66 Switch

By Michael Fitzalan

Franz Kafka meets Raymond Chandler. This is a terrifying psychological novel that charges to a chilling finale. Sassy Joe Ederer thinks he knows it all. So, why is he in the wrong part of town with the wrong set of friends for company? Haunted by sinister nightmares, Joe Ederer, an American in London, recalls his voracious past. Reality starts to mirror his dreams and Joe is thrust into a twilight existence where only the fit and quick-witted will survive. This is a graphic and tasteful thriller, which follows Joe's thoughts and deeds in excruciating detail. An enjoyable bagatelle that twists and turns as ‘Jive-talking Joe’ fights for his survival and a chance to reinvent himself. He drives a 'limo' with a gun under the seat, he has people he wants to get out of his life and he has a new love interest. Everything will be all right, then, maybe, perhaps, for sure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291952629

Book preview

66 Switch

66 SWITCH

By

Michael Fitzalan

Haunted by sinister and brutal nightmares, Joe Ederer, an American in London, recalls his voracious sexual past. Reality starts to mirror his dreams and Joe is thrust into a twilight existence where only the fittest will survive. This is a graphic and tasteful, erotic thriller, which follows Joe's thoughts and deeds in excruciating detail. For readers who will appreciate an enjoyable bagatelle that twists and turns as ‘Jive-talking Joe’ fights for survival.

Copyright © 2014 held by Michael Fitzalan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews.

A Switch Blade Life – Living on a Knife Edge

By

Michael Fitzalan

Chapter 1 Switch, Blade; Chapter 2 Switch, On; Chapter 3 Switch, Off; Chapter 4 Switch, Direction; Chapter 5 Switch, Back; Chapter 6 Switch, Loyalties; Chapter 7 Switch, Over; Chapter 8 Switch, Places; Chapter 9 Switch, Points; Chapter 10 Switch, About; Chapter 11 Switch, Around; Chapter 12 Switch, Forward.

Chapter 1 - Switch Blade

On a hot spring day, I sat behind the wheel of a three year old Lincoln, Town Car, the lunchtime traffic was heavy and I was wishing that I was anywhere but stuck in this black box wearing a chauffeur's hat, which was damp around the crown despite the air conditioning. Wearing hats is not my thing either, not even a baseball cap, my head gets hot and my hair gets sweaty. I don’t even wear a hat in the winter. Ties aren't my favourite either and I longed to undo the restricting top button of my white shirt and pull the damn thing off from around my neck.

The Limousine company that I worked for were a cheap operation. You had to wear a standard issue company white shirt, polyester and cotton with their logo. That made me hot too. Over fifty per cent and the pores can't breathe. My shirt was sixty five per cent man made fibre. My body was suffocating. Not that I'm one to get all-technical.

My suit was a polyester wool mix, mainly man made fibre, so I was boiling under all those synthetics. I could have set the air conditioning to arctic and I still would have simmered away in my clothes. The passenger would have taken exception to my turning up the cold flow too high and I didn't want to upset her.

She was cute, a young girl of about twenty-five, dark hair in ringlets, parted down the centre. Big wide, brown eyes stared out from underneath heavy, dark eyebrows. A small little nose and generous lips to her large mouth, that gave her a sexy pout, finished off her heart shaped face.

She looked a bit like 'Sade', the singer, if you know the girl I mean. If you don’t, then, imagine one of those cute Cuban or Columbian girls, all strong features and Latin and Afro-Caribbean good looks mixed together in a melting pot, labelled beautiful and sexy.

I often look at my customers, it helps pass the time, driving can be very boring. Mostly I try to figure out what type of person they are, whether they're married, whether they're nice people, that sort of thing. I can weave a whole story around them just by looking at their bitten nails, their mismatched socks or the book they are reading. Sometimes people want to project a certain image, others just do not give a damn.

Some of my clients have saved years for a few hours being driven around London, I supply part of a birthday treat, some of my clients have never paid directly for a car in their lives, It depended on the impression you were trying to make, or how you wanted to arrive. We were in demand, first impressions are important no matter what business you are in and how business is doing. Kids love limos, it chimes with their materialistic view of the world. Celebs always arrived at parties in a limo and who is more important than a celebrity to a teenager?

It's unusual for them to talk to me and if they do, they keep it brief, generally directions or small talk about the weather. I don't mind, I have my thoughts to keep me busy, thinking of home. This girl was different, she was beautiful, and I had picked her up from an unusual advertising agency.

It was not the usual big arrogant operators that I used to work with but a small independent with a charming, smiling receptionist and what seemed like really genuine people. I led her down to the car actually wishing that I could stay longer. Normally, I cannot wait to get out of those fake places with their fake people and their patronising attitude. They all suck.

I had parked at the ‘Pay and Display’ bay on Bentinck Street outside Bentinck Mansions, a typical West End address; I was lucky to get a space within a block of the ‘Der Krieg’ agency.

She followed me willingly and I noticed that she was a tall leggy model, almost up to my shoulder and I consider myself tall at over six foot tall. Opening the door for her, I noticed not only her sweet smile but also a great body under a classic cut, black dress.

Her ankles were well turned, I always notice ankles first, her legs were shapely, womanly, just like her wide hips, her butt was soft and rounded, she had a slim waist and spectacular breast, not small but not large, heavy looking, rounded, sexy. They looked terrific. It’s amazing what you can notice while opening a door for someone.

There was no reason for a Limo to pick her up, but for the fact that our vehicle had been used for some stills that day. As a reward for hard work, the order had been given that I should take her home.

The car had been booked for day, as it often was; people love to use a limo as a backdrop. I had driven it to a disused car lot off the M40. The photographer and the photographer’s assistant were there setting up the lights and unloading a Jeep SUV, we could have been in New York or Chicago or any other US city.

Then, we were joined by a black cab and some agency guys jumped out. In the second taxi were the model and her stylist. I waited by the car, admired both the stylist and the model and then moved the car. The shoot necessitated several moves and so I hung around waiting to pull the car closer to a concrete support of a flyover smothered in graffiti or to move it next to a wire fence where the traffic heading to London rushed past us on the A40 dual carriageway.

As usual, I did not get near anyone. They were decent, the producer’s assistant got me a pack of cigarettes and a two-litre bottle of Pepsi during a break but otherwise no one spoke to me. The model was showing off some brightly coloured shirts, which the wardrobe department teemed with hot pants, mini skirts and sometimes just hold-ups.

I was surprised when I got a phone call saying I should pick up the model from the agency that evening at six, particularly as the phone call came just as she and her stylist and wardrobe woman hopped into a taxi. I was told to take a break for a couple of hours. It was only four o’clock.

I could not go to the movies; that was for sure, there was not enough time, I could hang around in a café though, not very imaginative but it was better than hanging around a car lot, smoking too much and drinking Diet Pepsi until it came out of my ears, watching seven people buzz around the car taking photographs. I liked the photographer, Justin Pumfrey, a typically English name but a good guy who knew his job. He got the best out of the model and everyone around him. It was his idea that I should be allowed to take off.

The camera was built like an anti-aircraft missile, but at least I could take off my jacket and loosen the top button once the model had left the car. It had been a boring day, parking the car under a ramp of a freeway and waiting. I was glad to be back behind the wheel. The traffic was practically grid locked, so I looked at her in the rear view mirror, as she gazed out of the window.

She had a great profile; the activity out on the streets seemed to interest her. I had picked up models before, for work and they were skinny and aloof, only a few were attractive, most of them never talked, you were merely the driver. You were the hired help, part of the backdrop to their movie, if you know what I mean.

They would hand over a slip of paper with the address, tell you that they were late and ease back to read a magazine or gaze out of the window while I drove in silence. I'm sure there are some nice models out there, but I never met them. I couldn't blame them for being quiet, being in the limo was, most probably, the only time they had to themselves throughout a hectic day.

This girl told me her name, it was Kate and we talked.

So where are you from Kate? I asked.

I was born in England but grew up in Monterey.

Steinbeck country, Cannery Row; I’ve never been to the west coast.

You’d love it there, the weather’s great, everyone lives outdoors, and there are beach parties all the time. I really miss it but this is where the work is and I like London.

That’s great.

What about you Tom?

I’m a Mid-west boy, Columbus Ohio, you ever been there?

Never, and I have no immediate plans.

Keep it that way. I wouldn’t bother; the busiest place is the departure gate at the airport.

Sounds narly!

Have you got any brothers and sisters?

Two sisters, Louise and Clare, and a younger brother James.

That’s a big family, it must be great.

Yes and no, I wish they were all in London. What about you?

Just one brother, he’s ten years older than me. I was a bit of an afterthought, conceived, as the story goes, on Thanksgiving Day; I think my arrival was more a shock, not much reason for thanks giving. My parents were just getting on top of the house payments and saving for my older brother’s college education. They were relieved when I went to study in Washington and they got their house to themselves. How about you; what’s your story?

"My parents moved back to England and I did a bit of modelling for amateur photographers. I got fed up with being photographed practically naked on a village green or in a public park with guys calling out: ‘Hey Sade, can I be your smooth operator. I joined an agency and then I got a book together with ‘The Strike’."

Who are they?

"The organisation who booked you, Der Krieg, we translate it into English!"

With me constantly glancing in the rear view mirror at her, when it was safe, we practically told each other our life stories. The traffic allowed us to spend time together, the more I looked at her the more I liked her. The more she spoke the more hooked on her I was becoming, her voice sounded like a soft caress, I'm not kidding. She was enthusiastic about stuff as well, her job, life.

Just when I was on a high, our conversation stopped, ran out of steam, we'd reached the outskirts of town and the traffic was moving faster, I had to concentrate more. I asked her if she wanted to listen to some music, she said she would, so I slotted in a CD and turned the volume up.

It was one of my latest ‘I-tune’ downloads, which I had burnt onto disc on Sunday. It was a selection of songs by ‘M-People’; Kate had mentioned she had seen them live once. Easing a highly polished black shoe on the brake, I swung into Fifth Avenue, the one in London north of Notting Hill.

Fifth Avenue is a broad street with small cottages, built for the railway workers at the end of the nineteenth century, maybe the 1870’s or 1880’s; it must be one of the widest side streets in London but it has some of the smallest houses in it. We passed the first turn and then she asked me to pull up outside number 64. I put on the park brake and ran around the front to open the door for her. She was already out and I took in her body again.

Thanks for the ride, she drawled in a syrupy voice.

The pleasure was mine, I replied with a sigh.

I watched her walk to the house wondering if she was wearing stockings under that dress, she waved at the door. I smiled back, shut the car door and walked back to the driver’s seat.

My thoughts were focused on my girl friend that lived in Chelsea, not the one in New York, she worked in a flower store on a corner of New King's Road, it was a temporary job, not that I'm one to explain.

I was just about to put my seat belt on, thinking of lowering the windows and having a cigarette when I heard both back doors open. Two guys had got in, they were teenagers, both had short hair, a black guy and a white guy, the black guy behind me wore a brown leather jacket and jeans. The white guy next to him wore jeans and a white cotton shirt, I could see them both clearly in the rear view mirror; they were laughing for some reason. Watching as they slammed the doors, I wondered what to do.

Before I could reach the mobile phone next to me, the white guy leaned forward, pulled it off the rest and ripped the wire from the socket. He threw the telephone onto the back seat, between them. Noticing he had something in his other hand and hearing them both giggle, I decided not to ask them to leave the car. The next second there was a click and I saw the blade of a flick knife glinting brightly.

Okay guys where do you want to go? I sighed as if I was always being kidnapped or held up. Spaced out kids taking the car for a joy ride was all part of the routine, I was trying to convey to them.

I didn't need a degree in pathology to know that these guys were wired on something, the blood shot stare of the white guy told me as much. They looked at each other, laughing, like this was the funniest thing anyone had said. The white guy was the first one to speak.

Nowhere, Yank, he said seriously. This set off the other guy giggling like a school boy. The next thing I knew was the knife was at my throat.

I could feel the cold steel against my skin. There was no question of moving, hooting the horn would only make them pissed.

I sat there.

With his other hand the knifeman grabbed hold of my tie and yanked it around. With a knife at my throat holding onto my tie wasn't going do him any more favours, but he held onto it anyway. I was starting to feel scared but I could not think clearly enough to come up with a plan.

Let's go, said the black guy. I thought he was talking to me, so I tried to speak, but the knife on my windpipe prevented any comment, I realised, anyhow, that he was talking to the other guy. I couldn't move my head without upsetting the guy with the knife, so I could only see him in the mirror; he turned his head to talk to the other guy.

Okay, we'll leave, the white guy said impatiently to his friend, and then he turned and caught my eyes staring at him in the rear view mirror.

Nice limo you've got mate. he added smiling at my eyes, I wasn't about to look away, I could see his yellowing teeth flash, his sunken eyes and the black marks around them, there was coldness in their blood shot stare.

I wasn't in a position to say, 'thank you', as I could hardly breathe let alone speak. He let the tie go resting it on my shoulder, just so I would have to straighten it after they left, to add to the humiliation, I figured. My body was tense, I remember telling myself to relax, but the adrenaline in my veins kept my body stiff and alert even though flight or fight just weren't on the agenda.

I felt the knife ease off my throat and swallowed hard. Grateful to be able to swallow again, I must have let out a sigh of relief, but my body refused to relax. I continued to look in the rear view mirror, the hands on my lap felt clammy and I longed to itch them, a trickle of cold sweat dripped down my armpit along my flank, despite the application of antiperspirant that morning.

It annoyed me that I had obviously missed a bit of my under arm. It's funny what you think of sometimes.

I could feel beads of perspiration on my brow and underneath the crown of the hat, the rim of which felt damper than usual, more like a sweat-band after a particularly hard game of tennis.

After taking stock of the state I was in, I started to wonder what they would want next, a ride, my wallet, my mobile the stereo, or just the car phone.

From that moment onwards, everything seemed to go into slow-motion after I felt a strange sensation just by my collar bone, it hardly hurt at all, just the feeling you get when you've cut yourself. I looked down and watched the steel blade trace a line across my chest. Dumbfounded my eyes watched the blade slice through my shirt, run diagonally, deep into my chest, almost to the bone.

Watching the wound open and blood ooze out of the gash, I followed the knife with my eyes, keeping my head still all the time as it slid across the softer flesh of my stomach, and along to the waist band of my trousers.

The blade was drenched in blood and it cut into my trousers. Transfixed, I watched as the dripping steel was removed from my sight of vision. Whether it was shock or fear, I stayed where I was. The giggling rose to fever pitch, then the back doors slammed and I was left alone in the silence of the car. I kept on staring down at my shirt, oblivious to the rear view mirror and their exit.

It didn't seem to matter to me that they had finally left, although I remember my body tensing further, maybe it was the pain. The pain was almost in the background; I was removed from the sensation by shock, it was almost as if everything was happening to someone else.

All I could do was watch, stunned, as the blood seeped all over the material, within seconds my shirt and trousers were covered in blood. My arms were still at my sides, my hands lay on my lap; I made no attempt to move them, to hit the horn.

It was as if I was stuck to my seat.

I made no effort to grab the telephone from the back seat if it was still there, I just couldn't move.

I did not roll out of the car to crawl to some door and get help. Even opening the car door might have encouraged someone to look in. I could have opened the window and shouted for help, but I did nothing.

I repeated to myself the same mantra; 'this isn't happening to me'. Motionless, not even touching the gash that ran across my torso, I just watched as pints of blood oozed out of my body.

Sitting in my seat, I just waited for the life to ebb out of me.

Chapter 2 - Switch, On

I woke with a start. Naked in the bed, the sheet thrown back, I looked down at my body and was relieved to know I was still alive. The sun shone through the open window, we hadn't got around to putting up any drapes. Running a hand over my chest, I noticed that I was sweating; big beads of cold perspiration matted the hair on my chest. I'm' not the sweaty type, but it was as if I had been through a sauna for three hours. The hair on my head felt damp as I ran my fingers through it.

Lying on the pillow, I stared, momentarily, up at the white ceiling. The sensation was weird, nightmares aren't my thing, I don't do nightmares; I was confused; my heart was pounding. Shifting up onto my elbows, I glanced around at the girl next to me in the bed. Ricky’s eyes were shut, her mouth closed and she breathed through her nose. She was at peace, lying on her side, facing me. I listened to her shallow, slow breathing. Her frizzy hair was messed up, her petite body wrapped tightly in the cotton sheet.

I rolled off the futon onto my knees; I needed a cigarette after my experience. Crawling around on all fours, I found the cigarette pack, ashtray and Zippo lighter, tucked under the chair in the alcove; they had been left there, the night before, after the last cigarette before sleep.

Opening the pack, I found only two cigarettes left, she had smoked all mine again. That made me pissed. I snarled at her pretty sleeping face, stood up and walked to the window. The sun was up and gave the streets that early morning glow; it was going to be a hot day; a hazy sky told me as much.

Finally the English summer had arrived. Flicking the top off the Zippo, striking the flint and touching the flame against the cigarette that was already in my mouth, I inhaled deeply.

As quietly as I could, still holding the lighter, I eased down the top sash window with my forearms, so that it was fully open. Leaning my elbows on the wooden frame, I looked out onto the streets below. The cars were jammed into parking spaces, no one had left for work; it was still and quiet on the streets.

It was too early to listen out for the milk floats that came along this route at six every morning. I knew only because I had to get up real early to get to work, but this was a Saturday morning, the start of the weekend.

I had just died in my sleep, a nightmare so vivid that it made me shudder at the recollection. I tried to analyse what it all meant. Why now did I have such a terrible dream? Living in Washington and New York, crime capitals of America, I had never even thought of death. Growing up in Columbus Ohio, they're had been one or two murders, but it was drunks brawling or a domestic problem. I never thought past the headline; events like that never concerned me directly.

Suddenly, in London, a city I perceived as being one of the safest in Europe, I had dreamt of my own demise. I wondered if it was a warning, I didn't want to die; I wanted to get home to the States and start all over as a journalist. That's how I ended up here. Working for a paper in New York, I had met an English girl called Mandy and six weeks into the affair she had to go home.

She had asked me to go with her and I cleared my desk and followed her. In the meantime she had met some other guy, an architect and when I arrived with a suit case and my resume, she dumped me. After waiting tables for a while, I got my self acclimated to the city and after a succession of jobs, I ended up driving for a Limousine Company while I tried to convince the British press that I had a niche waiting for me here.

Unfortunately, there was plenty of the home- grown variety of English Majors who were ahead of me in the queue. The truth is I hated London. Maybe I loved London but I hated being broke here. Ricky, the girl in the bed, I loved the city.

At first it was fun, but now I felt she was dependent on me and I was losing control, instead of saving money to get back to New York, I spent it on her. I flicked the ash out of the window, looking at the sky above the houses.

We had just moved into this place, a week ago, we had the front room over looking the street and the landlady had the room at the back of the house. The third bedroom housed all Ricky’s junk, clothes and souvenirs from forty years on this planet.

Normally my first smoke eases me into the dull routine, but that day, as I stood flicking ash out of the window, waiting for my naked body to shock the first person who looked up, the nicotine rush had lost most of its pleasure.

The cigarette brought down my core temperature, there was no wind to cool my body, it was a still day outside, I tried to see clouds on the horizon, but it was just clear blue as far as the eye could see. A plane had etched a line of white smoke across the sky; I wondered where it had come from and where it was bound.

Feeling my chest, I was relieved to notice that the sweat had subsided, I was dry and cool, a last draw on the cigarette and I flicked the butt into the gutter, it bounced burning onto the side walk, a trail of smoke wafted upward from the concrete flagstone. 'Close, but no cigar,' I thought to myself.

- ii

Leaving behind my job in the States was easy, dumb, but easy, especially as I would be going to Europe for the first time and living with Mandy. Screw the expense, I had heard London was expensive, but I hadn't counted on Mandy falling for someone else in the month that it took me to ship everything back to my parent's place in the Mid West and work out my notice. Finding a decent apartment in London, one that I could afford, took all my savings.

My first job in London was working a bar, back to square one, and that is how I met Ricky, at a party after work that one of the waitresses invited me to. It was one of those classic scenarios where two lonely people's eyes meet across a crowded room; it was across the drinks table in the kitchen to be exact.

She was feeling low because she had just come out of a three-year- relationship and I was trying to recover from being 'dicked' over by Maria. We slept together that night; there was no sense in wasting time. Being too vulnerable to play it cool, I saw her the next few nights and then at the weekend, we spent the whole time together.