I know, the writers group thought I was mad too. Or at least I think they did; I didn’t get any reaction from them at all when I read it.’

Charlotte pursed her lips and thought for a moment.

‘Thinking about it, it’s quite logical. You should know where you’re going to end up.’

‘That’s how I see it. Of course, when I write the preceding chapters the story might take a major diversion and it may end up in a totally different place, but I just thought I’d give it a go.’

‘If the writers club is so old and crumbly, is there any real point in me joining. They sound a mean old bunch.’

‘I was told they are just scared of change; they know things will have to be done differently if the group is going to survive, but they just can’t face up to that reality.’

‘So, what are you going to do, start a revolution?’

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Chapter Five

The Wrong Side of the Tracks

Chapter Five

It took Stephen the rest of the afternoon to remove the various worms and Trojans that had infiltrated Mick’s computer defences. He ran five spyware scans a full virus sweep and rebooted the machine several times before he was confident that the machine was infection free.

At five thirty Carole popped her head round the door of the workshop.

‘I’m off now boss, I need to call in at the supermarket on the way home. See you tomorrow.’

‘Give me a minute, Carole,’ called Paul, ‘I’ll drop you off, I’m going that way.’

‘Night boss,’ they called together as they left the shop.

Stephen began the final tests on Mick’s PC.

‘No home to go to Mel?’

‘I’ve nothing on tonight, so I’m not in a hurry.’

Stephen heard her slide from her seat, a few seconds later he felt her breast press against his elbow. She slid a hand around his waist and stretched to look over his shoulder.

‘Anything I can do?’ she whispered.

Stephen straightened and edged away to the side.

‘No thanks, Mel, I’m almost done now. I just have to deliver the bloody thing.’

‘Need any company? I’ll come with you if you like.’

‘Thanks for the offer Mel, but I don’t’ want to put you to any trouble.’

Mel pushed her body against him, placed a hand on his hip and looked up into his face.

‘It’s no trouble.’

Stephen tried to back off again but found himself pressed tight up against the wall. He lifted his hands in a defensive posture, then thinking that she might get the wrong idea, stuck them in his pockets instead.

‘Mel… I’

‘Okay, boss, wrong time, wrong place, eh?’

‘Mel, there isn’t a r…’

Mel shushed him, stretched, and placed a soft kiss on his lips.’

‘Another time then. Goodnight.’

She turned away, picked up her bag and performed a catwalk wiggle across the workshop, Stephen’s eyes followed her every movement. When she reached the workshop door, she looked over her shoulder and blew a kiss.

‘See you tomorrow boss.’

Stephen wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

‘That was a close one,’ he said aloud.

At six-thirty he loaded the repaired computer into the boot of his BMW, locked up the shop and joined the tail end of the rush hour traffic. He pushed a Deep Purple CD into the player and turned up the volume. As he drove along the ring road, he began to think about a new plot twist for his novel. He decided it would take the story off at a tangent but it might make it stronger in the end.

As he drove through the council estate, he spotted a small convenience store and pulled up at the side of the road. Stephen followed a well-used path that had been worn into the grass bank and climbed the slight incline. The Mini Mart was the first in a small line of shops.

On the pavement outside, a group of hooded teenagers leaned against a wall talking in their own coded language. Stephen hurried into the store trying not to make eye contact.

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Chapter Six

The ‘Orgy’

Chapter Six

At the end of Redvale Lane, Stephen pulled onto the grass verge, picked up Mick’s job sheet and entered the address details into his sat-nav.

‘After three hundred yards, turn left,’ he was advised.

A few minutes later he pulled up in front of a short row of terraced houses. Mick’s was right in the centre at number four. Stephen flipped the latch on the wrought iron gate and stepped up to the red painted front door. There was a choice of a bell push or a brass knocker. He chose the bell push, there was no reply, so he beat a rat-a-tat-tat with the door knocker.

A woman’s head popped out of the upstairs window at number three.

‘What are you after?’

‘I’m looking for Mr Morrison,’ said Stephen. ‘I’ve got a delivery for him.’

‘He’s not in.’

Stephen looked at his watch.

‘I suppose I am a bit late.’

‘It wouldn’t matter what time you turned up, he’s never in these days,’ advised the woman.

‘Any idea when he’ll be back?’

‘Could be any time, I’ve seen him sneak back in after midnight. Is it a parcel? I can take it in if you like. I’ll make sure he gets it.’

‘No, it’s not a parcel, I’m returning his computer. I need to set it up for him and show him a couple of new programs.’

‘Computers?’ she spat. ‘At his age?’

‘There’s no age limit on using them,’ said Stephen. ‘Most people have one these days.’

‘And we all know what people get up to on them too, that Intynet is full of sex.’

The woman looked up and down the street then came to a decision.

‘Hang on a minute, I’ll come down.’

Stephen moved to her front gate.

There was the sound of bolts being drawn and keys being turned. A few seconds later she stepped out of her doorway patting her steel grey hair into place. She bustled down the path towards him before coming to an abrupt halt just short of the gate.

‘Who did you say you were?’

‘I didn’t, but I’m Stephen King. I run a computer repair shop in town.’

‘You ought to be writing books with a name like that,’ she observed.

‘It has been mentioned,’ said Stephen.

‘Got any ID? You could be anyone.’

Stephen handed her a business card. She held it close to her face, then squinted at it from a distance.

‘Left my glasses on the coffee table,’ she confided. She put the card in the pocket of her cardigan. ‘I’ll read it later.’

‘Any idea where Mick will be?’

‘It’s Mick now is it? It was Mr Morrison a minute ago.’

‘I know him from the Westwich Writers Club, as well as being a customer, Mrs?’

‘Wilde, Mavis.’

‘Do you have a son called Oscar?’ Stephen joked.

‘Oscar’s my cat.’

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