Cecelias Cover

AzureAuto

Hi guys, please find a short story for your perusal. I entered it into a competition last year, didnt get anywhere. I had to kee to a max word count of 1700 and found it heartbreaking to pare down, but rules is rules ad the dreaded editing pen did its work. Thinking of expanding it out to its original length again, but would be interested in getting some criticism first.



Within a month of returning to England following my European travels, I became incurably bored. I was nineteen, with a vacuous absence of responsibility, so I proceeded to fritter both time and money.
I spent several weeks in the carnal houses of Mayfair, partying with the delightfully naive society elite by night and spent my days secluded at Murphy Reilly’s, a pub popular with like minded travellers. Yet no matter how much I drank, I could never sate my thirst for adventure.
Soon I found myself tendering one of my last notes to Mr Reilly and with my predicament weighing heavily on my mind, began my miserable drinking routine in the afternoon gloom.
I ignored the sensation of watchful eyes. My increasingly dishevelled appearance drew attention; the unruly crop of blonde hair and whiskers, drawn features in a fading sunburn.
Damn them anyway. I’d make it my business to escape England.
A stool scraped beside me and a stranger seated himself.
‘Please. A bottle of beer. And whatever my friend is having'.
He was tall, solidly built, dressed smartly in a Havana shirt and chinos. On his feet were suede loafers. He wore no socks. He had a chiselled teak face and a slick of dark hair. But it was his eyes, black trustworthy eyes that radiated a youthful vigour which I remembered.
He was smiling and proffering me a large hand.
‘Thanks’, I shook his hand. A strong lingering grip. ‘But there’s really no need’. I was content with my own company that day.
‘But there is a need. I recognise a kindred spirit. A traveller, yes? Am I wrong? No, I think not. Myself, I am a travelling salesman. I am here in London on a personal matter before I return home’.
I was intrigued. His voice carried a note of sadness and was richly accented. I guessed at South American.
‘I too have been travelling’, I asserted. ‘This is where I call home’.
‘Bah!’ he splurged with a good humoured twinkle in his eye. ‘Of all the wonderful cultures I have experienced, it is London I want never to visit again!’
‘You just don’t appreciate our sense of humour’, I laughed. ‘Adam Fairleigh’.
‘Happy to meet you Adam Fairleigh. My name is Eduardo’.
Our conversation continued long into the evening. He was a fascinating man and it transpired that we had both enjoyed the same festival in Spain last year, which Eduardo exclaimed, solidified our kinship.
Eduardo kept the whiskey flowing; he himself sipping his beer conservatively and constantly engaging me with questions. Eventually, with my entire life story aired for perusal, the conversation petered out. He examined the dregs in his bottle thoughtfully and appeared to come to a decision.
‘So it is money you require, yes? To continue your journeys. I think I can help’, he leant closer.
‘I know of a position becoming vacant two days from now. A...friend, she is going away for a time. She is secretary to a solicitor, perhaps you have heard of him? Alfred Sheinmann?’
I had indeed. Sheinmann had made headline news a year ago during the trial of a notorious gangster, whom he was defending. Sheinmann’s eccentricity and guile in the courts had made for compelling reading. Though public opinion held that the accused was guilty of the rape of a minor, he had been acquitted spectacularly. A national outcry ensued and Sheinmann had been forced to distance himself from his fellow ostentatious darlings of society, eventually becoming a recluse.
But what an opportunity! A job had fallen at my feet. I’d mind Sheinmann’s diary for a while and then book the first flight out of England!
I replied that I would be extremely interested. Delighted, Eduardo left to make a phone call.
He returned with an address on the Regent’s Park Road. I was to arrive at promptly eight am on Friday morning.
‘I am placing great trust in you Adam’, he said sombrely. ‘Please do not let me down. My friend, she would be most upset’. His eyes flashed like burning obsidian. ‘As would I’.
I recall my blood chilling.
Then, grinning broadly, he called for more whiskey and a second beer for himself.

I arrived at the offices of Alfred Sheinmann at 07:55 on the Friday morning with shaven jowls, hair cut and suited. A fine rain fell from the ashen sky. The curtains on the ground level had yet to be drawn. Checking myself, I pressed the buzzer.
From within I heard a door bang closed and the rhythmic clacking of shoes approaching.
The door creaked open.
The woman before me was beautiful. She had a tall, slender frame accentuated by a pretty red blouse and black skirt. Her face was pale, with full red lips and large eyes that radiated a fervour that I balked slightly at. There was a flush in her cheeks and her chest fluttered noticeably.
‘Mr. Fairleigh?’ Panicked eyes searched my face. I could only mutter in the affirmative. Her wonderful lips blossomed into a relieved smile.
‘Fantastic. Punctual. An excellent start. Please follow me’.
She turned on exquisite heels and seated herself behind her desk. I obeyed, slightly unnerved but eager to make a good first impression. I seated myself and she studied me in silence.
‘Would you like to see my credentials?’ I eventually asked.
‘Oh, yes. Of course’, she accepted them, and gave them a perfunctory glance.
‘My name is Cecelia. You’ll be covering for me. It’s not a difficult job. I assume you can answer a telephone?’
I replied that I could. My hastily embellished CV lay mocking me.
‘Mr Sheinmann is a private man. He arrives at 7.30 each day and reads the morning papers in his office’. Cecelia motioned to a large wood panelled door.
‘He lunches alone. Indeed he rarely ventures out nowadays since...’ she trailed off. I noted a colour rising at her throat.
‘Mr. Sheinmann must not be disturbed between one and four when he reviews his cases. At four thirty he usually ventures out for a walk, but not always. Don’t be surprised if he doesn’t reappear until close of business at five thirty’.
Again, Cecelia seemed preoccupied with her thoughts.
Her body is here, but her mind is on holiday, I thought glumly. Wish I were.
‘Sheinmann has left express instructions he is not to be disturbed today. Answer the phone, take a message. If anyone calls in person seeking him, schedule them in for next week. He has an extremely pressing workload and requires complete isolation for the day until five. At that point, I expect he will want to meet you’. She added in a conspiratorial tone, ‘he can be a little odd like that’.
Cecelia asked me to repeat her instructions. I was struck by how preoccupied she appeared. She seemed content to equip me with the most rudimentary instructions. She cast longing looks at the clock behind my head.
Outside, a horn suddenly beeped and Cecelia excused herself, clearly relieved. I sat drumming my fingers on the desk, bare except for a red leather-bound organiser and a telephone.
She slipped back into the room just as I settled into her chair.
‘That’s the spirit!’ she trilled approaching slowly. ‘Thanks again for filling in at such short notice. Eduardo said you were reliable’.
‘Eduardo’s a great fellow. Do you know him well?’
Cecelia raised an eyebrow.
‘Why, he’s my fiancé darling!’ And with that she tottered out. Bemused, I peered through a gap in the curtain and watched a sporty black Mercedes peel away from the kerb and roar down the street.
Eduardo, resplendent in flight jacket and Ray Ban’s was driving.
I spent the rest of the morning familiarising myself with Mr Sheinmann’s organiser. In the last fortnight he had hosted several meetings with a G. Hartley of investment bank Hartley & Sons. It also appeared he was planning a trip abroad. There were references to a hotel booking in Switzerland.
I didn’t think much of Switzerland. Far too expensive.
The telephone rang once; a launderette inquiring whether Mr Sheinmann would be collecting his suits. I informed them that somebody would be by tomorrow. The launderette was a five minute walk from my bedsit. That would impress Sheinmann...
Twice I cautiously placed my ear to Sheinmann’s door. Classical music soared and crashed.
I was tempted to knock and introduce myself, but Cecelia’s instructions stayed my hand.
I puzzled over my fortuitous meeting with Eduardo. Why had he referred to Cecelia as being his friend as opposed to fiancé? Perhaps it was a new arrangement. I imagined he probably had a string of girls on the go, the wily dog!
At four thirty I waited in anticipation for Sheinmann to appear for his walk. The door remained stolidly closed.
Five o clock. I rose, stretched and listened again. The radio still burbled away.
I knocked.
No reply came.
I rapped harder and called Sheinmann’s name.
Something felt wrong.
I reached for the doorknob and pushed the door open.
The still darkness within was blinding. The hulking figure of Alfred Sheinmann sprawled in a huge chair behind his desk.
His lifeless eyes bore into mine terrifyingly. His mouth gaped like a banked carp.
A large knife protruded from his throat.
Shock coursed icily through my body. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The dead solicitor stared back in equal surprise.
Warily I entered his office. I rounded the desk, and saw at Sheinmann’s feet a large safe.
It was open and empty.
No, not empty. There was an envelope towards the back. I knelt to remove it, wary of the obese cadaver beside me.
My heart leapt when I read the envelope.

For Adam.

Inside was a considerable sum of money wrapped in Hartley & Sons bonds. Also within was a note;

Adam,

Thank you for the time you have bought us.

I hope you continue your journeys.

Forget the pig Sheinmann.

Because of him the animal that raped my sister walks free.

Eduardo


I looked from Sheinmann to the heavy wad of money I held. The radio droned on obliviously.
As in a dream I walked softly to the door and carefully drew it to behind me.

EileenG

This is the pared down version? Honestly, I would pare it down even further, not expend it.

For a short story, you have a lot of set-up, and most of it is difficult to empathise with. Who is this narrator who parties with society's elite, gets drunk all day long and appears to have no concept of credit cards?

You tend to overuse adjectives, and not in a useful way. "Fellow ostentatious darlings"? "blonde hair and whiskers" was just confusing, because "blonde" means female. "Blond" is a male with fair hair. I would assume the features were on a face, not in a sunburn. I had to google Havana shirt, but I wasn't impressed by the smartness of it. I also wouldn't consider someone in a flight jacket to be resplendent.

Try going back and cutting out at least half your adjectives, and checking you are using the right nouns.

In a good short story, something should change. Okay, the lawyer died, but there was no change in the narrator in any way.

Did you intend to spell the title wrong, or was it a typo?

Why did they leave the money and the incriminating letter? Why not just set up the drunk in the bar, and leave him to take the fall?

I could see this working as a script for a short in Tales of the Unexpected or something similar, but as a short story, it doesn't quite work.

cobsie

AzureAuto wrote: »

Within a month of returning to England following my European travels, I became incurably bored. I was nineteen, with a vacuous absence of responsibility, so I proceeded to fritter both time and money.

Stylistically this is a mess. You start off like a fin-de-siecle novel but include such anachronisms as CV and Ray Bans (no apostrophe, btw), amongst others. It makes your narrative voice seem like an affectation. The story is fine in itself. Maybe given more space to flesh it out, you could include a little more dramatic tension, especially at the reveal which is the high point of the story, after all.

good luck!

smcgiff

'Delighted, Eduardo left to make a phone call.' :eek:

Judging by the writing style I thought this story was set in the early 19th century until I read the above. Not sure if the OP will be back, but the lesson to be learned here is for writers to lose the Thesaurus.

AzureAuto

Thanks for your time.
Its true I haven't really given the reader any reason to empathise with the narrator, which is probably breaking some golden law of short stories, partly because of the word count (I could have listed all sorts of reasons why he dislikes England), but in reality he is simply a tool used by Eduardo, for whom I would prefer the reader to empathise (especially if I were to expand it out). I can see where I have made a big mistake, trying to pack far too much backstory into a word count of 1700, I have lost any sort of humanity to the narrative.
My choice of certain adjectives was again down to the word count, but I am also a great believer in the economy of words. In my opinion "fellow ostentacious darlings of society" works far better than a lengthy account of the flashy, well bred high society who flaunt money in a sickening and pompous manner whom Sheinmann once belonged to.
I dont believe anyone would have to run to a thesaurus when reading this story. Its hardly Shakespeare!
Apologies if you thought the story was set in the 19th century. But surely the Havana shirt would have steered you straight back to the 20th, no? I accept my writing style might be a little dated...
It'll be rehashed as a longer story as I had intended.
Come on Eileen, whats an 'e'. among amateurs!

smcgiff

Hey Azureauto,

Kudos for coming back.

You certainly have your own style, which may work in a short story, however in a long(ish) story it would get tiring. Some of your sentences could compete against the likes of, 'it was a dark and stormy night...'

I do think your story makes a good short story, although I guessed the ending well before poor Adam. I also think your dialogue was better than your narrative, all be it an upper class style.

I didn't mean the reader would need a thesaurus, but suspected, perhaps wrongly, that the writer had whipped it out a bit too often. But, I recognise this malady for a reason. I could post an opening few paragraphs to a story of mine that would make yours look like, in comparison, the virtue of Plain English.

Btw, you still didn't make the 1700 word cut off!

Thanks for submitting this and best of luck.

EileenG

Why not just start the story with him being broke and disparate for a job? Was there any need for the European trip and the rest of it? It's unnecessary set-up, which wastes a lot of words.

It would have been enough to say that after the trial, Sheinmann had become a social piraha. Most lawyers are not ostentatious darlings of society anyway.

Normally, the blond/blonde thing isn't a big deal. If you are entering a competition or submitting to a publisher, it is.

If you are going for economy of words, use fewer adjectives, and more powerful nouns. Keep description significant. Why was the lack of socks important enough to mention? I would have been inclined to say "He was smartly dressed" and leave it at that. Let the reader supply the clothes.

When was your story set? I still don't know.

AzureAuto

Hello again,
Story could be set at turn of century I suppose. Or why not 2010? Never really thought about time to be honest when writing it. I always hope the reader can suspend a little disbelief when I write.
Im inclined to agree with you r.e. the use of adjectives, its difficult to reread something and imagine it minus that word you might have paced the room for ten minutes thinking about!
The original piece spawned into a four thousand word monster and there was a great deal of relevant backstory which rather than deleting completely (I didnt have the heart), I hinted at. The opening paragraphs are typical of this.
The long and the short of it is, this version doesnt work as a short story.
Thanks again, specifically EileenG for the advice.

EileenG

You could keep the backstory as the bones of a novel, and just use the defining bit as your short story.

I'm not a fan of huge amounts of description, but you need to give your reader something to hang the story on. A reference to an i-pad puts it firmly in 2010 or horse droppings in the street puts it early last century. Otherwise, your reader can't visualise the characters or the background because they don't know if they should be riding horses or Harleys.