Wednesday, October 23, 2019


imagination is sparked by an Ethrick Brown Novel. Book with images exploding from it

Read Scottish thrillers with great plots and laugh out loud humour


This weeks prompt was "the hiding place".  My efforts this week were a bit graphic and grotesque and bordering on horror writing. My creative writing advisor thought the central character would make a great anti hero in a novel. I agree I could probably do a lot more with this.


No hiding Place -  

It wasn’t the hiding place that got to the detective, it was the sentinel. The watching, weeping, all seeing eye had left him with a vision of misery that he just wanted to forget. Everything else he had been trained for and whilst nothing had gone to plan, the violence, death, tragedy, treachery and trauma were all stuff he could reasonably expect in what was essentially a war. Shit happened and the hiding place was just another literal example but that weeping, seeping, pus-like eye that hovered above the hiding place was one guardian that had messed with his head. It would always be looking for him.

At least he was still alive unlike the heartless bastard who had tried to bludgeon him to death and was now lying in front of him.  He looked down at the cadaver’s chest which had been cleaved open and the vital organ that should have kept the lowlife alive just didn’t work anymore. Arguably the bastard never had a heart anyway, but the current diagnosis indicated it was now completely useless and whether it had been capable of any feelings in the past was irrelevant.  What a mess! Most of the life blood that had pumped through the unfeeling heart was now splattered over the detective. His clothing was ruined. That was heading for an evidence bag and ultimately the incinerator but until then he would have to look like something out of a zombie apocalypse movie. The reality was this was a horrific gangland killing and he still had to deal with the other victim or murderer. Two for the price of one. He smiled nervously at the thought. Double murders were fine when it was two of theirs. The assassin who had delivered the fatal blow to the heartless bastard was also dead, He was lying stone cold, on a slab, somewhere with his head hanging half off. As gruesome and futile as the headless assassin’s death had been, the detective told himself it didn’t bother him. If you’ve seen one hacked and mutilated body you’ve seen them all but a few things about the heartless bastard’s condition were playing on the detective’s psyche. He’d have to be a strong, heartless bastard, himself, to lock away what was really haunting him now. He tried to be indifferent, but the detective had to admit a couple of things about this death bothered him. Truthfully though, he knew that he didn’t give a shit about this worthless victim. He was a horrible bastard who had made a lot of people’s lives a misery and quite frankly he had deserved to die but the detective knew what was coming and that was what disturbed him.

His reverie was disturbed. “I’m sorry about the pre-transfusion blood sample. We had no time” said the Doctor. “An immediate transfusion was necessary if we were going to have any chance of saving him.”

‘Another fuck up,’ thought the detective. They hadn’t saved him which meant the only evidential blood samples they would get from the body would be contaminated by all the plasma they had pumped into him at the hospital to try and keep the heart beating but the Doctor’s efforts couldn’t be faulted. His commitment in trying to save the lowlife scumbag was unquestionable. He couldn’t have done anymore if it had been one of his own on the operating table. The tired doctor was now running the detective through the deceased’s injuries and he wanted his help to roll the body over. The detective was now uncomfortable. He wasn’t squeamish but the vision which had been the focus of his recent nightmares was about to haunt him again. He didn’t want the chest cavity with the useless heart to disappear. The heart that he had temporarily revived and pumped back to life because he had been first on the scene of the carnage and the bastard hadn’t been considerate enough stay dead on his arrival. He sought to hang on to the vision of the now cold organ that had spewed all sorts of warm junkie body fluid all over his Ralph Slater suit, Yves Saint Laurent shirt and finest George tie, as he tried his hardest to keep it beating before they got him to the good doctor. None of that shit would get to the detective. He told himself.  The heartless bastard wasn’t the first one to die after his resuscitation attempts and he’d seen more butchered bodies than most. He had always just filed that garbage away in the deepest dark recesses of his mind and hoped it all stayed locked up but it looked like the heartless bastard’s sentinel which had watched over his hiding place, the last time they met, was about to return and the detective didn’t want his nightmares getting any worse.

Of course, it was all in his mind. It wasn’t even an obscure hiding place. In his line of work, it was almost the norm but admittedly it was usually the last place they always looked. Two weeks ago, the cadaver had been a trusted enforcer in the underworld and when the detective had arrested him, he hadn’t come quietly. The lawman recalled how he had fight for his own life to stop the henchman caving in his skull with a stookie encased forearm but again that was just part of the Job, he told himself. Fishing a condom full of class A drugs, with a street value of over 20K, from some smack head’s anal canal wasn’t a pleasant task either but he’d seen more cracks than an iced pond in the thaw and it was just another part of the job he had to forget. When the police had breached the drug enforcer’s hiding place, it had raised serious questions amongst the bad guys about his reputation and in the end the loss of 20 grand of merchandise had cost the dealer his life. Getting released by the police, had thrown more doubt on his integrity and two weeks down the line the headless assassin had been sent to reclaim the debt. No doubt, getting his head hacked half off in the process probably hadn’t been part of the hitman’s script. The detective was now in charge of a ruined drugs operation, a double murder, albeit probably solved, and he had no pre-transfusion evidential blood sample unless you counted the stuff soaked into his clothes. It was a complete cluster fuck. Questions would be asked but that was what answers were for.

The sheer horror of the brutality and tragedy of the deaths should have upset most people, but the detective convinced himself he was resigned to it. He could cope with the futility of all that shit, but he wasn’t sure he could handle the all-seeing eye of the sentinel again even though he knew it was his own mind playing tricks with his sanity. The good doctor wanted to finish his job and because it was a criminal matter the detective had to record, amongst other things, details of the seeping, puss filled skin ulcer which had eaten away a hole the size of a fifty pence piece right at the base of the heartless bastard’s spine. Two weeks ago, when the detective had searched the drug dealer, following his initial arrest, he was prepared for the unpleasantness of an intimate body search, but he hadn’t been ready for the nightmare image of the sentinels oozing eye which, even two weeks later, still gave him the hebee-jeebee’s. It was two inches above the dead man’s rectum and caused by venous insufficiency of the tissue around the wound which had disintegrated and was now pooled with perforated mucus that in the detective’s mind resembled some hideous, horror creatures eye socket seeping slimy tears. The detective knew it was just a sore but all he saw was an eye and its gaze bored right through him to his core, filled him with icy unease and send shivers racing down his spine. because he just hadn’t expected to see it in such an unusual place. If it had been on the junkie’s leg or his foot or any other injection point that would have been a normal drug user’s affliction but two inches above, his hiding place was so unforeseen and unsightly that it had unsettled the detective. It also meant he had to observe it during the search.  His mind hadn’t prepared him for the eye of the renal guardian, and it had spooked him. Even although he was aware it was just a symptom of necrotizing fasciitis, all his mind could see was the eye of the sentinel. It was a loathsome evil eye, looking for him, finding him and questioning him. It was the eye, of impending doom filled with pestilence, plague and suffering. All question of reality in the detective’s mind had gone. In a split second a sore on a junkie’s arse had transformed into the eye of the beast challenging him to investigate his own soul and judge himself. Was he the cure or part of the disease? Was his heart true or was it as black as death’s itself. The sore had been eating the junkie from the inside out and it was now doing the same to the detective.

Despite his appearance of unfazed indifference, the psychological damage had been done and once again, as the detective turned the body, he would have to gaze into the evil eye of the sentinel and be challenged by its accusations. He believed his heart was true but in the future, no matter how deep in the darkest recesses of his mind he tried to bury his demons there would be no escape from the haunting loathsome, vile, flesh eating, disease ridden, nightmarish accusations of the weeping watching eye that had been implanted to challenge his integrity and there would be no hiding place in his dreams when it came looking for him.