Rain pelts the hapless street below in a machine-gun staccato, so
thick one can barely see through to its other side. Anyone sensible
remains indoors but for the most crucial emergency; one figure stands
defiant in the deluge, peering through the water-curtain to the vague
outline ahead. Luckily there are no cars; the constant roar of the
downpour drowns out all sound as the stranger lurches over the road and
up the stairs to the townhouse. The overhang grants respite as frozen
fingers fumble with a set of lockpicking tools. Hasty metal scraping, a
clink on cement, a sharp curse. Try again: this time it takes and the
figure pushes the door open a little too eagerly, wincing as it slams
against the wall. No sound from inside, so it hurries in, kicking it
shut before shaking out the wide-brimmed hat. A tall, gaunt man,
brown-haired with the stubble of someone that hasn't slept properly for
some time.
The hallway, already claustrophobically narrow, tightens further from
neverending rows of bookshelves stocked with binders and folders and all
manner of documents. The man's face falls, but he gets to work
immediately, checking ream after ream for his objective. Not here.
Not here. Not here not here not here notherenothereNOTHERE!!
Careful inspection devolves into frantic clawing, papers spilling over
the floor as he races to find it before—
Not the foyer, he realizes, Too easy. His eyes drift
to the narrow staircase ahead. No doubt something that valuable
would be kept under close guard... Dare he risk the second storey? If
worst comes to worst he can try diving through a window—falls from that
height were survivable—but this whole block is built on a
raised foundation, dammit, and he hadn't even eyeballed how
much—but he has to get that, or he's as good
as dead anyway. Delving into his coat pocket he retrieves his trusty
pistol and creeps up the stairs, freezing as the first step groans like
a cemetery awakened. After a few breathless seconds he tries the next
step, keeping his feet to the far side to lessen the strain. After what
seems like half an hour he's made it to the top landing. Two doors open,
two doors shut, and with the rain pelting off the roof there's too much
noise to figure out if someone's sleeping.
He tries his luck at the leftmost forward whose doorframe is faintly
illuminated. Jackpot. It's a miniature study, overstocked
bookcases almost crowding out the tiny work desk more fitted to mice
than human beings. Here he's forced to slow down, partly from the dim
light and partly from being so cramped he can barely spread his
elbows. It's the good stuff, alright, in content if not in
classification. No wonder it's been so hard to keep up: the crafty
devil's been thinking five or six steps ahead with just the
barest of facts—give him time to do proper research
and his plan becomes impregnable.
But whatever insight's gained in the general sense, there's still no
sign of his prize, just reams of missions already accomplished
ages ago. The search becomes as crazed as downstairs, books and binders
flying off the shelves, scattering just as haphazardly. Soon he's barely
even processing the words, digging for the sake of it than toward any
tangible goal. He's practically torn up half the room when he's suddenly
doused in a blinding light.
"Cyril."
He spins around. An elder, gaunt man in a dark blue peacoat and Greek
fisherman's cap is staring at him, arm slowly falling from the light
switch. The figure's face shows neither surprise nor anger; on the
contrary, it's as if he's been expecting this intrusion. The other man
starts trembling, cheeks flushing scarlet as though he's only a child
caught red-handed in the midst of a prank. His jaw opens and shuts
several times as he tries and fails to reply.
"Come," says the elder, turning back to the stairs, "I'll get you a
drink."
Hesitating, he follows, feeling for the form of his gun within his coat.
He enters a kitchen so cramped it might be a converted utility closet,
the tiny round table and accompanying chairs barely leaving enough room
for the cook to navigate. He sits in silence as his host prepares an
exotic tea, joining him at the table. The weathered man stares at his
guest, waiting for a reply that never comes—he doesn't know if it's
nerves or just the absurdity of holding the steaming cup in his hand, as
though this whole confrontation had been mutually arranged
beforehand.
"So," sighs the host, "You're here to kill me."
"No I'm not," he says in that weak, hurried way that barely counts as a
lie.
"You break into my house, pillage my archives, and your right hand keeps
feeling for your pocket. I know you're armed, and I've never known you
to threaten with an empty chamber." The man's cheeks flush again, and
not merely from the heat of the brew. "Not that I can blame you, I
s'pose," he continues, "Subtlety never was your strong suit."
"Look, I'm sorry," he concedes, shoulders dropping, "This all just
spiralled out of hand. I mean—you know what I'm going
through..."
"Yeah," he mutters.
Cyril withdraws the gun and places it on the table, tilted to the side
to appear non-threatening. "I just—I dunno, I don't know what to
do anymore, and it's driving me crazy—!"
"You feel lost," he nods, "Happens to the best of us."
"I just..." he gazes, pleadingly, one hand thudding across the table, "I
just need someone to help..."
Hidden as they are in the cragged face, there's a grandfatherly sheen in
the old man's eyes, that shoreline beacon to the foundering ship. It's
as if an immense weight has just been lifted from his back, as though
with a gentle hop he could spread his arms and fly away. Head bobbing
absent-mindedly, his saviour leans in, brow knitted in sympathy. "You're
not getting those negatives."
Cyril stiffens, hand balling into a fist as it slides back across the
table. "Tom—"
"Cry all the crocodile tears you want, in fact cry yourself dry, if it's
not too much trouble—"
"Tom, please—"
"—I've tried to be your friend, Cyril," he continues, utterly
calm, utterly patient, "God knows I've taken the fall for you
before—"
"Tom, this isn't fair—!"
"No, it isn't," he concurs, and the younger man settles somewhat. "One
line. That's all I asked. One line. You promised, you swore,
you assured me—then when the going got tough you trampled it
like it was a lit fuse—you danced over that line, Cyril."
Clasping his hands together he leans forward, up into the man's face.
"And here you are, deed done, begging forgiveness."
"I didn't mean it!" he snaps, leaping from the table, "I make
mistakes—you know me! God damn it, you're the one that's always
helped me—"
"But this isn't about you and me," Tom shoots back, "That's the
point!" Cyril pauses, startled; he's used to people screaming
at him, after all he's done it enough himself—but Tom's is a
focused anger, not loud, not boisterous, but sharp and clear
and not to be dismissed. "I could live with being your punching bag—I
was taking a blow for the team, I said. Except when I looked around,
they were still getting bloodied and you weren't even swinging
for them." Slowly, deliberately, Tom sets down his mug and rises to his
feet, drawing level with the other man. "You were dangerous, Cyril,
that's why we cut you out."
"Bull—"
"Ian, Rory, Kevin," he numbered off, eyes never leaving Cyril's face,
"Katja, Melanie, Dieter, you never got a chance to apologize to
them because they were already dead and buried by the time you
left. The company was dead, Cyril, and we that remained spent
those last few weeks doing damage control so at least the wreckage
wouldn't catch fire."
"How dare you..." he growls, "After everything I did—after everything
you took from me—"
Tom bursts into laughter, a mirthless, scornful cackle, backpedalling as
if losing balance. "How dare I?" he parrots, "My office
was practically dedicated to cleaning up your neverending
stream of faux pas! But you know what? I stood up for you. I
convinced them you were on the mend, that you were
trying, that you'd see that operation through. I
wanted you to succeed, goddammit, and you threw it all in
my face." With a lurch, he's up nose to nose. "I. Owe. You.
Nothing."
Cyril's heart races like he's run a marathon. Tom's breath rises steady,
deep; gone is the old man, replaced by a silverback wolf sizing up its
prey. They remain fixed, almost motionless, before the elder slowly
pulls away, morphing back into the unassuming host, collecting the mugs
and taking them to the sink.
"I want those negatives."
"You're not getting them."
Cyril retrieves the gun and cocks the hammer. "I want those
negatives, Tom."
The man slowly pivots, completely unfazed. "You think I'd be stupid
enough to keep them in my house, the first place you'd check?"
"You keep money in your mattress—"
"My money. I told you this isn't about me. They're our
security against you pulling a stunt like that ever again."
A strange look washes over the man's face, a blend of rage, disbelief,
and gnawing terror. His arms shake as his aim wavers. Tom slowly steps
forward. "You've lost, Cyril," he says matter-of-factly. "Go home and
get some sleep."
As he reaches for the gun, Cyril's finger twitches and they both recoil
from the shot. It takes several seconds for Cyril to register what's
happened—Tom on the floor, curled around his abdomen, a trickle of blood
along the edge of his clothes. No, he thinks, no, no no
this wasn't supposed to happen no god not like this no—He's moving
before he's thinking, scrambling over Tom's semi-conscious body,
pilfering the pockets—wallet, bank card, scrap of paper,
anything that'd give him a lead—he sees the mugs on the
counter, feels his blood freeze, looks down at his bare hands. His
whole house, he realizes, Bare-fingered over his whole
house..!
Real panic sets in. Cyril practically flies outside,
dashing through the rain until he's put at least three blocks between
him and the crime scene. Tom, you bastard... All he'd wanted
was closure, now he's racing the clock. He has to find those
negatives before any of the old guard learns what happened—and all he
has are some keys, a notebook, and whatever restaurant phone numbers the
daft codger might've buried in his wallet. Desperate as he is, he can't
help but grin forlornly. Tom always did love a good
cliffhanger...
HU6 - Cliffhanger by @Thorvald (El Thorvaldo)
Week 4 submission to e350tb's Halloween Unspectacular writing contest; keyword: 'Cliffhanger'. By this point TB had given up on an actual contest—turns out I was the only entrant—and forgot to post a theme for the final week, saying I was winner by default and letting me choose the topic myself. Well, you never give Thorvald free reign, because then the final draft arrives over a month late. :B
This was another instance of "great plan, shoddy execution", early attempt at expressionist/noir style soon folding back into my trademark Gritty Realist Dialogue. I considered trying to rewrite it at least once, but it had languished for so long that I eventually cried damn the torpedoes and forced my way through to the end.
I mean if I clinched all four categories, the least I could do was make an honest effort.
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