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Slow Poison - Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-seven Stonehouse The boy never came now. Nor did the Mother. The Husband had looked in once or twice before the snows had gone, but he had soon relinquished the chore. The old man was seldom lonely as he sat out his days in the first floor council flat. The gas meter ticked on, consuming the nickel coins he set aside. The world had shrunk to the dimensions of the cramped kitchen, to the area of the chipped Formica table. He sat there between sleep, sipping the cooling instant coffee that stood ever within his reach. One or the other of the books would lie open before him; diary or the book of Ilya’s verse. The verse was never read, the strong line-work of the illustrations too powerful a magnet to allow his eyes to stray, but the power of the images paled beside his own words. The fragile scrawl held the ghosts within the prison of the cracked kitchen walls. The dark stars of her eyes held his own as he followed the marks he had left on the pages of the diary.
By David Philip Ireland5 years ago in Criminal
Slow Poison - Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-five Stonehouse The old man was a prisoner once more. His kitchen was the one warm place in the apartment. The familiar ice-scapes had masked the view from the bedroom windows, and there were crystallised plumes of frost spreading out in all directions on the inner walls of the toilet and the stairwell. The old man huddled close to his gas stove, an old grey blanket wrapped around his shoulders. A tin of Co-op soup stood in the pan of water, its paper label floating helplessly in the bubbles. The air in the kitchen was humid and reeked of tinned tomatoes.
By David Philip Ireland5 years ago in Criminal
Slow Poison - Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-four Outside The Cotswold Cottage A city had grown up around the cottage, beyond the perimeter of the Victorian wall, in the once open fields. Silent shapes bowed low beneath the rotor blades that circled slowly over head. There were those with eyes that could see in the dark, tracing the frames of the windows through infra-red lenses, accurate barrels lining up their sights with the seventeenth century leaded lights.
By David Philip Ireland5 years ago in Criminal
Slow Poison - Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-one “MUMMY!” The voice split the night, echoing through the house. Trim was instantly awake. He sat up, his body aching, the glutinous ooze smeared on leather. He listened. Acrid sweat poured from him. No other sound came. The child slept on. Three-ten. Trim pulled himself from the leather unit, his hand sticking to the surface. Sleep, in the master bedroom, was a feverish, broken stretch until the black beyond the window became grey. From the outer edge of sleep he could hear the child. She stirred in the second bedroom. The first day was beginning.
By David Philip Ireland5 years ago in Criminal
FIGURE IN THE DARKNESS
There was a time in my life where it felt uncomfortable to enter the embrace of frigid, dark waters. A time when the fear of the unknown played with my mind. Where the cold of the water permeated through to my soul. Caused hypothermia. But as my body submerges into the pitch-black surf now, I feel nothing.
By Devin Thorpe5 years ago in Criminal
Slow Poison - Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen Amsterdam. January 23rd Kramer counted lab tile, uncomfortable in the sterile surroundings, wheezing in the antiseptic air-conditioned atmosphere, too cold for January. The forensic scientist working alone at his desk would have preferred solitude, but the asthmatic fat man had insisted upon remaining in the room. De Winter, the scientist, bearded, forty, had planned a different Saturday; a day of family delights yet, here he was, verdomme, a snatched breakfast repeating on him, tearful kids waving goodbye from the back of his ex-wife’s Espace.
By David Philip Ireland5 years ago in Criminal
WHAT ARE THE ODDS - PART 2
With the small black book in hand, Nes and I stood there in silence for a few minutes, staring at the massive sum of money sitting on the table in a counting room we found behind a bookshelf, it was so surreal. I don't know what was going through his mind but in my mind I was already concocting a plan. Nes and I had only known each other for a few weeks, all I knew about him was that he was half Puerto Rican, half Dominican and had moved to Philadelphia from the island a year ago. Surprisingly, his English was really good for someone who spent most of their life in Puerto Rico. He said it was because he frequently visited the states growing up and all of his cousins spoke to him in English. It was no secret how I fell into this lifestyle, everyone knew the only reason I sold drugs was to gather enough money to get custody of my five siblings who were in foster care since our mom passed away. It's the only reason Big Sexy put me on, she had two kids of her own and was sympathetic to my situation. I had done everything for those kids since they were born, I loved them more than life itself and I was willing to do anything for them to have a more stable life than I had. As I was in my thoughts, I realized that was the first time I thought about Marisol since she died and the tears rolled down my cheeks. Nes looked at me and asked if I was okay. I wiped the tears from my face and said "I'm good, let's leave that conversation for another day. Right now, we have to figure out how to make this situation beneficial for the both of us." Let's sit and talk for a minute. We exited the small room and stepped into the office, I put the book back on the shelf to close the room. I sat on the chair behind the desk and Nes sat on a chair across from me.
By Vanessa Rodriguez5 years ago in Criminal
