Usual standard declarations about age, etc. apply here.
I like writing long stories, and this one drifted into becoming a novel-length story in the planning. I've dropped the first couple of chapters in to test the waters, so I hope you like it (no sex in the first chapter though – it takes a while to set things up). It covers a multitude of genres, so hopefully there's something in there for most readers, and a lot for some readers.
There will be a whole lot more chapters forthcoming soon, so if you like it, stick around and let me tell you a tale.
*****
It was a dark and stormy night...
No, it wasn't. It was dark, but the threatened storm had faded out into a pouting low pressure system which promised snow.
Lachlan Reid snuggled closer to the nice, soft bollard. Actually, it wasn't soft at all – bollards on piers never are. But the concrete pillar used to tie up boats to the pier had soaked up the weak afternoon sun, and its stored warmth was helping to drive off the chill of the night. It would be stone cold by morning, he knew, and he might be stone cold as well by that point. Sleeping rough in this weather always had somewhat of a doubtful outcome.
When you're homeless - with just a backpack of keepsakes, a dirty, torn, and evil-smelling blanket and a soul full of dark, misty memories to your name - a source of warmth is always very welcome. It's also very personal when it's too small to share effectively.
So the sound of pounding feet coming towards him along the pier was very unwelcome. He did not want to have to fight some wino for his spot on the deserted pier. He opened one eye to see a ragged figure, a bird of ill-omen with fluttering, ragged wings - pelting towards him. He raised himself up onto one elbow, and then recognised the figure – Wren; a bird of ill-omen of a very different nature.
He sat up completely, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders. The figure spotted the movement and angled its flight towards him.
"Reid!" gasped Wren in a strangled voice, forced from a throat tightened by exertion and fear. "Help me! Please! They..."
More feet were pounding along in the distance, heading their way and already cutting them off from any avenue of escape. He stood to see the nature of the pursuit. Three men, two in shiny, metallic-looking shirts and dark trousers, followed in a more leisurely fashion by a bigger figure loping along in a white jogging suit. Reid recognised them.
"Cole's men," he muttered with a sinking heart and turned to the panting figure, who was by then apparently trying to hide behind him. "Ah shit, Wren. What have you got me into, dragging the Fiddlers down here?"
The girl looked up at him from beneath her hood. Stark fear had frozen her face, only her eyes moving - jittering from side to side. Her breath steamed in the cold air.
"I... I..." She was panting too hard to continue. Her hands were grasping the edges of the massive black shawl she habitually wore, dragging each side downwards in turn in her panic as if trying to saw through her own neck. He realised why he had thought her a predatory bird, the shawl becoming wings when she ran.
"No! You didn't!" Reid stated, astonishment clear in his voice. "You didn't fuck with Cole. I thought you were clean! What did you do?"
"I am clean!" she protested through her panting. "I haven't ... not for months. Look, it was for Andrew. He needed it bad! I thought he was dying. And I didn't think Cole would find out it was gone!"
Reid's heart sank even further, if that was possible.
TJ Cole – more commonly known as King Cole – was the main dealer for the whole of the port side of the city. Wren had stolen from a man who forgave nothing, who knew to the ounce where his product was at any time and to the penny who owed him what.
Wren was a dead woman running, and he would be joining her if he tried to interfere.
"Andrew's dead," she whimpered, tears rolling down her cheeks. "They cut his throat. He didn't even have time to get up off the bed."
Reid considered that as far as homeless people went, Wren and Andrew – her worthless sponge of a brainless boyfriend – had had it pretty good, up until the moment he had been murdered. They had been camped out in an old abandoned warehouse, up in the rafters in what had been an office in a previous incarnation, a space under the roof that she had tried to turn into a home for them.
He had only visited there once, at Wren's invitation, and found her pathetic but heartfelt attempts to turn the broken-down room into a love nest to be almost heart-breaking – a foredoomed attempt to turn a foul-fanged nightmare into a unicorn dream. She had placed a few flowers in water in a broken jug, and somehow managed to get them to bloom. A mattress with a tatty blanket carefully smoothed over it lay up against the wall, a single clean, but stained pillow with no pillowcase at the head for them to share. A poster of Jimi Hendrix hung above the mattress, with a ragged corner where a piece had been torn off. She had made him a cup of tea, using what he suspected was recycled teabags, which he had drunk with caution, but thanked her effusively. Making small talk, he had complimented her on their love nest, making her blush with pleasure at his words. Then Andrew had cut in with a long, rambling stream of words that made little sense, even when he had turned his whole concentration to them. After an hour, he had had enough but left them as if they had treated him to an evening of fine dining and wonderful conversation. She had needed the boost to her self-image and he was happy to do that for her, although whether she had understood or even picked up on his attempts through the chemical dreams drifting through her, he had no idea.
Reid was just so glad he had never got himself hooked on that poisoned barb. Drugs would have quietened the memories but unleashed other nightmares for him to deal with.
