Any Other Day

Antilles

Hi everyone.

I wrote this one a while back, and just finished editing it. Comments appreciated.

Any Other Day

1/13

It felt damn good to drive this car, Bill thought as he turned off the slip road and sped out onto the motorway. He eased down on the accelerator with his right foot and felt the Porsche rumble beneath him, purring like a contented kitten. The whole experience made him feel like a man, powerful and in control. Of course, that was how the Bill Kettle saw himself, and that was how he wanted the world to see him too.

He flicked his thumb over the smooth black button at the side of the wheel, and above him, the canvas roof began to retract into the car’s sleek frame. He laughed as the wind whipped through his dark, curly hair. ‘This is it, Bill’ he thought, ‘You’ve finally hit the big time.’ After everything he had put up with, his life was finally coming together. He let a whoop of delight.

Bill was forty-three years old, and for the past three of those years, he had worn an engraved wedding band, now sitting deep in his glove compartment, on his left ring finger.

As he sped down the smooth, open road, he pressed five on his phone’s speed-dial. There was a moment’s pause, and the speakers in the leather dash told him it was connecting. He reached across the passenger seat and popped the glove compartment open with a gentle clunk.
The car-phone clicked, and a woman’s voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Sandy, babe. It’s Bill. How’s every little thing?”

“Bill!” his wife cried, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “It’s so good to hear you, honey. Are you coming home? Tell me you’re coming home!”
The grin which hadn’t left his face all morning, widened further. She wanted him, and nothing in the world could compare to that feeling.

“I sure am, sweetie,” he replied, reaching into the glove compartment and pulling its contents onto the passenger seat. “We finished up this morning. Everything’s signed and sealed.”

His wife let an audible squeal of excitement.

“Oh my God, that’s great, Bill! How many did you sell?”

He let her wait a few seconds as he rooted through the clutter on the passenger seat: his wedding ring, some sales papers, and most memorably, a pair of red silk panties. He slipped the ring onto his finger, and wrapped the delicates around his wrist.

“Bill, are you there, honey?”

He returned his eyes to the road. “Sorry babe. I’m on the motorway and traffic’s a bitch.”

It was just one of the little lies Bill Kettle allowed himself. Sandy hated lies, even white ones, but they kept his marriage from getting dull. In the end, he thought, what was good for him was good for her.

“So?” she prodded, “How many?”

“Twenty”

She gasped. “All... all twenty? Bill, are you serious?” She sounded incredulous, and as she spoke, he caught a glimpse of himself grinning in the rear view mirror. For ten years, he had slaved as a junior manager in her father’s textile plant. Now, after one trip for his new employers, he had earned what would once have been his salary for a year.

“Every last one of them, babe,” he replied. “Twenty potential clients on the list, twenty new companies using OmniMax.”

“Oh Bill, honey that’s great news. I’ll have to prepare something special for you when you get home. I’m just so happy. All twenty!”

He raised an eyebrow, “How about that lacy black number you got at Christmas – the one with the frills?” She laughed, “Maybe, but only if you’re very lucky, honey bear.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

And that was the truth. Sandy was a stone-cold fox - one of those women every man wanted, and every woman secretly wanted to be.

“So what time can I expect you home?”

He checked the digital clock on the car’s dashboard. 12:30. “Shouldn’t be too long, babe. I’ll be in by dinner if the traffic eases off.”
Ahead of him, the motorway was clear to the horizon, but selling even a small lie takes some embellishment.

“Okay, honey. Keep your eyes on the road and come home safe. I’ll have that surprise ready and waiting.” “

He laughed. “I’ll look forward to it, babe. Say hi to Boo for me.”

“I will. Ciao, honey.”

“Ciao for now.”

The car phone’s speaker clicked, and the red light above its “Call Status” button blinked off. Bill checked his speed gauge, and pressed down on the accelerator once more. Beneath him, the Porsche gathered speed like a sprinting cheetah. 80, 95, 120.

He lifted his right hand from the wheel, and unwrapped the panties from around his wrist. They were as soft as the sultry brunette who had worn them getting into the car last night.

It felt good to be king.

A sign to the right of the road read “Dunshank: 100km,” but Bill Kettle sped past without reading it. He raised his right hand into the air, and let the wind catch the panties like a kite before a gale. With a flourish, he let the delicates go – and the last evidence of his infidelity flew into anonymity.

2/14

Dunshank passed in a blur, drawing not even a glance from the salesman. He grinned as the Porsche blasted AC/DC along the road, the only way in or out of town, and for the thirty seconds he was there, he kept his eyes on the asphalt. He thought about the uneducated farmers who lived here, who would for their entire lives remain within an hour’s drive of the motorway slip. It was a poor excuse for life.

Beyond Dunshank lay kilometres of open fields, most of them filled with cows and sheep, but ahead, just below the horizon, he saw something at the side of the road that sent an icy shiver down his spine.

He turned off the music and applied his breaks gradually, dropping down to sixty so he could get a good look. At first, it had seemed little more than a collection of rags, abandoned by some careless villager. However, as he grew closer, he realised with dread that he had made a mistake. The day was warm and the air still. As the Porsche slowed, even the illusion of wind vanished, and yet the bundle of rags continued to move.

After a few seconds, Bill passed the bundle, and looking closer, saw the dirty face of a pale, red headed boy.

“Jesus Christ!”

He slammed on the breaks, and threw his door open. Leaping out, he circled the car and ran onto road’s dusty verge. Already, he could hear a muffled whimpering from the ragged bundle, and he threw himself onto the ground beside it.

“Hey! Hello?” he said as he rested his hand on the top of the bundle. The cloths wrapped around the kid were dirty but well-kept, and their purple and yellow pattern struck him as distantly familiar. He had more important concerns now, though. The little boy was shivering, and in obvious distress.

“Hey there, sport,” he said, lowering his face to the cocooned child. The kid looked maybe seven or eight – the same age as Boo – and had fresh tears running down his face. Bill shook his head at the picture, and hunkered down, the knuckle of his right hand brushing against the dirt. “Hey little man, are you all right?”

The boy peeked up at him, a look of terror in his wide, blue eyes.

Bill pulled the rags back a few inches, and placed his palm on the boy’s shoulder, “What happened to you, kid? Where are your parents?”
The boy stared back at him, and tears began to run down his cheeks once more. He didn’t answer. Bill looked the kid over, and bit his lip. He wondered what horror could have landed the kid here, and if that same nightmare could have made him mute.

“All right then, bucko, don’t worry” he said, standing to his full six feet, “I’ll call an ambulance.” He reached inside the lining of his thin, Italian business jacket, and extracted his mobile phone. It was a touch screen model, and he had already dialled ‘9-9-‘ when the boy cried and reached out a spindly arm.

“Mister, don’t!”

He stayed his finger, hovering over the final button, and raised an eyebrow as he looked at the kid. “So you’ve got a tongue in there after all.” The boy nodded, and Bill lowered his hand, and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

He put his hands on his hips and hunkered back down.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“B... Billy Stanton,” he stuttered, and then: “43 Hebron Terrace, Kildera, Co. Meath.” The words tumbled from his mouth like an avalanche.

Bill nodded. He could work with that. He knelt down, and used his best reassuring voice – the one he normally tried when a customer was trying to slip the line.

“Well," he said. "‘Billy’ is my name too. Well, my boss calls me Mr. Kettle, and my friends call me Bill.” He paused. “You can call me Bill, if you’d like.” He smiled that old familiar grin, the one he had rehearsed for days in front of the mirror, but the kid didn’t bite. He looked away.

Bill was about to take out his phone once more, when his young namesake looked up.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bill”, the boy said.

As he spoke, Bill suddenly heard a noise behind him – manic footsteps racing across the gravel. He spun, just in time to see a thin, bearded man in jeans and a blue sweatshirt lunge at him from across the verge.

Bill raised his hands in front of his face, but he it was too late. His assailant slammed into him, sending them both spinning to the ground, the attacker on top. The bearded man held a cloth in one hand, and slammed it into Bills face before he had a chance to react. It was wet, and stank of rotten eggs. Bill struggled, trying to force the man off him, but suddenly felt woozy. His hearing went faint and everything began to spin. The man stood up, and Bill struggled to do the same, but tripped on the rags behind him and collapsed again.

He hit the ground with a dull thud, and suddenly, everything went black.

3/15

“He’s awake, dad,” a young voice spoke in the darkness. A series of images flashed through Bill's mind; a bundle of multi-coloured rags, the road, the bearded man. He let an involuntary moan and coughed. His throat was raw and sore. His entire body was numb, and it took him few seconds to force his eyes open. He was sitting on a wooden chair.

At first, there was nothing but blinding light, and he threw his head backwards to protect his eyes. “Wh... where am I?” he stammered. He turned his head from left to right, but the light, which he now realised was in front of him, made it impossible to see anything nearby.”Who are you?”

Somebody else was in the room. He could hear breathing, but no response was forthcoming. “Billy, sport, is that you? Who’s there?”

The numbness almost gone now, he struggled to move his arms, and found that they were tied to the chair with rope, his legs the same. He fought against the bindings for a moment, and realised they were too tight to escape. The first few notes of the 'Deliverance' theme floated through his mind.

To his right, he heard a series of heavy footsteps crossing the floor.

“Go buy yourself something in the shops, Billy”, a man said somewhere behind him. Bill didn’t like the tone of his voice. He sounded shaken and angry, like someone who’s found his best friend in bed with his wife.

Further back, he heard the slow creak of a door opening, and a bang as it slammed shut. As soon as they were alone, the man twisted the shade of the lamp so its light hit only the roof. Bill blinked and waited for the flying flashes of coloured blobs to clear from his vision. As his captive sat, dazed, the man walked around the chair, and sat down opposite him.

Bill leaned forward to get a better view of the man, and as he did so, felt a slight give in the rope around his right wrist. He moved his thumb back and through the loop, and slowly began to pry at the knot. The man seemed too distracted to notice.

When his vision finally cleared, Bill glanced around the room. It looked like a motel room, its blinds closed and the lamp tilted on a short table in front of him. His kidnapper sat on the bed a few feet away, his pale, clammy skin made sickly in the dim light. His eyes were a wide mixture of fear and anger, and he was shaking, even worse than the boy had.

“You’re not gonna take him again, Mr. Kettle,” the man said at last. He leaned forward as he spoke, and Bill noticed the bed was missing its duvet, but the pillow cases were the same pattern as the boy’s rags.

He shook his head. “Listen pal, you’ve got the wrong guy. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

The man jerked his head from side to side in a series of quick spasms. “I don’t think so, Mr. Kettle. You’re the right man and this is the right time. I got you here now, and I’m gonna keep you here”. He stood up and balanced on the balls of his feet, waving a finger towards Bill. “You’re not going to take my boy from me again.”

Bill’s heart raced as he watched the man, and his eyes darted around the room for any weapon the nut might have with him. Unless there was something behind the bed, it seemed bare.

"Listen, pal. You let me go now and we'll forget this whole thing. I’d never seen your boy before I pulled over on the road. How he got there is none of my concern."

“Never seen him?” the man cried, leaping onto the bed like an enraged chimpanzee. He jabbed his finger down at Bill, casting a long shadow across the roof. “You weren’t paying attention, were you? Playing your music! Talking to your wife on the phone!” He leapt from the bed and landed inches from Bill’s face, shaking with rage. “You killed him, you bastard! You killed him, and killed him again!”

He curled his hand into a fist swung wildly at Bill’s face, sending his head flying onto his right shoulder and shaking the chair beneath him. Dazed, Bill lifted his head and looked at the old man. His head was ringing and he could taste acid rising in the back of his throat. The kid could have told his father his name, but how did he know about the conversation with Sandy?

“I didn’t do anything, you crazy bastard!” Bill yelled, giving up any hope the man would listen to reason. He prided himself on being able to talk his way out of – or into – anywhere, but that seemed unlikely now.

The man looked at his still clenched fist, turned his bony arm and looked at his faded wristwatch. He shook his head. “Nope, you didn’t – not yet. But you will, and you did," he said. "You did, and you will, if I don’t stop you.”

He took a step back, turned, and began to pace the room, moving just beyond Bill's line of sight at the end of each crossing. His hands moved as he spoke, their gestures growing wilder, more violent with every pass.

“I... I thought it was a nightmare,” he rambled, slamming a fist into his open palm, “The first time, I mean, when I woke up. You know? Yes, it was a nightmare. Of course it was. You killed my boy, Kettle. What else could it be? He was dead. You killed him!"

He turned, and slammed his hands down on Bill’s arms, across the loose binding on his right wrist. Again, he didn’t seem to notice.

“Is it you, Kettle? Is it you doing all this? You knock him down in the middle of the road, and then come back for more? Why? Why?”

He shook Bill’s wrists so violently the chair rocked, creaking on its hinges. Bill opened his mouth to reply, but could think of no answer that would sate his kidnapper. The man was clearly insane, and Bill, King of the World just hours ago, was unlikely to see his wife and child ever again. He wondered if Sandy would call the police when he didn’t arrive home. He hoped they would find the car, wherever it was.

“Never mind. Never mind,” the man said, letting go of Bill’s wrists at last. He stood to his full height and brushed his hands across each other, as if dusting them off. “It doesn’t matter now.”

He turned, and walked towards the motel room door. Bill heard the metallic catch of the lock twisting, and the man turned back to face him. He reached beneath his sweatshirt and waistband, and removed a small, silver pistol.

“The name’s Stanley Tanner, by the way," he said. "You should know that before I kill you."

4/16

Bill's heart leapt into his throat. For a moment, he felt like was going to throw up, the taste of acid now filling his mouth. He tried to push away from Tanner with his feet, but the chair wouldn't budge. “I swear to God,” he cried, “I’ve never seen either of you in my life. I’m just a...”

Tanner took a step forward. “A computer salesman, I know!” he roared, lifting the gun above his head. “I know everything about you, you son of a bitch! I know you have a daughter named Boo. I know you just closed some deal in Cork. I know you couldn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone but yourself and now I’m suffering for it!”

Bill was speechless. There was no way Tanner could know any of those things. The thought that it was all some elaborate TV stunt flashed across his mind, but he had to discount it. There was real terror in Stanley Tanner’s eyes, real rage across his face.

“Oh yes, that's the look,” Tanner said, watching Bill’s frozen expression of fear and confusion. “You thought I was just a kook last time, mad because you killed my boy. But you told me things, Kettle. I figure it was your dumb-**** way of easing your conscience."

He threw his head back and laughed. "Conscience? You'd never have stopped if I didn't grab a hold of your car, would you?” He shook his head and licked his lips, “But this time, I was ready, Kettle. This time the flies got one over on the spider.”

Tanner lifted his trembling hand and put his pistol to Bill’s temple.

"Goodbye, Mr. Kettle.”

Before he could fire, Bill’s right hand shot up and knocked the weapon from his hand and onto the bed. The rope, loosened enough to let his arm free, remained wrapped around the chair. Tanner looked at him in shock, and went to punch him again, but Bill was too fast.

He dodged to the left, and realised that his knees had regained some movement. With his right arm free, there was even some slack on the rest of the rope. He stood, taking the chair with him, and spun on the ball of his left foot. The back of the chair slammed into Tanner, splintering across his back and leaving Bill with only to the base and front legs.

Tanner growled, and lunged across the bed for the gun. Before he could reach it, Bill was on top of him. He had spun around, and thrown himself onto the bed ass first. He landed with a crash, sending a crooked nail from the base slicing into Tanner's right arm.

Tanner roared and rolled off the bed, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. As he fell, Bill shook his legs. Free from the last of the ropes, he stepped onto the bed. Tanner had collapsed on the floor, cradling his injured arm in his good hand, blood congealing between his fingers.

Bill reached down and picked the pistol from the bed. He had never held a gun before, and it felt heavy and uncomfortable. Once he was sure Tanner was no longer a threat, he stepped down onto the ground and walked towards the door. He had no idea where he was, or where his car was, but he could figure those things out once he had made his escape.

He kept his eyes on Tanner as he moved, and as he put his hand on the doorknob, the other man shifted towards him. “Please,” he cried, hugging his arm, which was now soaked in blood. “Please don’t kill him. Please don’t kill him.” His eyes were obscured by tears now, and Bill was surprised to find himself pitying the old kook.

“Why the hell would I want to kill your boy, you crazy bastard?” he demanded, holding the gun at his side. He had no intention of using it, but couldn’t risk putting the thing down. “And how did you know all those things about me?”

Tanner’s cries had quietened to a whimper, and he was breathing in short, shallow breaths.

“Because you did it before,” he replied, his voice cracking with emotion. “You knocked him clear off the road, and when I fell asleep in the hospital, I... I woke up in my car again this morning.” He shook his head and placed the palm of his hand over his right eye. His sweatshirt and the carpet beneath him were now stained a deep burgundy.

“I saw you kill him, and then twelve hours later, he was sitting in the car beside me as if nothing had happened. He didn’t remember a thing.”

Tanner let a desperate wail and threw his eyes to the ceiling. “But I remembered, Mr. Kettle. I remembered. I thought it was a dream, or a premonition, the way everything went just like it had the first time, but when I stopped you from getting away, I thought it was over. I thought it was one of those ‘putting right the wrong” things you hear about in Church... but...”

He looked up, and their eyes met, and Bill realised the other man was no longer shaking. His eyes no longer darted around the room. He was speaking only as a desperate and loving parent.

“All right, said Bill, placing the gun on the far corner of the matress. “We’ll wait here until whatever you think will happen is passed.” He sat on the edge of the bed, facing Tanner, and rested his hands on his knees. “How long?”

Tanner lifted his arm to check. “Half an hour,” he replied, grimacing in pain as he moved. The bleeding had stopped, but his wound was still fresh, and Tanner looked pale. “Think you can wait that long?” Bill asked. Tanner nodded, but said nothing.

Suddenly, a noise echoed through the room from the street outside. It was a sound with which Bill was very familiar; the deep, rumbling purr of a contented kitten, and the squeal of tires.

He jumped to his feet.

“That’s my car!”

5/17

Bill leapt over the fallen man, and stretched to open the door. His hands, coated in sweat, slipped on the handle. “Billy! Billy!” Tanner cried, stumbling to his feet and clasping his wounded arm. "Open the door! My son! My son is out there!”

Bill twisted the key in the lock and yanked the door open, sending it crashing against the wall as he ran from the motel room. He sprinted into the car park and only then realised how late it must be. The night sky was cloud free, and a blanket of stars twinkled overhead. He scanned the car park, but it sole occupant was a forlorn blue station wagon.

Down the road, he could just hear the rumbling of his car’s engine, as it faded into the distance.

He turned to see Tanner staggering from the motel room, craning his neck to the horizon for any sign of his boy. “He’s gone, Tanner,” Bill said, placing his hands on his hips. He turned and walked out to the road. “Was this all part of your plan?”

No reply came, and after a few seconds, he turned and saw Tanner hobbling towards the station wagon. He was holding his wounded arm close to his body, and fumbling for car keys with his free hand.

Bill watched in silence for a moment.

Part of him wanted to run, to cut his losses and make for the nearest town, but something about Tanner made him stay. The strange man might well be crazy, but he had known too much, and when he spoke about his son, Bill couldn't help imagining how far he would go to keep Boo from danger. He jogged back through the lot and towards the station wagon.

“Tanner,” he said, holding out his hand.

Tanner turned and looked back in surprise.

“I’ll drive.”

He threw Bill the keys and staggered round to the station wagon’s passenger door. Bill slid behind the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition as Tanner took the other seat. Both doors slammed shut, the wheels spun, and slowly, the station wagon made its way onto the motorway.

Bill slapped the wheel and glared at the dashboard as he drove. The speedometer, sitting in darkness before him, claimed they were doing 50, but Bill thought he could probably run faster. "We'll never catch him like this," he said, drumming his fingers on the wheel, but as he spoke, Tanner leant forward.
“I see him! I see your car!" he shouted, jumping up in his seat. "Its going to end, I've saved him!" He slapped his knee hard with the hand of his good arm.
Bill remained silent. He could just make out the two red dots of the Porsche’s tail lamps on the road ahead, growing larger with every passing second. The kid had probably left it in first gear since taking off, he thought.

As he watched the car grow nearer, he took a deep breath to calm himself. The chloroform, or whatever Tanner had knocked him out with, had worn off, and except for a few cuts and bruises he was in good shape. He would soon have his car back, and be on his way home.

Up ahead, the boy had realised they were following him. His pale face turned and looked back through the rear window, and the Porsche began to drift across the road. Suddenly, Bill realised it was not alone. From the other direction, an enormous truck was bearing down on the tiny sports car.
"No!" Tanner cried, leaping from his seat and crashing into the roof of the station wagon.

“Billy!" he roared, pressing himself against the dashboard, "Billy, stop!”

Suddenly, he reached across and slammed his fist into the horn. Bill clasped the wheel to keep them on the road, but the distraction kept Billy's eyes on his back window. As Bill watched in horror, Tanner made a grab for his door handle. It was already half open when Bill reached across and grabbed him by the collar.

“My son!” Tanner screamed, “My son! No, not again!”

The truck continued sounding its horn, but Billy seemed oblivious. At last, the driver tried swerving from the car's path, but it was too late. One long, final blast escaped the truck, and then time itself slowed to a crawl.

The Porsche hit the truck. Its bonnet collapsed like a tin can. The truck skidded for twenty meters and tumbled off the side of the road. The Porsche’s gas tank ignited in a blinding fire ball and the car spun through the air. It catapulted, finally crashing upside down on the hard shoulder.

6/18

The station wagon screeched to a halt opposite the burning wreck, and Bill threw his door open. As soon as his feet had hit the ground, Tanner was out and racing across the grass verge. His face was a mask of terror as he cried his son’s name. Before him, orange flames leapt from frame of the Porsche and licked the sky.

Bill followed a few metres behind his one-time kidnapper, his eyes scanning the wreckage for any sign of life. As his feet reached the grass, however, he saw that it was too late. The fire had engulfed the sports car. There was no chance the boy had survived.

Tanner stopped a few metres past the edge of the road, his eyes fixed on the burning hulk. His face was dark, stained black by the billowing smoke, and two clear bands ran down his cheeks.

Bill stopped running. He stood for a moment, unsure what he should do, then began slowly walking towards the other man. “I’m... so sorry, Stanley,” he said when he was close enough for the other man to hear. As they watched in silence, the flames found another pocket of diesel, and smaller fireball erupted from beneath the car’s hood, sending it flying into the air.

There was no response. Blood was once again seeping from Tanner's wound, but he paid it no attention. His arms hung loose by his side, his mouth open like a trapdoor.

“I couldn’t stop it,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye, and smudging streaks of ash across his face. “Three times I’ve watched him die. No matter what I do, I can’t stop it happening again.”

Bill turned and looked back across the road. The truck was just visible on the other verge, smoke pouring from beneath the bonnet. It had struck a tree as it skidded off, but the driver seemed fine. He was a fat, long-haired man with a checked coat and a baseball cap, and was standing on the far side of the road, a lit cigarette in his hand. His face had drained of colour, and he was shaking his head as he stared at the burning Porsche.

Bill rested his hands on the roof of the station wagon and bit down hard on his lip. He felt tears building behind his eyes, but shook his head and blinked back them back. He cleared his throat and looked back at Tanner.

"Do you have a phone?" he asked. "We should call an ambulance, the fire brigade."

Tanner didn’t reply, but eventually shook his head. He stood for several minutes, watching his son's burning tomb, sobbing. Bill waited in silence, unsure what to say or do. What's the right course of action when your kidnapper's son dies, in line with the kidnapper’s own prophecy?

Eventually Tanner coughed, and wiped the tears from his face. He shook his head again, but kept his eyes on the car... on his son.

"No," he said, "No phone. My wife died two months ago. I'd have no-one else to ring."

Bill nodded and glanced over to the trucker. He felt at once guilty and relieved to take his eyes from the burning wreck. He banged his fist on the roof of the station wagon.

"So what happens now, Stanley? Is it over?"

He could never have imagined it, but they both knew what the question meant. Tanner knew too much for all this to be a hoax. Bill couldn't tell if he was crazy, psychic or telling the truth, but it was clear the man had been through a lot, and not just tonight.

He turned from the trucker and looked back to Tanner, who was now sitting on the ground. The other man shrugged. “I don’t know, Mr. Kettle,” he said, and looked down at his hand, “It could follow any number of paths.” Bill followed the gaze and his heart jumped to the back of his throat.

Tanner was once again holding the pistol.

He took a step backwards, not wanting to startle him. “What’s with the gun, Stanley? I thought we were past all that.”

Tanner lifted his eyes the sky. The tears had stopped. “It isn’t for you, Mr. Kettle,” he said. “You’ll walk away from this without a scratch. Maybe you’ll walk back all the way into town, and phone the police. Maybe you’ll go home to your wife and daughter tomorrow, and live out the rest of your life.”

He sighed, and for the first time, turned his neck to look at Bill.

“But I won’t. Billy’s dead. I’m here, and you’re here, and a few hours after I fall asleep, I’ll wake up again, and I’ll be sitting in that station wagon beside my beautiful six-year-old boy.”

He leaned down, and pushed himself to his feet with his good hand. His right arm now dangled loose by his side. “Again. And again and again.” He lifted the gun, and rested the barrel between his lips.

“Stanley, don’t!” Bill cried, and ran forward, but Tanner removed the gun from his mouth. He pointed it at Bill and shook his head. “Don’t try to stop me,
Mr. Kettle,” he said.

“I can’t go through this another time. If I’m right, this will stop it.“

Bill stood, helpless and watched as Tanner turned the gun once more. “And what if you’re wrong?” he asked, “What if you killing yourself does nothing to change what’s happened?”

Tanner smiled then, the first genuine smile Bill had seen him make, though it was a sad one. “If I’m wrong, Mr. Kettle? If I’m wrong, then I’ll see you in the morning.”

He returned the gun barrel to its place between his lips, and gave a subtle nod.

And pulled the trigger.

laniepow

impressive

pickarooney

Just read the first chapter so far. I like what I've read a lot. A few minor points:

felt the Porsche rumble beneath him, purring like a contented kitten

You can do better than this tired cliché. Maybe use the iconic Porsche Bull instead of a weak kitten for comparison.

or the past three of those years, he had worn an engraved wedding band, now sitting deep in his glove compartment, on his left ring finger.

This reads like his severed finger is in the glove compartment.

he pressed five on his phone’s speed-dial

The button presumably has a digit (no pun intended) on it so it would make more sense to use '5'.

He returned his eyes to the road.

I don't like this use of 'returned' as for me this form of the verb means to physically put something back in its place, as in a book on a shelf.

The Porsche gathered speed like a sprinting cheetah. 80, 95, 120

This is the second time he's accelerated, on the motorway, in a Porsche, and he's only now going over 80kph. That's actually less than a cheetah's top speed If you meant miles per hour, it should be made clear, as kilometres are used later on and the use of 'motorway' as opposed to 'highway/freeway' most likely sets this in Ireland.

Leading on from that, the use of 'honey/sweetie/babe' is a bit American, although I'd be willing to bet that's deliberate.

This may be incorrect, but from my understanding of such things, 12.30 would be about 6 hours before dinner unless it's rural Ireland where dinner is the midday meal. This use of 'dinner' is a little at odds with the manner of speech above.

And that was the truth. Sandy was a stone-cold fox - one of those women every man wanted, and every woman secretly wanted to be.

This is a bit old hat, no?

edit: in chapter two, "brakes" stop a car, not "breaks".

weiming

First of all, I liked it. That is, I like your writing, and I like your ability to tell a short story.

Specifics: (I'm going to be paraphrasing in places, as the story was so long I had to keep notes while I read):

"...the last evidence of his infidelity vanishing into anonymity..."

"anonymity" means "without a name", the panties having never had one, cannot lose their name and vanish into anonymity. Usually this is reserved for people.

"...Bill was about to take out his phone once more, when his young namesake looked up..."

The boy is not his namesake, as he is not named after or for the sake of the boy, they only share names.

Billy Sr.'s boss calls him "Mr."? Seems out of place.

"...he heard manic footsteps behind him..."

You might want to consider another adjective.

"...the first few notes of the "Deliverance" theme floated up through his mind..."

This is comical, and not a believable reaction for the protagonist's situation.

"...the flies got one over the spider..."

Is the man referring to himself and the boy in the plural or did you mean "fly's" (the fly has). In either case, this metaphor doesn't fit, as even if Billy has killed the boy before, it was as an accident, and he never laid a trap for the old man and the boy and should not fit the metaphorical role of "spider" even in the mind of the old man.


(something like) "...the man fell over the bed, leaving blood in his wake..."

"Wake" doesn't just mean "behind", but is more like "the disturbance something makes while moving through a medium" as:

"the tugboat chugged its way through the harbour, churning the dark waters in its wake"

"he tore through the crowd, leaving a line of stunned shoppers in his wake"

"he clawed his way up the company ladder, leaving a number of disgruntled supervisors and employees in his wake"

"Wake" is also sometimes used like "aftermath". Of course this does not apply here, but you never know who will be picking over definitions.

(something like) "...blood congealing between his fingers..."

--in seconds?

(something like) "...the floor stained a deep burgundy..."

--a deep brown?

Plot/character development points:

I might be nitpicking here but, when Billy sees the boy, he considers him to be seven or eight, the old man later says the boy is six. Six year-olds and eight year-olds are night and day, unless this is a consequence of the funky time bounce everyone seems to be caught in?

This old man from the countryside knocks Billy out with chloroform or some chemical agent? This makes it seem like he moonlights as an international spy, why not just a blunt object or something (like, the butt of his gun would do nicely)?

Several points about the way you develop the protagonist are not very convincing.

The protagonist: cheats on and lies to his wife, is a two-faced salesman, has no pity for the plight of his fellow man, is ambitious and self-centered. However, this same person...

(1) Jumps out of his car at the sight of a child on the side of the road (fine, he's got a kid of his own), but then is kneeling in the dirt getting his expensive Italian suit all dirty? This seems a bit overdone.

(2) Later, Billy decides to help and drive for the old man out of...the goodness of his heart? Why not stick with the original character build and make him do it out of anger, or just wanting to get his brand new car back! Which has just been stolen, by a 6/8 year-old.

(3) Billy gets all choked up at the child's death. I can understand him being outraged at seeing his car totaled, flabbergasted by the series of inexplicable events that have unfolded in the past few hours, but choked up just doesn't seem to fit his character.

The old man says that after being killed, the boy is back, sitting in the car next to him 12 hours later, in time as the old man understands it. We are to believe this has happened at least a few times, in that case is Billy killing this kid daily? I can only guess you meant to imply that the old man finds himself back in time, with memories of a future yet to occur?

Forget for the moment all the logical problems of causality and how no device whatsoever is advanced to explain how the events proposed in the story can possibly be taking place (for a moment there I actually expected the child to hit himself), but...why does the kid steal the car again? After accepting the premise of your story (random time travel), I'm still perplexed by this one point.

At any rate, I like your writing, I hope to read more from you.

Antilles

Hi guys,

thanks for your comments, they're very helpful.

pickarooney:

I'll take your advice about some of the wording; I laughed when I read the bit about the finger again - you're right of course

The "contented kitten" cliche was intentional, but you might be right. There is a reference to the car later on in the story, and I wanted a memorable line that the reader would pick up on to link the scenes. I should probably have tried a bit harder to come up with something original.

As for the stuff about the motorway, I'm afraid I'm not a driver so that was a bluff that I guess didn't pay off. I'll fix that in the next draft.

weiming:

I appreciate the amount of detail your commentary went into. The 'flies' metaphor was a bit of a stretch, I suppose. I'll look at rewording it, though Tanner is supposed to be on the edge of sanity, so maybe him not making sense makes sense?

The 'Deliverance' theme was just supposed to be something that floated through his head, but if it doesn't match the tone I guess it adds nothing to the scene.

The rest of your specific advice I'll take on board, though I'd argue my case on a lot of the word issues. In particular I think the below are okay; I looked them up on dictionary.com and I'm happy that they mean what I meant.

anonymous: 'lacking individuality, unique character, or distinction: an endless row of drab, anonymous houses. '

namesake: 'a person having the same name as another.'

wake: 'the path or course of anything that has passed or preceded: The tornado left ruin in its wake'

burgundy: 'a grayish red-brown to dark blackish-purple color.'

On the plot/character points, thanks again. I'll sort out Billy's age - I don't know a lot of kids so to me a six and an eight year old are near identical You're right about the chloroform, too.

With regards Bill's character, I didn't want him to be two-dimensional. The idea was to show him as an unlikeable git at the start (the cheating, the BS Americanised lingo, etc), but also show that he does have a caring side; when faced with an immediate problem, he's a good enough to prioritise the needs of a child over his own suit.

The plot idea (SPOILER ALERT) is that they are caught in a time loop of some sort, but Tanner Sr. is the only one who realises it. Bill ran over Billy, Tanner mourned, and when he went to sleep that night, woke up to find himself back at the start of the loop. Its not explicit that its a loop rather than repeated time travel, but the ambiguity was intentional. Tanner experienced the loop a second time, tried to stop Bill, but it was too late and Billy died again. This time however, he got Bill to stop and found out the information about his life. The story takes place in the third iteration.

I read a piece by Stephen King about his story "the Moving Finger". He said that he enjoyed writing it becaue it was just about something bizarre that happened, with no explation as to why. That was the seed of this story - there's no reason suggested for the loop, it just happened/happens.

Again, both of you, thanks for the constructive criticism. I'll make some of the changes you suggest, and take on board the rest for my future writing!

weiming

>Antilles: firstly, I'm glad if any of my comments have been of any use to you. I like your writing and will be happy to devote my attention to your future works.

Regarding those particular words I pointed out:.

The definition of "anonymous" you found is not really related to the word as it was used in your piece, you're not saying the panties lacked identity or character, but that they vanished.

I must be getting old but...despite how some people are using it, "namesake" means (originally) "named for the sake of" i.e., named after or for something/someone (any number of definitions on a google search and etymology sites state this verbatim)

e.g. Porsche, the brand could be a child's namesake, but the child is not Porsche's namesake, because the brand/company was not named for the child. I can only imagine how future genealogists will make sense of the current usage when they go to do their research. Also, my confusion with your usage may be an American English thing (weiming<--born/raised in the U.S.).

Yes, "wake" is "the path, course or condition left behind..." But would you write "the man rolled off the bed, leaving blood in his path"? To me, the man doesn't have a path at this point. Why not just "leaving behind a trail of blood"?

Compare: "the blood stained the carpet a deep red"
to: "the blood stained the carpet a grayish, red-brown, dark blackish-purple"
(googling "burgundy brown" gets nearly 1 million results btw)

I'm not trying to be facetious. I'm not at all trying to imply that you don't know the definition of these words, I'm trying to point out that the usage feels slightly off to me. Of course, this could just be my own idiosyncrasy.

Picture this: A middle-aged man sits across from his psychologist, his head slightly bowed. He rubs his hands together absently and hesitates for a moment before saying "You know, I was kidnapped once, just like in that movie Deliverance."

Does his connection of trauma and popular movie titles not strike you as a little off? If he were instead to say, "I was once kidnapped once, at first it felt like I was in some horrible movie..." It would just seem 100 times better to me. But again, I'm just a random guy.

And I'm perfectly fine with inexplicable events in stories, "The Twilight Zone" used to be one of my favorite series. I didn't mean to come across as sarcastic.