“I’m headed for a land that’s far away

Beside the crystal fountains

So come with me, we’ll go and see

The Big Rock Candy Mountains”

He sang along with the beats of the cold wind that blew towards the direction of the high clockwork towers. Loose and tattered threads made movements of oriental dance as he swung the bag like the giant swaying pendulum that now stood motionless near him. Sharp minute crystals of frost grew on its raised glass coverings, projecting upwards into the air.

“In the Big Rock Candy Mountains

There’s a land that’s fair and bright

Where the handouts grow on bushes

And you sleep out every night”

He peeled off his fake beard and slid it inside the old bag. The orange wig that rested on his head with the support of the beard rolled down eventually into the bag as he cocked his head to remove the plastic canines. He really was a different man without those cheek pads and the red ball of a nose.

“It’s Jolly, the joker!” they would run to him. He was never the clown children could be afraid of. He could make the most serious man laugh. He could do the trick no warlock could. Yet behind all those pranks and spoofs were innocent eyes that mirrored the shades of bright laughter and summery smiles. He was the real joker.

Twelve notes sounded from the city gong resonating the circus, each beat ending with a prolonged ritardando. The most beautiful phase of time. The very hour of typical Australian midnight. Jolly spun his bag around, making sharp, flat sounds with his thick boots and danced zigzagging towards the faucet that stood near the giant ferris wheel. Water flowed on his face, as he rubbed his cheeks with the back of his knuckles, washing away the flakes of his commanding make-up. He whistled as he filled his empty bottle, a whistle that went continuous and endless, sounding so unique as if the whole of midnight stopped to listen to him. The moon was magnolious that day, barring the clouds, sending her lustre take the form of a halo around her head. She didn’t shine. She didn’t glow. She was dazzling.

His whistle was cut sharp by the loud cries of a little child. His eyebrows raised, following the call that came from the skies. Surely, it can’t be the stars. He shadowed the cries closely, scanning through the graphite clouds. An eerie feeling creeped down his spine as he heard minor sounds of clinking metal. He read the skies, his eyes widening, letting out a knee-jerk gasp. The sound came from the ferris wheel.

The top carriage shook from left to right, going mad like a deranged elephant. He ran to pull the lever that spun the wheel but it was forced and tied with thick iron chains, all connected with a single intricate lockwork. He spread his fingers around a thick block of heavy granite that slept on a wooden pedestal near him, trying to break open the lock. But the moment it hit the metal surface, it crumbled to powder.

The cries grew louder pounding his eardrums, as he stopped for a moment to check if he was hallucinating. He rolled his shoulders, pushed the sleeves up, put his gloves back on, and climbed into a carriage. He stretched his arms outward and upward and with his supple fingers and climbed into the next carriage. His acrobatic skills gave him a hand as he mounted up and up and up until he reached the top carriage. His palms burned red underneath his gloves as he cracked his knuckles, all ten of them in rapid succession. He searched inside the carriage to find the source of the cries, till his boots bumped onto something.

He bent down and sat on his knees as he came in contact with two teary eyes that shone like freshly polished pebbles, washed from the sea. Jolly smiled, his usual joker smile and stretched his right hand into the blackness as a little hand reached out and touched his dirty blue gloves. A little boy, barely a year old, crept from the dark, struggling to stand on his knees. Jolly took him into his arms and with one giant leap, he vaulted towards the ground, rolling himself like a ball, making sure the boy was safe. The boy screamed, a loud ear-piercing scream which collapsed into a cough as Jolly put a finger to his lips.

He fumbled to find his water bottle and slowly glugged little sips of water into his throat. The boy ran his tongue over his chapped lips, gesturing for more. His face was red and pale with dry tears that rolled behind his ears, wetting his sideburns. Jolly loved watching his neck move in and out with every swig. He turned the bottle-cap and slipped it back in his bag. He let the boy rest on his back, carrying him, his arms looped around his neck.

“Ready for home, boy?” Jolly asked, closely watching his grey eyes spread wide open. “Aye? Okie then.”

*

He looked at the boy who sat there, deadpan, his eyelids fluttering from time to time. He wore a wide-collar, perfectly tailored pea coat with buckled leather shoes and tight socks that stretched up to his knees.

“A vest, a shirt, a coat, ain’t that a lot, boy?” Jolly chuckled. “Was yer name?” His mouth stretched wide, trying to weave words he knew but couldn’t produce. Finally he said something, hardly louder than a breath, but Jolly heard it.

“Yova,” the boy had said. Certainly, that can’t be a name. Jolly wrinkled his brows, replaying the movement of the boy’s lips.

“Did yer say, Noah?” he asked, with the newly found curiosity. But the boy shook his head and repeated his utterance.

“Guess yer got the sound wrong, boy,” Jolly said, scratching his jawline. “Les start from scratch.” It all began with Arthur and Elijah and trailed on to Luca, Joshua, Ezra, Tyler and all those circus boy names Jolly could think of.

“Edward?” he asked, one hand clenching his forehead in vexation, the other resting on his hip. The boy let out a slow whistling breath and his face lit up with a tint of rouge as if a chemical fluid had been injected into his cheeks. He smiled, revealing his baby teeth, and nodded his head in affirmation.

“Edward! Yer Edward!” Jolly shouted in delight, throwing his arm in the air. He joined his hands together, his fingers interlocking each other, holding the back of his head like a pillow.

“Yova!” the boy repeated, joining with Jolly who floated in the realm of happiness of cracking the cryptic name. He advanced towards the boy, taking him by his armpits and swung him around like on a flying carousel. The boy chuckled, enjoying the free ride, his face scintillating with eternal jubilation. “Glad yer din scream this time.”

*

“Grab yer papers, people!” he shouted at the top of his voice, pedalling down the placid roads of the sleeping city. Edward slept inside the bicycle-basket, letting out bonny little snores as a fine line of saliva dribbled down his coffee-coloured coat. Jolly picked up a newspaper balancing the cycle with one hand, rolled it like a barrel and threw it inside a house’s open window. His eyes were screwed on the little boy, never bothering to take a look at the headlines.

The sun wasn’t up. The azaleas hadn’t opened. The wrens were asleep. But Jolly was wide awake, his legs busy propelling the bicycle. “Prince Edward goes missing! Windsor castle in a frenzy!” The words were printed in bold letters in the darkest of inks, only to blind Jolly’s eyes.

“Grab yer papers, people!” he shouted, not knowing who he is carrying, not knowing he is being watched, not knowing that this is all planned.

#midnight #weeklysnippets

Fate’s nails were red. At first, she’d tease them across your skin, but inevitably, those ruby blades always sliced to the bone. That was how she kept them red.

Ricardo’s mother told him this the moment she deemed him a man. “Watch out for that temptress,” she said.

Ricardo always listened to his mother.

Yet, he pulled over on the rural road. Parked in a freshly mowed field was a truck the same blood color as Fate’s nails. It could have been the truck of his dreams had he dared have such dreams. A “For Sale” sign propped against its windshield. Before he knew it, his hands were gliding across its buffed hood, then shielding his eyes as he peeked in the windows.

“Beauty, ain’t she?” said a man in an unbuttoned suit jacket and overalls.

Ricardo shrugged. “It’s alright.”

“’Twas my grandpa’s, and he don’t need her no more, so she needs a good home.”

Ricardo gulped. He could be that good home. His car ran fine, but this truck was water in the desert—something he hadn’t known he needed tied up with a red bow and delivered by Fate.

As he peeked at the price written in the sign’s margin, Ricardo gripped the cashier’s check in his pocket. Who needed a vacation when he could have the truck of his non-existent dreams?

“Dios en los cielos, bring me not into temptation,” Ricardo prayed. Silly to tell God that God was in heaven, but his mother always said it that way.

He released the check and pulled out an inhaler.

“Asthma?” Overalls asked.

“It’s preventative.” Two puffs through the hollow plastic mouthpiece punctuated his reply.

Overalls leaned over the hood. “This beauty could be called preventative, too. She’ll be whatever you need, guaranteed.”

Ricardo didn’t need a truck, but somehow, he signed paperwork and handed over his vacation money. He pulled onto the highway in the Fate’s vehicle, windows down, wind singing through his hair, and radio blaring. She had given him a gift. He should have known the backswing was coming.

The truck waited in the parking lot while he worked. Clouds covered the sun and poured their wealth onto the sizzling blacktop when he emerged from the office building, shoulders slumped and head drooping as low as his loosened tie.

He climbed into the truck, not noticing how he dripped on the pristine upholstery. “Dios de mi madre, what am I going to do?” His arms and face collapsed over the steering wheel. “I need someone to talk to.”

The truck shuddered, shrank, and folded until he sat on the cement in the pouring rain. A dog with fiery fur rested her head on his knee.

Ricardo looked around. “A-are you a shapeshifting robot? A guardian angel?” He lowered his voice. “A devil?”

The dog stared, understanding in her round, golden eyes. Just like headlights.

He patted her head. “W-what would happen if I said I needed someone who could explain a few things?”

hold me, as I melt in your arms,

like tears made of iridescent wings.

haunting sirens, forgotten alarms,

just to wear your paper rings. 

tell me, that the world isn't cruel, 

as you sip on ruby blood.

and you pick me out, jewel after jewel,

till it flows furiously, as a flood.

my fire never burnt you,

as you were always made of ice.

darkened by horrors untrue,

and so you rolled the dice.

to haunt me until I fell for,

your game and tilted stage.

you whispered to me and swore,

that we were on the same page.

I'm just like you, both the same 

thick as blood and light like water,

the difference is the way we play the game,

in the eyes of those I slaughter. 

you were fine as you walked away,

armored with the fire from my eyes,

and left only the cold and gray,

then promised me your striking lies.

the walls came crumbling down,

and in the rubble fell the key,

and even though you got the crown,

darling, what about me?

My friend, this is it. The day we finally write something worth reading. Today. This. very. day.

I know I said that yesterday and the day before and possibly the day before that, but this time I really mean it. Just give it a couple of hours and we’ll actually complete something! I won’t even put it off till later and leave you waiting like I did last time … but let’s not talk about old unfinished things, the past is dead and gone. This is the present we’re talking about! And there’s no time like the present, we both know that. So just let me brew a pot of tea and I’ll be right with you.

You and I are going to do great things once I can get a rough idea of what we’ll write today. Some people plot their stories, you know, type them all out nice and fancy to some set rule and plan their protagonists and antagonists and everything so that they can claim they worked on character development and such, but we don’t need that kind of posh rubbish, we just create a loose plot and go with the flow, eh? Well, anyway, I had this great idea for a novel - where’s my mug? - and it’s about this girl who works at a cafe. She needs a backstory, right, to make her interesting and to sort of lay a foundation for personal development; that kind of thing is important. So we can begin with the typical car accident where her parents or boyfriend die or some such and expand on it later, make it a bit more unique. What, you don’t like it? Stop looking at me like that. I know it doesn’t sound very original yet but there’ll be a twist, I just have to do some more brainstorming, okay? I’ll think of something eventually, I promise. For now I just want to make a start. I said, don’t look at me like that! I’m doing all the work here, you don’t even offer any suggestions. But let's get back to it. So basically she’s ... what’s the word ... oh, scarred. That’ll look good on the back cover synopsis, see. We could even use it as the title. It’s an impressive word so it’d stand out and hook potential readers. Scarred. Definitely using that. We’re really onto something here. So, Protagonist, let’s just call her Alice - actually, we’ll change it up a bit to become Alyce, that’s more unique - meets this guy named Dominic - pretty slick name, huh - in the park one day when she’s sitting down at her lunch break. Dominic is this French guy ... no, no, too cliche, make him Romanian ... with deep blue eyes and black hair and a long scar running down his left cheek, and he’s part of an organisation that kidnaps girls like Alyce for whatever reason, we’ll figure out that angle further along; remember, we’re still at the beginning. But before he kidnaps her he has to lead her into it, can’t just grab her and throw her into his car like they do in way too many movies. He has to befriend her first. And on a side note, she’s super pretty, okay. She’s not really aware of it because of her insecurities due to being traumatised. See, we’re really getting into the zone here! You feeling me? Seeing where this is heading? Yeah? No? Oh. I get it. I get it. You’re not going to be responsive today. Okay ... that’s not a problem, I’ve exhausted my mental energy anyway. You know what? I’m just going to leave it. We’re both tired. I’ll sleep on it and in the morning I’ll have thought of a more detailed plot, it doesn’t have to involve a car accident if you don’t like that idea, I just thought it would help to give our character a difficult backstory and improve her whole personal development thing. And the organisation might not work because, to be frank, I don’t know much about organisations like that and how they operate and all the technical stuff. I do like the black haired, blue eyed Romanian thing, though.

Anyway, we’ll get back to this. I tell you, tomorrow is the day we write something really good.

If we were having coffee, it’d be in Ireland. A small bar, reminiscent of a piece of a home buried deep within your heart. We could sit in a small booth, the jade leather seat cool under my legs. You'd drum your fingers along to a hushed tune in your head against the honey-colored wooden table. I’d watch as the dim light hangs over us, casting a soft light unto your face, creating the most imperceptible flakes of gold in your blue eyes. The bar would be quiet, other than the muted murmurs of locals. The smell of coffee and sweet smoke would drift over, creating a hazy trance. It would be ten in the night, we would have just watched the sunset over Irish cliffs, too late for wine, too early for whiskey. Eventually, the music in the town would grow louder, marking the start of the night's festivities, and you would take my hand, softly, but sure of the adventure that follows and we would dance under Irish stars.

If we were having coffee, it’d be in Amsterdam. Midnight. We’d be walking adjacent to the canals, the reflection of the moon turning the water into a mirrorball. It would be quiet, yet filled with sounds of a sleeping city. The streetlights would light the cobblestone streets, leading us to the small coffee stand which is only light by small, slogan string lights hanging from the menu. I’d watch the steam from my coffee rise as it mixed with the smell that the whispering breeze carries. You’d turn to me and raise your cup as you take the first sip. There’d be a quiet moment, as I just watched you and listened. Far off, we’d hear music, but it wouldn’t be like a beat in my heart, rather smooth, like the very blood flowing through my veins. We’d sit on a bench, overlooking the iridescent canal and I’d rest my head on your shoulder, because that would be enough, you, me, Amsterdam, and coffee.

If we were having coffee, it’d be in Barcelona. A small restaurant in a narrow, cobblestone alley at two in the morning. Soft light coming from the lamps above would blanket the street. The smell would hit me first, the rich coffee beans and the sweet smell of pastries and jam. I can hear the music play, a quiet, stripped version of a tango. You’d play with my fingers as if they were strings on a midnight guitar. The coffee would be hot in our hands as we exit into the cool night. As we walk up the alleyway, the cobblestone walls start to look less lonely. In a small corner, a few hundred feet away from a street in a small, handcrafted iron table. We set our drinks down and I shiver as my fingers trace the floral designs on the table, yet I’m warm under your leather jacket. For the first time, I feel the music in my veins, and I begin to dance, alone at first. You sit at the table, watching me as if there was nothing else in this city to look at, shaking your head. But without hesitation, you get up and take my hand, saying that it’s such a shame to let me dance alone and that I am promised all your early morning dances.

If we were having coffee, it’d be in New York, on top of 30 Rockefeller Plaza at one in the morning. If we were having coffee, it’d be in South Africa as we watch the waves softly caress the sand. If we were having coffee, it’d be in Seattle, on Mount Rainer. If we were having coffee, it’d be in the favelas of Rio, as we watch the sunrise. If we were having coffee, it’d be in Paris, or Rome, or London, or Tokyo. If we were having coffee, it’d be in an airport at 4 a.m. and you’d complain about the bad airport coffee while we watch planes take off, mistaking them for stars and I'd fall in love with you all over again.

I suppose the bottom line is, I don’t care where we have coffee, I just hope we do.

So, this happened to me not too long ago... it was embarrassing, but funny. XD

There were two guys who came to fix our oven about a month or so ago, and they wore masks and everything. I, being the eldest at home, let them in and showed them the oven. I then sat down and did my schoolwork.

A little while later one guy asked me if we have a stepstool. I, not understanding what he had said, stared at the air, and thought.... then I asked, “A.... stethoscope?”

He laughs, along with the other guy, and says slower and more clearly, “A stepstool.” I heard it more clearly that time, and hurried to find one. I sat back down, so embarrased.

My sister had been holding back her laughter and later asked, “Why would they have needed a stethoscope?!?!”

We all make mistakes, right? XD

we met under dark skies,

the golden light seeping through the cracks.

It clashed with your blue eyes

and danced with mine in illicit acts.

I remember in the dark,

how a smile played at your lips.

You were an incandescent spark,

the light in my total eclipse.

I was drunk on the sounds of your laugh,

the way it held the gaze of my soul,

I wanted more than I could have,

but it wasn't I who quietly stole.

Take my thoughts, my head, my heart,

I whisper softly unto you,

drown your sorrows as we fall apart,

as you promise that me dreams come true.

I remember when you passed me by,

and I first went weak at the knees,

I put down my sword, swore to try,

as I fell into you with ease.

I'll swear to the stars above,

and to the raging seas below,

that I knew I was in love,

and there wasn't anywhere I wouldn't go.

I hope I get to love you,

time and time once more,

gaze into your eyes so blue,

a story in the stars of lore.

So if I can't have you in this life,

then I know we'll meet again

my hand will always fit in yours,

even from the outside looking in.

The village of Pogorevolo was never one to boast about its pride and cultural heritage. Located 340 miles away from the capital city of Moscow, the neglected land in the middle of nowhere had a single piece of infrastructure left untouched- A country home, built sometime near the beginning of the twentieth century. It was a house abandoned by the family after their husband’s demise- the place never accommodated another sign of human life. Later, in the 1970s, an artist bought the house purely out of love for art, or so everyone thought. Nobody ever knew his name; Nobody ever knew how he looked; Nobody even knew if it was him or her; people just assumed. And in a rugged, neglected, little village down in the middle of nowhere, it never mattered.

The young guard, well-built and in his twenties, paced across the grim hallway of the godforsaken building. He had urgent news to pass- one that no one craved to hear. After all, no one ever yearns to uncover the five orange pips in their letterbox. They would rather be pleased to hear from an old friend or a family member, who they never knew existed. But today was not one among those days where a certain someone could sip their hot coffee, watching the rain pattering against the windows so strong as if the droplets desired to come indoors. Neither were the past few weeks.

The young man, after a momentary pause for reflection, shouldered open the wooden doors. The fire blazed steadily in the hearth, its eventual crackling giving away its existence. The man, who they were all sworn to protect, remained motionless, staring away into the distant grey woods. General Samuel Stern was one of the most high-ranking officials in the Scotland Army. His excellent records and ground-breaking achievements often bestowed him as the definition of a perfect soldier- one willing to lay down his life for the country. But little did anyone know that General Stern also commanded the Brotherhood of Tradesmen, the looming threat that the government could never cleanse out of their radars. All until the end of October.

Secret societies and fraternities that prevailed throughout history did so because of their one, most powerful equipment in their inventory- their secrecy. The principle was so simple- As long as no one ever knew of their existence, they could never be shoved away into extinction. And the Brotherhood of Tradesmen survived, over the many decades that transformed the world in ways no one ever imagined, due to the very reason. They were invisible, and yet, they were everywhere. They were Gods. So when a gentleman labelled Edward McKenzie began unearthing their wrongdoings, one by one, slowly threatening to bring them to light, they had no other choice but to pluck him away from the game of life. Survival at all costs. But this minor death lost them a bit too much than they expected.

Even before the young man could address the reason behind him gasping for air, General Stern offered him a question, eliminating the need for a mundane introduction, “Is it David?” The guard, though initially surprised, gradually realised that it was not that difficult a riddle to be solved. And a simple nod was enough for the high-ranked, stained officer to confirm his obvious suspicion. He rose from the antique chair, ready to face the young man, who was trying to procure the rest of the speech that he had to convey, “Sir, we need to transfer you to someplace safe.”

The General smirked at the comment, “Safe? And where must be that,” He reached for the ID of the young guard, squinting his eyes to conceal his definite requirement of glasses, “Jeffrey?” But before the guard could explain their elaborate plan of escape, Stern had proceeded to the other end of the room, uninterested. He faced the bookshelves accommodating the numerous titles, ones he was familiar with in his past. Though Jeffrey’s words echoed within the aesthetic chamber, none of them succeeded to disrupt Stern in the least.

“Have you met him? David.” General Stern interrupted Jeffrey from further elaborating his excellent escaping endeavour. Already discouraged, the young man felt even more inferior to realise that Stern had no reluctance to let him realise that his words were worthless. “Yes, sir. Once.” His reply was quick and sharp- the precise mode of communication between a senior official and an inexperienced soldier. Stern discerned the uneasiness he had given the young man by not listening to a single syllable that he spoke- words not being valued or heard. It is always hurtful, whether it be an unstable relationship or an immature teenager, not that he cared about it.

“And you still believe that you can prevent him? Apprehend him?” The General’s words laced with scorn and a concealed sadness over an eventual fate were beyond anything that the young man could find a response. Jeffrey lowered his head in silence- he could pitch an entire spreadsheet of reasons and possibilities, but he knew, inside his heart, that no words or speeches could bring this man down from his enormous egocentric mind.

“David.” Stern sneered, “He is like the wind, a gush of air. You can feel him coming, but once you reach out your hands and hold him,” The General demonstrated the same as vigorous as he could, with a closed fist above the young guard’s shoulder, “He will be gone.” Stern freed his clenched fist in front of the young man, blowing off the little air that he captured in his attack. “Disappearing into thin air. Now, if you want,” Stern sought his faint memories for the name he just learned, “Jeffrey. Don’t wait till the eleventh hour. Get out of here as soon,” His words came to a sudden halt with a tiny object clattering on the floor amidst the two.

########

This was supposed to be one big story. But um, I was trying something new, you know- including more descriptions, more imagery, a slower pace and some other little things ^-^ And it turned out too big. To be honest, I still haven’t finished it. So, I thought that it might be a better idea to divide the piece in two. Hopefully, it ends in two (: And um, the next part will be a bit darker than all of my posts. I hope it turns out okay... So, I hope you guys like this one ^-^ His stories are coming to an end soon. So... I shouldn’t have said that XD Anyway, as always, thanks a lot for the support, guys. I would never have done any of this if it wasn’t for you all. Lots of love, CS. <3

#fiction

A long time back, in Denmark, 

There ruled a king, so wise, so strong 

With such a heart and not one foe,

He was killed by his own brother Claudio!

The queen, the prince, the kingdom mourned 

“Who will be our next king?” a question rose 

Right in time for Claudius,

Whom the queen married in just two months!

She chose this bloke to bed and throne

Not knowing he was evil from skin to bone!

Then one day, truth reached the son,

Who pledged the demise of this demon.

But he never expected that somehow,

This would take the life of his lady love

Whose brother then challenged the young prince,

For a duel in the royal province.

Little did the young prince know, 

That his opponent had a poisoned bilbo 

A sword presented by Claudius,

That could kill a man in a minute or less!

Though the prince won his fight,

The poison was killing him from inside.

As sins once made, won’t leave without a scar, 

Fate began to play its part.

Suddenly the queen’s face turned dun, 

As she drank the wine meant for her son

Now that all he adored was gone, 

The prince’s wrath began to spawn.

With every ounce of energy he possessed,

He edged towards the vile tyrant 

And stabbed him with his own bilbo 

And made him drink the wine he poured.

Can a man’s life be more tragic? 

Can a person be more stoic? 

But that’s the tale of the Denmark prince

Who suffered so much, yet never winced!

Will you be pleased to know his name?

Will you join me and spread his fame?

Then say, loud enough to bring the roof to the floor,

Hail Hamlet! Hail Hamlet! The real hero!

The Mystery of Harmville was the worst manuscript Daniel had ever read and, as a literary agent, he had read many poorly constructed novels. Set in the bleak landscape of Dartmoor, the story was a thinly veiled copy of Doyle’s Baskervilles though it lacked the charm and character of the Sherlock classic.

To make matters worse, it had been written by Daniel’s most successful client. J. E. Henshaw had found critical acclaim with her Bonecleaver saga, a fantasy epic spanning thirteen books. When she tried her hand at horror, Universal Pictures snapped up the rights for her first offering, A Gentle Undoing, and commissioned three further screenplays. Already a well-known figure in reading circles, Henshaw’s name was getting known in the film industry.

Daniel knew Henshaw could write. She had crafted characters which resonated as truly human – flawed, hopeful, passionate – and weaved tales which were relatable to all, whether set on the mountains of Virginia or within her constructed land of Aberresal. Awards littered her drawing room and her deft use of language and brought tears to his eyes on more than one occasion.

So why would her foray into the thriller genre be such a bust? Daniel could not work it out. The only silver lining was that no-one else had read the offending work. Henshaw was very protective with her writing, only sharing with Daniel once the piece had been completed in its entirety.

Knowing he had to speak to her to discuss the dramatic change her talent had taken, he had emailed, called and texted her a hundred times in the past week but had received no reply. Finally, concerned with her well-being, Daniel knew he had no option but to call upon her home.

Pulling up on the drive of her five-bedroom detached home, Daniel spotted the Mini Cooper parked by the garage entrance. At least she was home, he thought with relief.

He used the antique doorknocker to announce his presence and waited. Before too long, he heard a faint voice approaching. Although muffled by the thick wood, the tone sounded as though the speaker was cursing.

The sound of a lock disengaging preceded the opening of the door. A young woman in her mid-twenties looked up at him. Daniel knew Henshaw lived alone with her cat and dog, and his suspicion was immediately roused.

‘Hello,’ Daniel said brightly. ‘I’m here to see Juliet.’

‘Sh’ain’t ’ere,’ the woman answered frostily.

‘Pardon?’ he asked, not understanding.

’She. Ain’t. ’ere.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Gesturing Henshaw’s car, he added, ‘Well, she can’t have gone far and I’m happy to wait.’

The woman’s brow creased in annoyance.

‘I’m Juliet’s agent,’ he introduced himself. ‘I’ve been here many times before. I’ll just help myself to a nice Earl Grey while I wait.’

Before the door could be closed, Daniel pushed his way in and began walking to kitchen. As he went, he cast furtive eyes though the open doors to the lounge and dining room, looking for signs that something was amiss. Everything seemed in place.

‘Do you want a drink while I’m making one, Miss…?’

‘Parker,’ she answered gruffly. ‘No.’

‘And did Juliet say how long she would be?’

‘Five foot six.’

Daniel uttered a small laugh to humour Parker. Her demeanour and aloof attitude were ringing so many alarm bells in his head, he was having trouble hearing himself think. He was worried Henshaw had fallen foul of this uncouth woman.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, he wandered over to the breakfast counter. Henshaw’s laptop was sitting next to a heavy looking heptahedron. About eight inches in height, the seven sides of the object were unequal. Getting closer, he noticed white line drawing on the dark surface.

‘This is interesting,’ he said as he picked it up. It was cooler than he expected, perhaps made from jet. Parker bristled as he lifted it.

On the first plane, the silhouette of a man held aloft a thin-bladed knife. Beneath him was the Roman numeral I. Twisting it around, he saw the head and shoulders of a woman behind a steering wheel, long tresses cascading from under her cap. The legend bore III. Face IV showed the image of a queen wearing a garland of garlic and flowers, her expression heartbroken. It took Daniel some time to figure out the next picture, V; the small cat was immediately obvious, but he couldn’t fathom the strange protuberance on its head. Image VI displayed a young man sobbing over the body of a dying fawn.

At the next turn of the object, Daniel was presented by nothing but the numerals II. He held it out to Parker, and asked, ‘Why this there no picture on this one?’

The woman shrugged. ‘Dunno. Guess there’s no romance left in t’world.’

Having inspected six of the seven sides of the unusual piece of art, Daniel began to turn it around to seek out the final face. Parker shot forward and clutched his wrists.

‘Don’t,’ she hissed. Her eyes pleaded with him and Daniel felt a sudden pang of sympathy for her.

‘Why?’ he whispered. ‘What is this?’

‘Don’t,’ she repeated. She tightened her grip, her nails digging into Daniel’s flesh.

With a yelp of pain, he pulled his arms back sharply and broke free from Parker but in doing lost his purchase on the prize. In slow motion, he watched it tumble from his fingertips and spin around as it fell.

Before it hit the floor, it turned enough to reveal the seventh plane. A moment’s clarity was all he was afforded before his world fractured apart.