End Of Story. (510 hits)
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Submitted by <v_charrot91.at.hotmail.com> (View user info) at 2004-05-26 11:49:02 EDT
People from anywhere other than Britain will probably not know what this is. So, i'll tell you; This is a contest that involves having to finish the end of a story by a few famous writers. I chose to try to finish Ian Rankin's story. It's called Billy Bone. Unfortunately i'm in the position where i'm too young to actually enter. I've done this to pass the time. To see how the start of the story went visit www.bbc.co.uk/endofstory.
Sighing wearily, he concluded that a pint was what he needed.
He sank into the lush, leather seats. Clutching a near-stub cigarette between his shaking fingers, his tie slackened off to below the 'appropriate level of use', as his former boss informed his naïve colleagues so very often, and halfway through his second pint the solitary detective found himself in a position of being eyed apprehensively by the barman.
"Not out with the lads tonight then, eh, Haston?" he enquired warmly. Haston merely took a swig of his Lager, slowly as you like, before sluggishly wiping his mouth free of the burdened-stained foam with his sleeve.
"No", he replied, taking one last draw of his comforting friend and crushing it casually in the cheap foil ashtray.
"Well, I suppose a man every so often needs some time to himself. Thinking time, like."
"Mhmm". Gerry tried once more, in a last, and one even might say 'desperate' attempt to trigger a conversation.
"How's the Mrs?" The room was wrapped in an awkward silence for several moments. The detective, seemingly in a trance, encouraged the barman to repeat himself.
"How's the Mrs?" No reply. By this time all the inhabitants of the pub had their curious, eager eyes set on Hanson. Why couldn't the fat sod keep to himself?, the detective thought.
"Hanson? Did you hear, mate? I said, "How's the M-"
"Fucking great!" he smiled a smile. One of great sarcasm and one that a face could never bare no matter how genuinely great things could be. With his face still clad with a cold expression of greatly sarcastic joy, which he previously achieved on many an occasion, he walked out from the musty filled room to the sudden pierce of evening Scottish weather, with no intentions of returning and paying for his consumption of his, what he thought at the time, 'loyal companions'.
Being a criminal always had its consequences. Loss of reputation, for instance. The constant threat of being pulled up, almost like the sword of Damoclese, hanging from a thread above: Unpredictable. Both of these consequences Billy had previously experienced. Perhaps even because of his, one constable had once remarked, 'dodgy' reputation will cause trouble for him in the future, with ever watchful, supervising eyes on him. This, Billy Bone considered for maybe the hundredth or so time, as he mistakenly rolled, troubled, onto his bruised side from the car accident on the lumpy bed. He let a sharp yell escape his dry mouth as he was momentarily blinded by the thin streak of light piercing through a gap in the curtains. Sitting up abruptly he cursed violently some more.
He gave a sharp look at the alarm clock sitting on the cheap, peeling bedside table. Half-past ten...Sod it! He quickly snatched his leather jacket and old, fading and noticeably ripped jeans. Why was he always late for the appointments? Why the bloody appointments?
The figure of a tall man leaned against the bar. His foot twitched in frustration and glances at his watch were considered usual from those of them who watched him with curious eyes. A raise of a hand and a nod of the head was all the barman needed to know that his customer requested another Glenlivet. He drank it down quickly. He had forgotten the taste of a good whisky and this Glenlivet stuff was bloody good. A discrete nod of the head yet again and a smile of acknowledgement bought the man another drink. This time, he thought, he'll drink it slowly. Cherish it. And it didn't come cheap, either. He was just a meagre dealer; the pay wasn't exactly generous... Ah, he thought. It just occurred to him why he hadn't tasted a good whisky in years. The distinct shape of a Peugeot 305 spluttering its way to a stop outside caught the dealer's eye. Looking through the stained windows he found himself peering at the man he was looking for. Stumbling through the doors, Billy was greeted with open arms.
"Long time no see, Billy", the man said. "Long time no see."
Haston couldn't help but feel more depressed than ever. He had turned to the drink again, and his wife fell into an oblivion of worry, leading her to not leaving the house at anytime. A constant nurse, comfort and psychologist to him was all a man ever needed, but yet he still felt as troubled as ever. As the months went by with no evidence of the crime committed by Billy Bone and with only a hunch to go by, the detective set his mind as much as he could onto other tasks, but to no avail. Every night that same, spine-chilling name that sent curdles of Goosebumps rippling on his skin kept him awake. Billy Bone...
He awoke one mournful Saturday morning and felt the sudden urge of tasting a bitter drop of whisky on his tongue. He glanced awkwardly over his sleeping wife to the alarm clock on her side of the bedside table. Nine-o'clock. The Gooses' feathers would have just opened. The debating with his conscience was no good. It lost and he was dressed within a few minutes.
Billy Bone stepped backwards, eyes warm and open.
"Jesus, Gerry", he said, "How long has been? Five, six years?" The man chuckled whole-heartedly.
"Something like that. What took you so long? The barman kept on looking like at any time he'd tell me to go away with the amount of drink I had. I was worried for a minute."
"Well, I'm here now. You're looking good. Been working out, eh? It's not like you to go down the gym." They laughed again, and eventually the siblings got round to talking about old times. Yet neither of them knew that in the far corner, where the shadows lurked, was Haston. Seething more than ever. He had made out that they were either close friends or relations, due to the fact that phrases like 'Aye, mum's doing well. The Bingo's been a bit of a miss for her lately, though' and 'No, not yet. Just waiting for the right person to come along' floated up to where he sat, listening as intently as he could. He adjusted his jacket a little so as to be a little more unidentifiable. The rim of the glass met his lips more often than he had intended it to. He watched them laugh. Loathing for his suspect grew with every passing moment. An unexpected glance and a furrow of the eyebrows passed over his way from Billy. Haston flinched a little, and turned away as inconspicuously as he could. That game was up now. Knowing this he looked back at their gazes and indicated for them to come over. He saw an all too common mimed swear word pass from Billy's mouth. As told, they came over. The detective leaned back as relaxingly as possible it made out to be, but gave that up too. He leaned forward, breathing heavily and nostrils flaring. They stood, glaring at him. They had the same, cold eyes now.
"Why?" Detective Haston enquired. "Why did you have to do this?"
"What?" was the reply. "What the hell are you on about?"
"You know fine bloody well what I'm 'on about'". There was a silence. The detective sat expectedly. "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Give them back. C'mon. You can kill them, why not bring them back here too?" he laughed a hysterical laugh. "C'mon, be a, a what is it? Oh yeah, a necromancer."
"Are you crazy?"
"I am not fucking crazy. GIVE THEM BACK! You will burn in hell you piece of shit. Y'hear? Burn, that's what you'll do. BURN!" Billy leaned over. His eyes hard and pale. He was only about an inch or so from the reddening face of the detective, who was in turn breathing heavily, with his chest heaving.
"You'll wish you never said that." His words were forceful, and as sharp as a steel blade. A grin momentarily passed over his face. Haston, a minute later found himself on the hard, cobbled pavement. Burying his face into his hands he sobbed. He cried till his eyes felt they were bleeding and his lungs exhausted. He knew that he had made a devastating mistake. He had driven too deep into the case. Anyone who messed with Billy Bone was in return punished. Billy would hit where it hurts. Suddenly his wife came to his mind. Haston felt a cold blaze, almost like a knife, stab through his heart. He ran into the pub, and desperately, frantically ran his eyes over for any sign of the man. Nothing. He drove recklessly to the suspect's home. He was gone. And as he discovered later on that night, so was his wife.
Now the sword dangled over his head, the thread a meagre lifeline, soon to snap.
User Reviews
Submitted by Philst82 (user info) at 2004-05-26 12:21:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Not reading that until you put a line between your paragraphs.