This was originally for my GCSE coursework at school but it has developed since then. This is the opening chapter to a dective story. Enjoy.
JJF Murphy
Hard-boiled.
By Frankie 93
As I sat there at my desk at 91 107th Street, New York City listening to Beethoven’s 13th and taking a break from trying to fit together pieces of a jigsaw which formed the Hawley-Rentroir homicide case, my mind started to wander. Had I become obsessed with 16th Century piano melodies? It must be said that any guest to my cramped apartment would ponder the thought. Not that I got any visitors – apart from my one and only acquaintance – PI. Davey Watson.
I stood. Then, as I started to walk around the small studio apartment – which I was renting from Watson, I started to linger upon the thoughts of my hometown. My only hometown, at least my only real hometown. Killarney – deep in Ireland. I was an alien here. Unaided. Secluded. Isolated. Alone.
My flat was decorated with 1940’s British furniture. A dull, dark brown shade loomed over the whole place, a 1945 Mahogany High Boy acting as the centrepiece. This was all my own interior. I may have been living in very cheaply rented accommodation, but I was by no means short on the money front. Indeed, it was by my own choice that I was surrounded by this style of fittings. The sharp, yet classical look which embedded the room was my own refined style.
I lit another cigarette, grabbed a couple of papers and a pen and exited my room and entered out into the buildings corridor. I walked down the thin walkway, rubbing my eyes and gazing upon the “Exit” sign which blurred at me at the end of the corridor, hanging above the door which led to the roof.
I entered the staircase and I climbed the spiralling stairs, the stairway was dimly lit, with certain spotlights at particular points which allowed me to barley make out squared photo’s which walked the stairs with me. A small child playing on the beach. A green watering can. A pair of cotton gloves. The pictures drew more and more meaningless as the stairs got higher.
I had spent the day at Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art. For many reasons I loved it there. I had visited it many times over the last few months. Not because of the artwork, that indeed repulsed me. But because of the thoughts that I always fell upon when I looked at the so called art. Because the art had no relevance to me I seemed to be able to make it more personal. For example, on this day I had gazed at a boring, white blank canvas with four small dots in each corner and within a fraction of a second, there was my family. My mother, my father and my brother. We looked happy but still serious. We didn’t wear a smile nor a frown but we had the faces of a passport. But I could see the joy in our eyes. We looked relatively young. Me and my brother about 15, my mother in her early thirties and my father starting to hit middle age. My father’s spectacles were as pronounced as ever and his hair was shorter than usual. My mother flowing red hair curled at the bottom of her face, slightly covering her mouth and her freckled cheeks. And me and my twin looked not like siblings but more as best friends. We looked nothing alike as far as our style of clothes or fashion was concerned but we always looked similar in facial appearance. We had deep black hair, my locks much longer than his and both had similar blue eyes. But it was our ears which made it obvious we were a pair, the dead giveaway. I longed to be back there. Then my eyes focused back on what I was looking at – a tiresome white canvas with a speck in each corner.
It was not only the art which I could stare at in the museum, but the people. They were all morons – unintelligent but still extremely interesting, each in their own way. I could gaze across any room in the museum and see a few different people and immediately live out thousands of different lives. I imagined being them. I hated it – but I loved the false sense of security which came along with it. It made me feel warm.
I climbed the last few stairs leading to the roof and finally exited a door which lead to the roof. The view from the top of the building was the same as usual. It bored me now, but it was still as glamorous and breathtaking as usual. The city was still lit by the sun, five hours passed since it set. But the millions of streetlights still sat upon the top of the city like a hat.
I checked my watch. 01:22am, Friday 22nd January 1979. I knew my watch was perfectly timed. It always was.
Right foot, left foot I approached my corner. Slumping down next to a voltage sign I took a deep breath. The sign read “BEWARE 1500 VOLTS” just like it always read.
I settled my papers down on my knees and started to write my report once more. I resumed the jigsaw.
“To conclude my investigations, I believe that Mrs. Hawley killed her husband in cold blood, therefore triggering insurance benefits for herself and a will for Mr. Hawley’s only other remaining relative, his half-brother Mr. Rentroir, which they would later split.”
I stopped writing and stood up. I took another look across the city skyline, the Hudson River which was glazed with a golden light. I leaned over the metal pole which trimmed the top of the building and took a glance at the Empire State Building, looming over the centre of town. I thought of the famous picture from when the mammoth edifice was being constructed and I imagined the builders playing golf from the top of the structure, driving golf balls from the summit of the building.
As I looked out into the distance I saw snow falling. Growing thicker and thicker the snow eventually merged on the floor of the city with the layer which had been there for a few hours. I gazed out for a further few minutes. Then I turned away.
I walked back over to my papers. I picked them up and took a look down at what I had written. A tear fell down on to the words, hitting them like a monsoon. A word was smudged.
It was all Lies. Lies...wretched, pathetic lies.
Then I jumped.
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