The Writing Thread

Thanks for the kind comments. All characters are based on people I encountered at various times.

2 Likes

This is something I wrote a few weeks ago for a competition. 500 words max and had to be set in either a bookshop or a library.

https://link.medium.com/FyYIUXel90

8 Likes

First chapter of my semi-autobiographical, ridiculously…I mean ridiculously…self-indulgent unfinished novel.

THE BULL GRADUATE

CHAPTER ONE

I can see you. Your brown skin’s shining in the sun.

The summer of 1987 was hotter than most, and late January is as hot as it gets in Ballabool. Oh, you might get a few isolated days over a hundred on the old scale in early autumn, the death throes of summer.

But for consistent unadulterated heat, you can’t go past Australia Day. The day that marks the turn of the year more accurately for adolescents than New Years Day ever has.

High school kids ride their bikes to school on roads of melting tar. The morning journey of over a mile in such weather in no way noteworthy.

It’s what’s done, what has always been done.

Young legs in tight shorts and short school dresses languidly pump up and down.

One becomes two.

Two become four.

Not taking the most direct route, but idling past friend’s houses along the way.

Light flashes from sparkling spokes and pedals under a sky of clearest blue.

They converge from many directions onto the long, straight Robinson Road, the last leg of their journey.

At first quiet giggles and chatter lilts through the air like birdsong at dawn. Over the next twenty minutes, the volume rises like high tide in a storm, punctuated by the lightning crack of obscenities shouted unselfconsciously.

Emboldened by the safety of the flock, boys act out, perform tricks and show off.

Their behaviour as predictable as any animal mating ritual.

Girls pretend not to see, but do.

If caught watching, they feign disgust.

Each and every one unaware of their part in the summer ritual. Detachment is a rare gift. It takes someone special to be inside and see as if from outside.

For those on the outside, if they have the inclination to think about what they are seeing, patterns are obvious.

Predictions are not predictions at all.

This morning, Jenny Connelly sits on a comfortable wicker chair on the front porch of her house at the end of Robinson Road. Drinking what might be only orange juice and ice, for she has her rituals too, and watches.

There’s something fresh and pure about a new school year that’s denied us when we begin our working lives.

Everything that is past is past. It’s been graded and for better or worse, it’s over. No one ever says, ‘remember that terrible report you wrote last year’. It’s just as unlikely that anyone will recall the good ones.

After the long Christmas break the year stretches out unmarked and unspoiled. Friends reconnect and enemies…?

Well, again, the score is reset and the game starts afresh.

Best of all is the opportunity for reinvention.

Seven weeks is an eternity to the young. Time enough to stretch and grow, time enough to get a haircut, get a tan, get creative with who you met on holiday and how often they write.

These things get noticed. They are currency. They are real.

More real than any actual change (which is much too subtle) or experience (which is much too boring) could ever be.

All of these things, and the light, and the heat, entwine to create an atmosphere of joy and hope. Bodies are young and lean and strong. Minds are sharp and eager.

The feeling is so strong that it often takes weeks of school to beat it out of them.

Jenny sips and waits. The youngest are first, some solitary, some in small groups, zipping past too early and too quickly. You don’t want to be late to your new school on the first day. Especially when you haven’t a clue where to go, what to do or what to expect.

She takes a casual interest in the pre-pubescents, wondering which will bloom and which will stagnate. But they’re still children, it’s impossible to know.

Half won’t even stay the course.

Now they come.

The favourites, seven regulars and two hangers-on.

Not a bead of sweat on them while the condensation drips from her glass.

The seven had ridden together since year seven, and it’s fair to say that she’s been waiting for this year. Jenny leans forward in anticipation and notes the changes in them.

In a strange way, there have been none.

The tall one has become taller, the strong ones chest and shoulders have become deeper and wider. The loud one has become louder, sadly. She’d hoped for something there, in the way you hope that a man running last can at least close the gap a little. The angel-faced leader is still more comfortable with leading; in fact all of them are comfortable.

At home in their skins, relaxed and confident.

And finally, the other one.

The one without the angel face, the broad shoulders or the bravado. But just as self-assured. She’d written him off a thousand times, and she tried to again.

There was a light in his eyes, yes, but they all had that more or less. But she’d noticed his. He had no reason, no right to be with them and yet in some way he transcended them.

No. The leader was a much better choice.

He would understand. The change would be less noticeable and safer for her.

She was almost sure. And then the other one turned his lead and winked at her.

5 Likes

Urgh.
This was a bad idea.
I just reread it and…nah.

Well, I did notice you omitted an apostrophe, but don’t be so harsh on yourself.

2 Likes

I’ve gone to post about 5 different things, until I re-read them and thought ‘ahhh, that’s terrible.’

You’ve got a very interesting and distinct voice in your writing, Wim. I’m a fan.

And maybe I should just post something…

1 Like

You are too kind, but thank you.
I’d like to think there are some nice pieces in it (it’s close to 50k and only half done), but overall I’m not a fan of it myself anymore.

And yes, you definitely should.

I think when you’ve spent so much time on something, (and 50K is a great deal of time) then you are bound to hate it in some capacity.

You need to not look at it for a few months and try to go back to it fresh, to get any real perspective on it.

Agreed. I can despise something I’ve written a day later. Often deservedly. Sometimes I like it again down the track.

It’s certainly not bad, Win.

1 Like

I wrote it ten years ago, so I have plenty of perspective.
And then I just stopped. I don’t know why.
I liked it at the time, but now I find it kinda creepy and gross.

1 Like

Ah, fair enough. It’s a deeply personal story, and you’re not the same person now as you were when you wrote it, so that makes sense.

i wouldn’t scrap it, though, there is a really interesting tone to it. And you don’t have to be young to write about young people.

Ok, fark it.

This was a novel I attempted about 8 years ago, but could never get to work. I loved the story, so I then converted it to a TV series, and wrote a pilot and two more episodes. I pitched it “Hollywood, man!” But got very little interest. I eventually had to throw this story away and move on, as I spent a lot of time on it and just couldn’t find the right medium for it.

Here is a sample of the first chapter, which is probably still riddled with typos and bad grammar, because that’s how I roll.

The Infusion Illusion
Chapter 1: Ayahuasca
Amazon Rainforest - Peru
1835 CE

This was the exact same type of internal conflict that had plagued Edgar Buchanan his entire life. On the one hand, he loved indulging in his spiritual side and finding ways to expand and alter his consciousness. But on the other, he hated being among nature, and he really, really hated ants.

Sure, he’d been on many journeys in the name of spiritual awakening before, but not like this one. The further into the trek he got, the more his mind played tricks on him and his paranoia intensified. He became increasingly aware of how out of place he must look to the rest of his group, and such things didn’t usually bother him. Edgar was short, stocky, well-dressed and also happened to be the son of a United States tobacco entrepreneur. He wasn’t the most likely of candidates to be slicing through debris on a track in the middle of the Amazon Rainforest. He hardly looked like the town, as they say.
“Hurry up.” Yelled his friend Antonio, the only other english speaking member of the group. It’s likely that the other members were saying something similar, but Edgar couldn’t understand them. Languages were not his strength.

“It can’t be that much further now, surely?” Replied Edgar, still struggling for air. But he never got a response to that question.

Within seconds, they appeared, completely surrounding the group. A tribe of native warriors who happened to possess a level of hunting and warfare skills that Edgar’s money could never buy. And now one of them was jamming a spear into his back. Understandably, he was terrified.

Fortunately, Edgar and his group were not aimlessly strolling through a remote and dense part of the Amazon with no purpose. They had a destination, a plan, and most importantly, a guide named Elvaro who spoke the native’s language. This exact situation had been meticulously planned for by Elvaro. In fact, it was surprising they’d gotten this far before dealing with natives. This of course, didn’t make it any less frightening.

“Edgar, the gifts.” Muttered Antonio.

Elvaro was in deep conversation with what appeared to be the leader of the tribe. Or so Edgar assumed. It could have been the head speaker of the tribe, or the head of communications, or it could have just been the guy standing closest to Elvaro. The hierarchical structures of Native Amazonian Tribes, were not his strength.

Edgar reached into his pack slowly, with one hand held in the air to signify peace, although the meaning of this awkward gesture was probably lost on the two natives currently eyeballing him. He pulled out a hessian pouch, which contained gold pieces, various seedlings, two little machetes and an authentic hand-crafted arrowhead. It was the type of peace offering that Elvaro had instructed him to put together, and Edgar was about to find out if Elvaro was worth the very generous fee he was paying him.

“Qué es eso?” bellowed the tribe member closest to a clearly confused Edgar.

“Bring it here… slowly” Translated Antonio, who was beginning to tire of the fact that only he could communicate with the awkward American.

Edgar slowly approached the ‘guy closest to Elvaro,’ and offered the hessian pouch as a gift. Elvaro ran through the process with the native leader, who seemed very pleased with his new possessions. It doesn’t matter whether you’re a European capitalist, or an Amazonian hunter-gatherer, everybody loves a present.

Some words were exchanged between Elvaro and the Native leader, and the group were ushered onwards.

“They are going to take us via a shortcut, should be there before sunset my friend,” said a relieved-sounding Antonio. “And don’t look so scared.”

“What, no need to camp again?” Edgar had been dreading having to spend another night in a makeshift camp, here, in the middle of the Amazon. His reasons for this were many, but the main one was his extraordinary fear of flesh eating ants. Which, considering the location, was actually quite warranted.

“We’ll be there around dinner time,” explained Antonio “Unless of course we are dinner.”


6 Likes

It’s very good.
I really like the opening par, and I do like a running gag.

1 Like

Cheers Wim

Spoiler: He eventually has a strength.

Crikey, it’s quite daunting posting this in here for some reason.

2 Likes

Ok, as I have a quiet night at work, I’ll post one more. (although this does run the risk of becoming a bit self-indulgent.)

I wrote this play about ten years ago over a weekend. I sent it to my friend, and he asked if I wanted to put it in the fringe festival that year. It all happened very quick, which meant I never got to properly workshop or edit the script. So it wasn’t too great when it hit the stage.

It’s a kinda weird, awkwardly meta and somewhat extensional story that transposes the writing of the bible into a modern context. It didn’t quite work, but it had it’s moments. The following scene is with Richard Simon, managing editor of The Bible: New Testament.

Oh, and it’s far more silly than it is blasphemous.

SCENE 4

The Office of Richard Simon
Richard is sitting at his desk flicking through some paperwork.
Hannah enters carrying more treatments for submission.

RICHARD
More?

HANNAH
This is getting crazy. Oh, and some guy called Dan Brown keeps calling for you.

RICHARD
Dan who?

HANNAH
Brown.

RICHARD
Never heard of him

HANNAH
And there is still that guy sitting in reception wanting to see you.

RICHARD
Can’t he just leave his submission like everybody else?

HANNAH
He says he urgently needs to see you. And he isn’t leaving.

RICHARD
What’s his name?

HANNAH
Um, Mr Isca… Iscariot. Or something.

RICHARD
(Shocked)
Judas?

HANNAH
I think so.

RICHARD
Judas Iscariot is in my reception?

HANNAH
Yes. I think.

RICHARD
Do you have any idea who that guy is?

HANNAH
No I don’t sorry, I haven’t got Foxtel. Should I tell him to go away?

RICHARD
(Ponders)
Nah. Send him in. This could be fun.

HANNAH
Okay, I’ll send him in right away.

Hannah exits
Richard sits in his chair, anticipating his visitor.

RICHARD
(To himself)
Judas Iscariot. The things I’d like to say to that ■■■■■■■

Judas Iscariot enters.
He is disheveled looking, with thick beard and
raggy clothes. He has sunglasses on.
He gingerly walks towards Richard with a full
script in his hand, carefully looking behind him
every few seconds.

Richard stands to greet him.

Judas puts his hand out to shake, but Richard
spits in his face instead.

RICHARD
I’m sorry… I just always wanted to do that.

JUDAS
It’s okay… I get that a lot.

RICHARD
Sit down Mr Iscariot, and tell me what the hell you are doing here.

JUDAS
I came about your ad. For the bible.

RICHARD
What makes you think you think we’d want you to have anything to do with it? You betrayed our Lord.

JUDAS
See that’s the thing. I didn’t. Well, okay, technically I did, but he asked me to. I mean, Peter
denied the bloke three times and people don’t spit in his face, do they?

RICHARD
Hardly the same thing.

JUDAS
Isn’t it? He just did what Jesus asked him, as did I.

RICHARD
He asked you to?

JUDAS
Of course he did. It was all part of the divine plan. Fact is, me and JC were close mates. I knew him as
well as anybody did and I’m a ■■■■■■ good writer

RICHARD
Well, not anybody…

JUDAS
Okay, apart from Magdalene but she’s clearly gonna get her say. C’mon Richard, if I don’t get my side of the story out there i could be remembered in history as a… traitor! As a ■■■■ bloke, and I’m not.

RICHARD
I think you’re being a bit dramatic there Judas.

JUDAS
I don’t think I am. I mean you mention Magdalene; she wasn’t all virtue and femininity you know, there were plenty of rumours about stuff she got up to in University.

RICHARD
Careful Judas

JUDAS
But how is she going to be remembered? As some Saint, I bet. Not like me… Judas the Traitor!

RICHARD
Don’t be stupid, history wont remember you as a traitor Judas; people will get over it, trust me.

JUDAS
I’m not so sure.

Judas hands Richard his script. It is detailed.

JUDAS (cont’d)
Please, read it.

RICHARD
I only need a treatment at this stage.
(Looks at the detailed script)
Geez, what is this, your life story?

JUDAS
To an extent, yes. Please Richard, just read it.

Richard quickly flicks through the pages of the
script

RICHARD
Okay Judas, I will read it.

JUDAS
Thank you

RICHARD
But only on one condition?

JUDAS
What?

RICHARD
Get out of my office!

JUDAS
(Excited)
No problem, thank you so much Mr Simon, I really appreciate this chance.

Judas stands and offers his hand to Richard. Richard stands, goes to raise his hand, but spits in his face again.

RICHARD
Sorry. Old habits.

JUDAS
(A little dejected)
Yeah. Don’t mention it.

Judas exits with his tail between his legs.

RICHARD
(Calling out to Hannah)
Hannah! Hannah!

HANNAH
(Off stage)
Yes Mr Simon?

RICHARD
If that wanker ever sets foot in my reception again, have security hang him from the nearest tree.

Hannah comes into the office

HANNAH
Him? Really? He was cute.

RICHARD
(Amused)
You thought he was cute?

HANNAH
Yeah, he had this whole Russell Brand thing happening.

RICHARD
Who?

HANNAH
You don’t know who Russell Brand is?

RICHARD
No, I don’t watch Glee so I wouldn’t have a clue.

BLACKOUT

5 Likes

I tend to waffle on too much, overly descriptive language. "You love commas dad ", as my Year 12 English language daughter informed me!
So “River Run” was a deliberate attempt to keep the structures shorter and more abrupt, lol.

Having now read your piece(s), I don’t think you’re too rambling. Or at least, those two aren’t. One is a play, of course. I think Judas and his Bible are a really good premise.

I couldn’t really guess where Edgar’s story was heading beyond the obvious Ayahuasca hint in the title. I thought it may have been a Wizard of the Upper Amazon type deal, but it seemed not by the end of chapter one.

1 Like

Ok, this one probably won’t make much sense if you aren’t a Biggles series (Captain W.E Johns) fan . The idea was to write a story in the same style and consistent with Johns’ characters and methods. So if it has any merit at all, it’s only that i think its fairly close to the original Authors style. I think. Maybe.

Anyhoo, here’s chapter 1. I’m about 6 and a half chapters in, likely it finishes around 12 Chapters, but I’ve neglected it badly at times over the years. I may finish it off one day.

Chapter 1. The Needle

The air was already thick with smoke when Detective Inspector Bigglesworth, chief operational agent of Scotland Yards’ Air Police section, pushed open the door to his Commanders office.
Air Commodore Raymond glanced up from his desk and gave him a nod of greeting. “Thanks for coming down at short notice”, he said, pushing forward the cigarette box in ofference. “Take a seat. How was Berlin?”
Biggles shrugged, taking a sidelong glance at another figure in the room as he accepted the offer of some matches. “The usual. Interpol still isn’t anywhere near as integrated as it should be. Especially in our area, I’m not sure the Continent are taking the use of aircraft seriously. Except for Marcel, of course.” He leaned back in his chair and looked around speculatively. ” But what seems to be the national emergency today?”

Raymond looked surprised. “Why assume an emergency!?”

Biggles smiled faintly. “I’ve been around long enough, sir, to know that Major Charles’ Intelligence Department presence takes things beyond our usual criminal field of operations," he said with an acknowledging look at the third inhabitant of the room.

“Quite right”, replied the Air Commodore. “Time may be of the essence, so let me fill you in”. He pressed his fingers together pensively. “I assume you are familiar with the current troubles in Kenya?”

“The Mau-Mau?”

“Yes. Things are outright nasty, but there is reason to believe that an aspect may be even more sinister. Let me take you back to the beginning. Several years ago, we set up an, err, scientific research station in the far north-west of the country. West of Lake Turkana in the mountainous area bordered by Abyssinia and Uganda.”

“Up near Lodwar?”

“Further North than that, we used Lodwar as the supply route” interposed Charles.

“That IS remote”, admitted Biggles with some surprise. “Why there in particular?”

Charles shrugged. “Lets just say it suited our purpose, which of course it must have done.”

Raymond continued. “Our work proceeded well for several years, gathering the information we were after and good progress was made in the field of, err, research.” He paused, and then added grimly, ”Until about three months ago”.

Biggles drew on his cigarette. “What happened?”

“It appears the station was hit by an armed raiding party. The details are sketchy, but it seems likely that a Mau Mau band were involved. It’s pretty wild country, our reach is a bit limited up there and the unrest in the rural area’s is quite severe”. The Air Commodore paused to gather his thoughts and then continued quietly. ”Despite a fully fledged gun battle, our boys were pretty much wiped out”.

“A gun battle!?” exclaimed Biggles incredulously. “Between scientists and Natives in the back of nowhere!?” He looked at the others in wide-eyed astonishment.

Charles shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “We had a security detachment present. Ex commando’s actually, just to safeguard our interests.”

Biggles looked back at his boss. “What in the blazes were we doing there!?”

“Never mind about that now. Let me continue. The supply arrangements for Litaka – that’s the name of the place – incorporated an airstrip and weekly cargo flights to keep the scientists stocked.”

“What sort of plane and where from?” interjected Biggles.

“A DC-3 operating out of Lodwar, which ultimately also connected with Nairobi”, it was Charles who provided the information. “Does it matter?”

“It might! Why the heck do a few scientists need something as big as a DC-3 every week!? How many were there?”

There was an uneasy silence for a moment, before Charles responded. “We had nearly a hundred staff of various types on the site”.

Biggles was aghast. “A hundred! Are you telling me that we lost one hundred men to a native uprising?” He looked nonplussed at the thought.

Charles fixed him with a steely look before replying with bitter opaqueness, “Yes and no. It appears so”.

“But…” Biggles was cut-off by Raymond.

“Bigglesworth, how about you let me continue? Good. So, the weekly flight arrived to find the station burnt out. More or less razed to the ground, just smouldering ruins. The pilot radioed Nairobi, and they asked him to go down if safe. They did, landing on the airstrip and were about to head off for a look around when a figure, a man, sprang from the vegetation and bolted for the ‘plane. He was an Askari, Kings African Rifles, just about all in and he demanded that they get out of there at full speed. The flight crew, already jumpy at the bodies lying around, wasted no time in following his advice”. Raymond stopped to light another cigarette. “That’s how we know pretty much what happened”.

“According to the Askari’s tale, the compound was attacked at dawn by a large gang of natives, armed with an assortment of weapons, including modern rifles. Whether by planning or good fortune – we suspect the former in light of what was to come – they immediately seized and destroyed the radio hut. By this time, the defence had been mounted and our force – comprised of the Kings Own and three former SAS lads - had managed to stabilise the situation. It looked ugly, but the day was spent more or less in a stalemate, effectively a state of siege. The man in charge of the defence was Captain Reg Davidson, formerly of the Commando’s during the war. You might know him, a contemporary of Gimlet King? No? No matter. Anyway, Davidson is –or was- a man of exceptional ability and as it turns out thank god he was there. By late afternoon our lads were still in possession of most of the outpost and there was some thought that the natives were likely to cool down and hopefully disappear into the wilderness. They usually do. But not this time, and we soon found out why. As dusk approached, the base was hit hard from the north by new arrivals”. The Air Commodore drew a breath before continuing with a searching look at Biggles’ face. “These new arrivals were in full military get-up, heavily armed and obviously trained. The Askari believes they were from Abyssinia, as did, apparently, Davidson.”

Biggles stared. “Do I hear this correctly? An African nation launched a military offensive against this country in an open act of war!?”
Charles cut in again. “We don’t think so, no. It’s not quite that straight forward. Note that the Air Commodore mentioned they were from Abyssinia, but we currently don’t believe they were official troops.”

Biggles shook his head helplessly. “What in God’s name have we got involved in?”.

“I’m coming to that”, replied Raymond quietly. “Sergeant Kemboi – the Askari – says that everything became pandemonium. The defence copped the worst of it and these murderous barbarians seemed intent on killing all and sundry. Soon after dark, a furious firefight still underway, the head Scientist came to Davidson and told him that no matter what happened, the Research Lab had to be destroyed. Under any circumstances, whatever the cost. According to Kemboi, Davidson accepted this. He also apparently accepted a package of research papers and was asked to get them clear and back to us here in London.”

Charles cut in. “If Kemboi can be believed, and there’s no reason to doubt him, Davidson handed over command of whatever defence was left. He also gave Kemboi the papers – briefly as it turns out – and set out to destroy the Lab Building. He was gone for perhaps fifteen minutes, during which time it had become every man for himself. You can imagine what was going on, we needn’t elaborate.” Charles halted for a moment, his face set in hard lines and then went on. “Davidson took back the package and told Kemboi that his new mission was to escape. To get clear and find a way to let the authorities know exactly what had happened. He, Davidson, would attempt the same with the documents but separately. He had about 5 minutes before Davidson, so he said, would provide a distraction, during which time they would try to get through enemy lines and away into the country side. The nature of that distraction, as it turned out, was the destruction of the lab building. It started out as two small explosions and a fire. We think Davidson must have rigged a couple of incendiary devices. Whether he also knew the nature of some of the substances contained within is something we can only guess at. But either way, the fire must have reached some pretty flammable items and the entire place went up like Guy Fawkes!”

For the first time in the meeting, a semblance of a smile crossed the Air Commodores face. “Kemboi is convinced that Davidson planted a pocket-sized atomic bomb. He described it as heaven itself crashing to earth. The lab vanished in a roar, nearby outbuildings were flattened and Kemboi and Davidson, going like the clappers, were knocked over by the blast. It must have killed anyone- friend or foe- within a hundred-yard radius. But it certainly served both purposes, as they got through. Kemboi couldn’t hear properly for two days, but Davidson signalled to him to head southwards. For whatever reason, our man headed North East, at least initially and disappeared into the darkness. As far as we can tell, he took the papers with him”.

“I think I can guess where this is going”, remarked Biggles drily.

“No doubt. Kemboi snuck away through the night, trying roughly to head southwards in the general direction of Lodwar, though it is hundreds of miles away. But around dawn, he ran across a village and found the place in obvious uproar. The whole district seemed to be in a state of agitation. Not liking his chances of finding some help, and realising that the sheer distance to Lodwar was verging on the impossible in the circumstances, he was certainly faced with a poser. And then he recalled the weekly DC-3 delivery. Figuring that he needed to warn the plane, and also that it provided his best chance of escape, he turned around and made his way back to Litaka”.

“Smart lad”, opined Biggles.

“Indeed. He was careful to stay hidden and it took most of that day to reach his original starting point. Not that there was much chance of losing his way, columns of smoke still rose to mark his bearings. He was, of course, hoping to find the place quiet and abandoned. In this, he was to be disappointed. Most of the natives had vanished, but the uniformed men still wandered around, apparently sifting through the various buildings. But that’s not all he saw.” The Air Commodore looked at his operational chief with a qu.eer look.

“Go on” responded Biggles, grinding out the stub of his cigarette and reaching for another.

“Sitting clear and plain as day on the airstrip was an aeroplane. A smallish one, no markings, painted in khaki camouflage. It must have only just arrived because Kemboi was in time to see four men exit the aircraft. Four white men, speaking in what our Askari friend could only assume was a European language. He spent time in Tanzania and says it wasn’t German, nor does he think it was French”. Raymond halted, as if to let the significance of this sink in.

“I see. Now we’re getting somewhere, and I can guess at the sinister aspect you mentioned originally. Mau Mau’s and white men with aeroplanes don’t seem to be natural bed-fellows. You don’t think this was a random attack on a white settlement, do you?” Biggles looked at Charles.

“Frankly, no. Even without the arrivals by plane, we should have found it impossible to believe. But it’s not quite accurate to say that the Mau-Mau have no reason to connect with White interests. One of the outspoken leaders for Black Liberation is a man called Jomo Kenyatta. He has an association with various Communist parties, including in this country, and during the 1930’s spent time studying in Stalin’s Soviet Union. There is also reason to believe that one or more Governments behind the Iron Curtain are offering material support to various splinter groups and rebels within Abyssinia”. He caught Biggles eye knowingly.

“And Kemboi believes the uniformed men crossed over from the north”, breathed Biggles.

“Correct”. It was Raymond who spoke. “You can see which way the wind is blowing on this one now”.

Biggles thought for a moment. “Do we know if Davidson returned to Litaka? If Kemboi had the common sense to know that the DC-3 could rescue him, surely Davidson would have too?”

Charles answered. “We can’t be too sure about that. Kemboi never saw him again in the three days he was hiding out in the area, but if Davidson did return that wouldn’t surprise as he too would have had to have been extremely careful. But we are inclined to think that Davidson never returned, and with good reason based on Kemboi’s remaining statements”. He took a drink before proceeding. “The night the white men arrived, they apparently spent it in the administration building. That building had been damaged, but not destroyed. Kemboi reports that by morning a great pile of paperwork was piled outside and the white men were going through it all with minute interest. But by lunchtime they seemed to reach a conclusion, and a none-too-happy one at that. The paper work was set on fire and according to the Askari a great deal of animated conversation was entered into. The uniformed soldiers – rebels, more likely – were hastily organised into small parties and began fanning out, checking the bodies of the unfortunate inhabitants and patrolling the ground. Given what we know, it takes little imagination to work out what they were looking for.”

“It also kills off any notion that this was anything other than a deliberate attack on this nations interests”, added Biggles. “Whatever those were”, he concluded with a touch of asperity.

“Quite”, answered Raymond, studiously replying only to the first assertion. “Now, to finish off the Litaka account, according to Kemboi, there was a good deal of commotion in the vicinity of where he and Davidson had parted. A platoon of uniforms was formed up, with some tribal blacks casting around in front and somewhere around mid-afternoon this party set off on what we suspect was Davidson’s trail. What they found to get them excited, we don’t of course know. Maybe he dropped something, or left a print. Native trackers can follow on almost imperceptible signs, by all accounts. The remaining men set fire to whatever was still standing, indulged themselves for a while by spearing the bodies that were laying around the place” this part uttered with iron in his voice “and marched out northwards. The white’s departed in the aircraft. Kemboi could see the ‘plane for quite some time, tracing slow circles to the north east before finally vanishing. The remaining natives vanished before dusk and the Sergeant was left to himself until the DC-3 arrived two days later.”

Silence reigned for a few moments before anyone spoke. When they did, it was Biggles. “So, ignoring the outrage of the actual fate of many British subjects, what this boils down to, Sir, is that as of several months ago we had a British soldier roaming the wilds of Northern Africa with documents of immense national importance? And that he was probably being hunted down by persons unknown from some sort of para-military unit?”

“Correct. Yes.”

“And what do I have to do with it?”

“We want you to find Davidson”, replied Charles. “or more precisely, we want those papers”. He looked Biggles squarely in the eye. “Badly. It would be disastrous for anyone else to get them.”

“Oh, is that all !?” uttered Biggles in a tone so dripping with sarcasm that even Raymond winced. “Have a heart, Sir, what do you think I am? A magician? After three months, Davidson, the poor devil, could be anywhere, not the least likely being pushing up daisies in a god-forsaken corner of a giant continent. It would make looking for a needle in a haystack appear an easy jaunt to the corner store in comparison. And even if we did find him, we’re pilots. We aren’t trained to take on a guerrilla force in their own terrain.”

“Steady on, Bigglesworth.” Raymond spoke quietly. “It may not be quite as bad as that, though I certainly understand the scale of the undertaking. But you’ve had a knack of finding ways to succeed for many years, going right back to the first War when I asked you to do some things for us”. He smiled wanly in recollection. “It was one of the things that made you so valuable. And still does”. Then he looked at his watch and picked up a folder. “It’s lunch time. Let’s duck around to my club and I’ll fill you in on what might be a little glimmer of light - in more ways than one- amidst the gloom.”

Chapter 2. “Message from the Wild".

The party had grown to four by the time it was ensconced in a quiet booth, well away from curious ears, at Raymond’s’ choice of venue. Biggles’ had briefly diverted to his office, where he collected his chief assistant, Algy Lacey.

“You might as well come along so that you are up to date on this whole mess. I think it is about to land in our lap. And besides”, he added with a ghost of a smile, “How often does the Air Commodore shout us a lunch!?”

Meals ordered, and a brief rundown on the situation provided to Algy, the Air Commodore produced a manila folder and placed it on the table. “Naturally, you don’t need me to tell you the ruckus created by Kemboi’s information. We had troops on the ground at Litaka that very day, and the north western tracts of Kenya were scoured for weeks by surveillance aircraft. We found nothing. No sign of the raiding party, no sign of Davidson. Nothing. The local populations professed ignorance, though the whole country is wound up like a taught spring in general anyway. Apparently, we still have a few armed patrols up near the northern frontiers, but they’ve reported no contact with anyone.”

“And none of this has reached the general public?” Biggles sounded somewhat incredulous.

“No”, responded Charles. “We went into full lockdown. We had too.” He looked uncomfortable. “The decision was taken at a much higher level than I that until the fate of those papers was known one way or another, we could not risk any public disclosure. To be honest, we’d just about given up hope and a strategy has been drawn up on how to best deal with the matters.”

“But something has happened to re-ignite that hope?” It was almost a statement from Biggles.

“Perhaps”. Raymond drummed his fingers on the table in an erratic tattoo. “We aren’t quite sure what to make of it, but it’s been enough to bring us into the picture given our area of expertise.” He lit a cigarette. “Ten days ago, the crew of a BOAC flight on the regular commercial run from Khartoum to Nairobi came across something unusual, to put it mildly. They radioed the event through, but even better the Flight Engineer had a camera with him.” He withdrew from the folder a large photograph and passed it across to his officers.

Biggles looked at it curiously, with Algy peering over his shoulder. The photo was clearly taken through the cockpit windows of a passenger liner. It appeared to be taken in twilight, whether dawn or dusk was not immediately apparent, and showed some rugged mountainous terrain covered in heavy forest. The main focus of the shot, though, was undoubtedly what looked to be a forest fire crossing the flank of a steeply rising buttress of ground. Except that the fire was by no means following a random pathway, instead seemingly tracing out three deliberate and clearly legible, if somewhat shaky, letters. It was as if a giant hand had scrawled a message across the landscape with a flaming pen. S O S.

Biggles’ eyes rose to meet those of the Air Commodore, waiting for the waiter to serve lunch and depart before speaking “Where exactly was this taken?” he enquired. The response raised some eyebrows. “Roughly 180 miles north of Litaka. It’s well inside Ethiopian territory, though the frontier with Sudan is probably closer than Kenya. Several of our officials in Africa had been made aware of the situation of course, and when the AIC in Khartoum got wind of things he forwarded the report and photograph to us as high priority”.

“So the question is”, mused Biggles “could this actually be Davidson?”

“Exactly”, answered Charles. “We don’t know. It is pretty inhospitable country according to available info, certainly 180 miles of it would be a hellish journey on foot even if one wasn’t being pursued. According to those who know, these backblocks of the Horn haven’t changed much since Baker’s time."

“Having some experience of Africa, I can well believe it”, remarked Biggles quietly. “Could it be anyone else? Clearly someone out there is in trouble, I doubt it’s a prank being carried out a thousand miles from a decent sized city.”

“That’s a tough one. Some quiet inquiries haven’t revealed any obvious candidates, but we can’t exactly come out and put our cards on the table to the Ethiopians either”.

“Why not? From the little I know, Selassie isn’t an enemy, is he?”

“No, not really. But we are reluctant to draw any attention to Litaka, its location or its purpose, and for damn good reason, you may be sure” asserted Charles vehemently.

A frown crossed Biggles’ face. “I’m really disliking this secrecy. Why the mention of the location?”

“Well, the national borders are very fluid in that part of the world and it’s not always easy to pinpoint frontiers, as you well know”.

Biggles’ drew in his breath sharply. “Good god! A secret research base possibly on a foreign nations soil!? What a flaming mess!”

Charles threw his hands up helplessly. “I agree, and you may be sure someone of my relatively low level had nothing whatsoever to do with any of this. I’ve just become part of the attempt to clean it up” he concluded ruefully.

“And I suspect I know who the poor boobs will be who become the broom-wielders” responded Biggles, with just a trace of reproach as he looked at Raymond.

“I suggest, Bigglesworth, that you adopt your usual stance of ignoring the politics. Rest assured, there are already recriminations at VERY high level for what has transpired. There is also a determination to enforce some recriminations on those responsible for the attack on British citizens, once we know the direction that should take. But in the meantime, my focus is on the retrieval of those papers and whether it can be managed. Fortunately, I have at my disposal a crew with a fine record in such matters, and indeed your name was mentioned within Whitehall when the latest info came through. So, any thoughts on this aspect?”

Biggles considered the matter in silence for some minutes, only the sound of cutlery on plate to be heard, whilst his mind turned to the practicalities.
“Ok, a couple of things strike me. Firstly, how often does the BOAC flight do the Nairobi run?”

The Air Commodore consulted his folder. “Twice a week. South-bound and then a north bound for the return a few days later. It’s actually just one leg of a longer route between Cairo and Johannesburg.”

“Right, so if you’re trying to get a visual message in hilly terrain to a pilot you really only have one chance each week. There’s too much likelihood that a north-bound flight crew would miss a north-facing message, if you follow me.”
“Yes, I get you”, answered the Air Commodore slowly.

“Secondly, consider the method used. It’s subject to all sorts of variables. Any sort of wind blowing and that message becomes illegible pretty darn quickly, just another fire. Even in good conditions, you couldn’t light it and expect it to have any meaning for, say, hours on end. It’s a short term, highly specific use.”

“I follow”, Algy entered the conversation for the first time. “And how would you set it up? Those letters look to me to be at least 50 yards tall. The scale is hard to judge, but you would have to use some sort of accelerant to define the letters. Your timing would have to be pretty spot on”.

“Precisely”, responded Biggles. “Unless they got exceedingly lucky, whoever made that signal had it prepared and ready to go at a set time. It needed to be alight and legible for the crucial few minutes that the ‘plane approached and passed over. Which means they either knew the BOAC timetable and flight-plans intimately, or else they’d been on the site for at least a week, probably more.”

Algy chimed in again, sombrely. “If it was Davidson, it surely indicates a level of desperation? The message itself wouldn’t last long, and in any case would only be decipherable from above, but the smoke would surely act like a beacon for anyone else who happened to be an interested party? You wouldn’t think he’d risk that if he didn’t absolutely have to”.

“Yes, that’s a good point.” Raymond pondered on it for a moment. “After several months and hundreds of miles in that landscape he might have reached the end of his tether, and no wonder at that! I think, perhaps, we need to treat it as if it is our man and get out there for a look”.

“You know who you should be talking to, don’t you?” asked Biggles of the Air Commodore.

“Who’s that?”

“King. Gimlet King. You mentioned earlier that he and Davidson knew each other. If Davidson is lost in the Horn of Africa, Gimlet would likely know his methods and techniques.” He added with grim certainty “He and his lads would also know how to deal with the uniformed thugs on Davidson’s trail far better than we would”.

“We actually had that thought ourselves, once we ruled out using an official military unit on Ethiopian soil. But there’s a location problem with King at the moment – no, no, we haven’t lost him. It’s just that he’s sorting out another problem for us on an Island in the West Indies. In any event, he’d still need to be flown out there and retrieved.”

Biggles sighed. “All right, I’ll go. I couldn’t live with myself knowing that a decorated servant of this country was possibly alive and desperate for our help and I did nothing about it. But I have one condition” and he looked squarely at Charles. “What exactly is Davidson carrying? Did we find Uranium or something lying around the banks of Lake Turkana?”

“Let me ask you a question first. If the Iron Curtain countries have atomic weapons capabilities, do you agree that we should also? Yes, yes, I know. I too wish such horrors didn’t exist, but they do. And that being so, surely we don’t want a situation where we are falling behind?”

“No, I guess we don’t”, admitted Biggles grudgingly.

“Then l will admit, that, yes, these papers are related to a weapons program. But beyond that, I cannot tell you anything further. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.” He paused, looking at Biggles carefully. “You and I go back a long way, Inspector. Trust me on this one. We need those papers. The country will literally be in your debt if you can find them and get them home safely. Davidson too has risked plenty for them. If indeed it really is Davidson out there and not some other poor castaway”.

Algy made a choking sound. “I think perhaps we can say that it almost certainly is him”. Three pairs of eyes switched to him, where he sat looking closely at the photograph again with a peculiar expression on his face. “You say Davidson was in the Special Forces, yes? And we’re sure that this signal would have required some detailed setting up with a flammable material? Well, is it just me or does that “O” seem to have a definite tail?” He looked around the group portentously before proceeding in a quiet tone. “Yes, it’s an SOS. But I also think that that middle letter is also a subtle ‘a’ .”

Biggles looked thunderstruck for a moment, and then swore. “I think you’re right, Algy!” He looked at Raymond, then Charles. “You still haven’t given me a direct answer”, he said accusingly “but no matter. We’ll go. Anything could have happened to that poor devil in 10 days.” His voice took on a firm tone as he shifted attention to Raymond. “I’ll get cracking on the planning, sir. But I’ll need you to fix things so that I can have whatever I need, whenever I need it.”

The Air Commodore looked slightly worried and there was some alarm in his voice. “What exactly do you have in mind!?”

“I don’t exactly know, but if I trust Charles when he says how important this is, then you’ll have to trust me to use whatever methods I deem necessary on the ground. If it is Davidson out there, I’ll bring him back one way or another. And if I can give those murderous swine a crack on the way through, so much the better.”

Raymond looked searchingly at his long-time agent, Biggles returning the look evenly. “Very well, I’ll do what I can” he eventually conceded. “But for God’s sake, be careful”. The last was uttered with a sense of reproach.

“Good, thank you Sir. We always are. Come on Algy, let’s make tracks”.

4 Likes

You have the style pretty well, but disappointed you didn’t work in there a:

‘“What?” ejaculat ed Biggles.’

edit: Nanny filter strikes again.

I got quite engrossed by that.

More please.

P.s. Never read Biggles, but still followed that well all the same.

Ha. Two very carefully selected pieces. The novel was quite tight for a few chapters, but the second act became waffle. The play was very deliberately written in short, sharp, concise sentences, as my first play had Kevin Smith-style ‘chunks of dialogue,’ where two characters were talking to each other in 10 paragraphs at a time.

He has a mighty vision on Ayahuasca, which then leads him and the Shaman to cross the Pacific to a small settlement called Melbourne, where they must stop a man named John Batman from ending the world.

You know, that old chestnut.