Strike: Plaid Foul Book Iii

By Dnias Dirk

Even now the married couple is missing. Even now they are presumed dead. Jack Dorcha braces up his grandson who has been led by the nose. With Chase having been mortified and Wren terror-stricken, Jack Dorcha cabals to super-impose upon the writing on Chase’s wall a fatal image, and to send Wren down the river of his amphibious justice, by flying in the faces of their temerarious self-induced meltdowns. Once again the tables are being turned. Either Chase weasels what he alleges to harbour or Wren finally unriddles the murders, or they will both be snuffed out. It is no longer a question of Wren empathising with and emulating the trials and tribulations of Glasson and Chase, and no longer a question of Glasson or Chase stumping for it. It is now more of a question as to whether they can ransom their floundering lives and their benighted families. Chase suborns Wren with a salmagundi of afferent experiences, while Wren buffaloes Chase with his unswerving crownings. Can they live with their howlers? Who will win this time? The conscience-stricken retired special adjudicator, the self-violent former employer of torture judges, the atomised crime-writing uncle, the moribund grandfather of gangster hood, the tamed mafioso of Glasgow, the stochastic new murderer, or one of the pertinacious suspects?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728385907

Dnias Dirk

Dnias Dirk’s heirs and assigns have grown stronger still. Those members who were radically virtually supposable are now realistically unimaginable. Those who were throwing down the gauntlet to sparring description stomach only its dog-eat-dog counter-punch: beyond description. The progeny is now in sky rise. The memory and the pedagogy are so hygienic now that even the most scrupulous nurse need only be sanitary. Mum, Dad, Peter, Joanna; Cameron, Blair, Innes, Brodie; Struan and Rebecca: you are his rejuvenated world. What had been becoming more gay is akin to a poor hebe-phrenic boy bargaining with God to deflect the ear-bleeding echoes of the big bang and magnetise the ineffable boy he loves. The token duxes for German and history have not only now jumped the gun to theorise the rigorous practices of 800 metres, whereby only thought and feeling could remain, they can trans-migrate to an entirely new dimension. It is the numinous, the in-between, and the undead. When cerebral and pragmatic elements dis-harmonise, and after the mind has survived, the soul soups up. All corners of the universe can become black holes spaghettifying matter. Having determined to obliterate that which he en-kindled over ten years ago, and having proved beyond any reasonable shadow of a doubt, he could re-ignite the flames, he will stoke the calefactor...

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Copyright © 2020 Dnias Dirk. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  08/10/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8591-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8590-7 (e)

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DEDICATIONS

My mother said to me once in the Blair Farm conservatory that this is the enjoyable part, the good part; it is perhaps the part that other people might just take a fugacious (or short-term) interest in. It is hysterically hypothesised that this is where you read things about real live people and not just ad hoc (when necessary or needed) trumped-up characters to parsimoniously commission your doleful existential void, or your piggybacking aseity.

To me, it assumes that all the ambiguous and ambivalent work has been done and that the work, if not perfect, is tolerable to self, never mind hair-splitting others, With that berated viewpoint I shall diffidently assault to make the dedications both.

In terms of the fiction itself, then, rather than the nuts and bolts, the third book ‘Strike’ of the crime fiction murder/mystery saga ‘Plaid Foul’ is by far and away the most operose novel I have ever taken the scuba dive to indite. I desolately flannel my liquescent vanity and slubberingly massage my dented ego that that I have at least envisaged, delineated, and blueprinted a couple more novels. That presumptuous claim is like a shoal of antagonised fish, a university of letters confederating to escape the gaping jaws of the razor-sharp teeth of the white shark of the all-encompassing blank page. I shrinkingly hazard a depersonalised guess that ‘Strike’ has been so operose because I have not quite been able to superintend the same aplomb. It is true, I have not quite embodied the same hardihood or pizazz, not quite showcased the same zeal and gaiety, and not quite reigned over the same clear mind and solid brain, such are the capricious and uncaring vagaries of life and the random and bewildering vicissitudes of mental health. I repine that I have recurrently suffered from crippling bouts of overwhelming exhaustion, during which it has been far more burdensome to soup up the crux of the narrative, bridge the impregnable gaps among the three novels, and amend the schoolboy errata. Thankfully, the first book ‘Smile’ and the second book ‘Poison’ of the ‘Plaid Foul’ saga have both been written, published, and distributed. I conceptualise that it should have been more commodious the third time around, but I have found it to be quite the antipodean opposite. I have had to, if not literally work my fingers to the bone, since no amount of word processing can cause the extent of writer’s cramp, but as I have tapped in the keys, I have metaphorically sustained a few blisters, in order to make ‘Strike’ a worthy successor to ‘Poison’, as well as a satisfying second sequel to ‘Smile.’ The self-editing process, which has taken over a year- I think at least a year and a half- has certainly effused me more than ‘Poison’ ever did. My auntie Ann praised me once on the number of books I was producing within a relatively short timescale, which in fairness was only two, but that is better than none I suppose. That made me feel warm and respected for the first time in ages. I reminded her of course that I have been writing for twelve years.

Again in terms of the actual fiction, in the crucial matter of pain, I repine as a human being and a living soul that it is both natural, unfortunate, and implacable- a squelching and indisposing part of life’s brutal and immutable cycle. It is suggested that it is not to be assumed of course, especially not within a civilised humanised liberalised world, and certainly not within a legal democratic state. In the dessicated nightmares of my untrammelled excogitation, within the rotten dreams of my subconscious, I personally fear that pain could be artificial as well. I believe there is a difference between natural and artificial pain. To exposit the difference, when pain is naturally incurred I suppose it can be all manner of lamentable conjunctures. It can be a poor toddler’s indecipherable toothache. It can be a miserable adult’s heart that is under attack. It can be when a brain has suffocated completely- I must believe that’s a stroke- rendering the person bereft of all mental and bodily sensation. The brain can also starve. In a way that would be the diametric opposite to physical torture; it would be the absence of any sensation. In my experience, which is reasonably comprehensive- I was a Citizens Advice Bureau Advisor and an Asylum Lawyer- this can be when one is sleep deprived continually and expected to purify social and legal obligations; in other words, go to school. It can be when electric staples are drilled into the skull forcing you to rip out your own hair or forced down the throat and set live; they discharge themselves throughout the inside of the body. This forces the person to rip out their hair and smash their head off cupboards. It can be when kettles of boiling water are poured over the head, or over the legs, notwithstanding the serum of extreme intoxication. Pain remains a keystone of the saga. Whoever remains responsible or even culpable, or whatever remains expository or causative, it is hoped that outlandish theories and undaunted practices commission their obviation.

It is politely suggested that the hegira from pain is more critical now than ever. It seems to the present writer that humanity is very slowly ebbing away from us all. From warfare and mass destruction, to world population and agricultural crisis; from asteroid impact and cosmic threats, to extra-terrestrial invasion and global pandemic; and from natural climate change to volcanism, it seems that humanity is very slowly ebbing away from us all. At the period of writing, covid-19 has drastically altered the world we live in. Whether as a victim, or as a family member or friend of one, or whether as a third party, we have all had to re-visit our thoughts, sensitise our statements, modify our behaviours, and reconcile our feelings.

On a more personalised level, my mother had to be drained regularly, although through hard work, will-power, and patience her health has improved. My father still has a stiff back and it is a matter of some incertitude what the duration of his fitness is to drive a car. My sister suffers from a stiff neck as well as permanent exhaustion. She has an undecided future ahead in terms of how to bring home the bacon. My brother has always had a sore back. The present writer has certain qualms that he has blinked at a subnormal mind, suffered a devitalising body, and endured a tormented soul.

In brutal contrast, then- and this is the fun bit (allegedly)- in terms of the nuts and bolts, rather than the fiction, the present writer wishes to dedicate the third book ‘Strike’ of the ‘Plaid Foul’ saga to my former Publishing Services Associate, my first point of contact, Angelique Jardine. She did in a very meaningful but also lamentably transitory sense bear the shoulder of the mantle of my former check-in-co-ordinator Dorothy Lee, who is sorely missed, and in a sense is irreplaceable, and who had moved heaven and earth to assist me. Indeed, without Ms Jardine, I would not have been able to re-visit and re-evaluate so percipiently the determinants: the front cover as well as the back cover text.

I would especially like to thank May Arado who had taken over from Ms Jardine and who has always reverted to me timeously. She keeps me up-to-date with how long the latest updated manuscript is. May Arado has been not only my first point of contact for well over a year but my source of encouragement and hope.

I would also like to dedicate ‘Strike’ to my Operations Supervisor, Vanessa Diaz, who telephoned me personally on 27 July 2019 in order to spur me. She set me a faraway goal that I found both ruffling and challenging, and it also set me afoot.

Secondly, I wish to dedicate ‘Strike’ to the people who allotted the time and divined the inclination to even consider my second book ‘Poison.’ I am enormously indebted and inexpressibly flattered.

Thirdly, as usual, I would like to dedicate this third book to my sister-in-law Diane for being my first and most remembered customer of the saga. I would again like to dedicate the book to my sister Joanna for surmounting the not insignificant energy to turn up for my forty-first birthday. She arrived with a shower of gifts including two new hats: one for the Summer; one for the colder weather. As I said, she has decisions to make about her long-term financial future, but I would be surprised if she did not surprise us. My sister is the most talented and resourceful person I have the privilege of knowing.

I would also like to dedicate the book to my niece Rebecca who also tholed the peregrination; she has a driving license now. She previously astounded the family with four A’s and a B for her Highers. She is doing speech and language pathology at Strathclyde University, and has passed each and every one of her exams. I can only cringe in her wake at how many linguistic howlers I have committed. As far as I know, she is still with an exemplary gentleman Alex but there is no whisper of wedding bells in the air yet. My nephew Struan also attained A’s. He is taking his driving lessons. His results atomise my, if not leading edge exactly, but at least deviceful imaginations.

Fourthly, I wish to dedicate ‘Strike’ to my family in general for lavishing upon me such an indelible forty-first birthday. My sister and niece brought Cailan to my parent’s house, a toddler who can speak Spanish, Finish and English. That is more verbal gymnastics, more important communication, and superior intelligence than I could ever dare to presume to possess.

I would also like to dedicate ‘Strike’ to my brother and his four demagogic children, my ineffable nephews, who gave me such a wonderful card enclosing lucre. I would like to thank my most senior nephew for the work he might be prepared to carry out in my home. I would like to thank Blair for appreciating German music. I would like to thank Inness for being supremely polite and handing out the presents last Christmas.

I would also like to dedicate the third book to my youngest nephew Brodie who acknowledged his birthday. Again I would like to dedicate my book to my Auntie Ann for knitting me a quite inscrutable jumper that cannot be unknotted. We talk over the phone regularly

I would also like to dedicate the third book to my other Auntie, Auntie Hilary, for allotting the time to call me up on my birthday.

Fifthly, again, I wish to dedicate ‘Strike’ to other people. Again, I would like to offer my sincere thanks to several of the staff members and patrons of the Sky bar in Rutherglen. In terms of the staff, I would like to thank Graham for his first-class service and impeccable manners. He said he would have to be more stoned to give me a catchphrase. Thomas said he wanted known as a ‘hot-blooded stallion.’ There you go, then Thomas. For the other Thomas, your endurance gives me strength. For Paul, Tina was the love of your life.

In terms of the customers I would like to thank Andy again for continuing to educate me about pool and also teaching me practical matters. I would also like to thank Brendan and Jason for white-knuckling games at pool. Alas, Jason died and there is no word I would even imagine would cover it. I would also like to dedicate the third book to staff and patrons of the Victoria bar in Rutherglen. I believe Andy owns the bar and Pauline is his partner. Upon her recommendation, I still have to get my disk drive sorted out. There is also Luke who corrected me about ‘informed human beings.’

Sixthly, despite the controversial decision of one of the workers not to sell me alcohol, I would like to dedicate ‘Strike’ to the staff at the local Co-op, and in particular to a lady I still call honey. She always works her fingers to the bone at the Co-op, and who formerly expressed her opinion regarding the usage of names.

Seventhly, there is my best friend and confidante Tina. Some time ago, outside the Victoria Bar, she proclaimed that I was her best male friend. She gets me out of the house every so often, and encourages me to cultivate more friendships. I shall love her for always. She is still recovering from a very difficult operation. We have known each other for over three years and have shared all three of the last new years together with her children and friends. Unfortunately, her youngest daughter Paige’s dad passed away. He suffer a heart-attack in his restroom. .

Eighthly I would like to thank again ‘our’ James, whom I have not seen for a good long while. I imagine James is still an expert on everything, especially child-rearing, as well as ‘Pink Floyd.’

Ninethly, I would also like to dedicate ‘Strike’ to certain very important and caring health care professionals. Doctor Brian Joseph Hart has transferred from the Rutherglen Health Centre. He said he would read my books at some point. He said I was 1/10,000, which he said was good. I would like to thank my dentist Doctor Paul MacDonald for re-cementing my front crown and for the two fillings. Paul is as sensitive as he is brilliant. There is also my CPN Jamie Slater who has still been responsive to my mental health issues. I would like to dedicate ‘Strike’ to Stacy at my local pharmacy who is always convivial and roseate. I would like to thank Hazel, Karen and the team as well for dispensing the medications.

Still again I have no patron exactly and thus I am still unable to express my gratitude to the same for the inspiration.

The people who are still most important to my project are my parents: Doctor Brian Donaldson and Eileen Brockmann. Strangely enough, my impetus derives from their brush-off and their indifference, rather than their approbation. Whether it is reverse psychology or unspoken disappointment, the literary camera only lies when you want it to.

As I said again the last time around, I did write originally for my mother; however, I did not write this book for any person in particular. This time around I wished to prove that I could write a postscript to a very elongated second book.

‘Strike’ as well is not about a person in particular and is not written in their memory. I was on my father’s boat ‘The Solitude’. He asked me if I might care to sail with him some time. I offered him a deal. I said if he read my books I would sail with him. He said that there were some prices that were just too high to pay.

Still, the people who tirelessly support the themes of my book are the mentally ill and the torture victims, as well as children and adults with nothing, as well as creatures in pain.

As I stated before, I was encouraged to become a writer by my Auntie Ann. She offered to fund a writing course. We agreed that if I sent her the third book, she would knit me another jumper. She has told me that she has sent it for my birthday.

Again, in terms of my disjumbled personality and bruised character, I still do not mind who you are as long as you can demonstrate courtesy, are kind, and respect pain. Again in terms of reflecting my relationship with the recipients of my dedication, I have tried to match their understandable apathy with my stubborn stoicism, as well as rejoice in conjuctures of felicity and joy.

The themes of the third book are revenge, retribution, and one-upmanship. Even now I still believe my adversaries have sent me back over twelve years, but of course as I said before they have also presented me with new challenging opportunities.

I still wish to dedicate the themes of the third book to all sentient things that have suffered. Sergei, our family’s wild cat, went missing a considerably long time ago, but is still sorely missed. That betrays how long I have been editing this book. His brother Alexander has found solace in literature. He often seeks to revise in my parents’ conservatory.

My dedication to vodka is less sincere than before since it tends to dull my brain rather than sharpen it. It is the same with Pall Mall cigarettes: since they changed the ingredients a couple of years ago, the sensation has never been quite the same. This has forced me to work a lot harder to achieve the desired result.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

Again, as the editor at AuthorHouse long ago advised: ‘You might want to add a dedication page and an acknowledgments page, although these are optional.’

The present writer again still politely suggests an acknowledgments page presents the author with the opportunity to appreciate more sincerely the people who have assisted with the project.

In some ways, this ought to be an even more rudimentary section. The reason for that might be that I have not only tackled it before in the course of producing the original book of the saga ‘Smile’ but also in the course of producing the sequel ‘Poison’. It is becoming more difficult since there is a dejecting if not fatal air of inevitability regarding the process and its outcomes, meanwhile Santa’s magic and the elves are more conspicuous.

While previously there had been so many manque assaults which had been embarked upon, and the author was merely once again trying to better appreciate the people who have helped, and again to be more ad hominem in terms of their help. In other ways, it can still be the thorny section. It can be so in that more words have been written, more pages have been assembled, and more chapters have been carved, and that the explanations are becoming more involuted.

The author is once again trying to explicate more personally who helped, why they helped, how they helped, which help they gave, and when and where specifically they helped and how that would matter in terms of the fulfillment of the work.

‘Strike’ like ‘Poison’ is slightly different from the first book ‘Smile’, since it is significantly longer and susceptible to quantitative as well as qualitative criticism.

Having tackled the topic of acknowledgments twice before I had reached a bottle-neck, whereby much of the work had been done but fresh inspiration was hard to find, and editing commitments were very demanding and time-consuming. Indeed it has taken me almost a year and a half to edit ‘Strike.’

I will still give my favourite quote:

‘You like? Twenty bucks and you can kiss ‘em!’ (Roadhouse, 1989.)

Again, in terms of the actual mechanics of the book, like the second book of the saga ‘Poison’ much of which had been thrashed out some years before, and which took six months of editing, ‘Strike’ already contained most of the staples and has taken well over a year to edit. In terms of producing the book, I would like to thank my new friend David. He has worked for the Sky bar, has a boyfriend named Sam, whom he lives with properly now, and two dogs Daisy and Stripe. He has bought a new puppy and will go on holiday to Majorca with his boyfriend. He has undertaken very difficult and very important education, and his research methods, historical, and political essays are effortlessly engrossing and singularly idiosyncratic. He got straight top band ‘A’s.

I flatter myself that I was allowed to read some of them.

I owe my gratitude once again to the tireless staff at authorHouse. I would like to thank several members of the authorHouse team. I would like to thank my Senior Marketing Consultant Johnrey Malone for affording me so much time over the phone and for coaxing me despite my reluctance to market the first two books. Consequently, I invested in both a Press Release Campaign and a Social Media Advertising Campaign. I would also like to thank Leslie Tan for updating my website which went live on 2 July 2019. I would also like to thank Leslie for the Social Media Advertising campaign which went live later in the month.

The second book ‘Poison’ was advertised on Bookmad Bookshelf.

I would like to thank my first point of contact Angelique Jardine. Her help with the front cover and back cover text has been invaluable. I would also like to thank Leslie Tan again for making my website available again, as well as enabling me to expand my website and cover and corrections that might need to be made.

As is the event that the company process has become more predictable and since the population to thank is vastly diminishing, I would strangely like to thank the characters themselves. In moments of sadness, disappointment, and bewilderment, they have been imaginary rocks, bricks, and anchors.

Finally, I would again like to thank my parents Doctor Brian Donaldson and Eileen Brockmann as parents and as individuals, rather than perish the thought as avid readers. My mother does not seem to mind so much now what I do, while my father continues to prioritise what he considers to be more important things like houses, gardens, and boats. My mother confided to me one evening in the conservatory of Blair Farm that he thinks I do not like him. The opposite is true. I love him, I respect him- he is my hero- and I am privileged enough to be his son; I think his skill is even higher than his sense of equity. I have always been aware that I have been hitting my head off a brick wall, but perhaps now that wall is more of a gateway. I knock on wood that they take my writing a bit more seriously now, although they still do not mollycoddle my intussusception. They have still ensured that writing did not surmount identity.

Contents

Dedications

Acknowledgements:

PART A Introduction; The Preludes

FIRST INTERLUDE: Jack Dorcha Braces Up his Grandson Jack Dorcha Braces Up his Grandson

(1) The McLean Family (1980)

(2) The Wren Family

(3) The Sharp Family (1994)

(4) The White Family

(a) After the Fire (1994)

(b) The Disappearance of Susanna McLean (1995)

(c) The Plea (2019)

(5) The Fields Family (2008)

(6) The Reid Family (2009)

(7) Doris's Death (2013)

PART B Literature Review

THE SECOND INTERLUDE: Belay’s Nightmares Belay’s Nightmares

(1) The Re-union; Belay and Wren

Chapter 1    Chinese Whispers; The Networking

(a) Jack Dorcha Calls Chase

(b) Chase Calls Wren

(c) Wren Calls Belay

Chapter 2    James’s House; The Synopsis

Chapter 3    The Major Suspect; Wren

Chapter 4    The Other Suspects

(a) The Ocean; The First Seven Suspects

(b) The Snooker Hall; The Second Seven Suspects

Chapter 5    The Graveyard; The other Deaths/Disappearances

Chapter 6   Purgatory; Inch Moan; The Ancillary Offences

Chapter 7    Rathnew; Susanna’s Paternity

Chapter 8    The Court; Belay and Wren

(2) The Third Visit; The Vistas

Chapter 9    9 am; Chase Sends Wren a Present; Angkor Wat, Cambodia

Chapter 10    Day One; 8: 45 pm; The Lobster; Great Barrier Reef

Chapter 11    Day Two; 4 pm; The Troubled Cousin Turns up at the University; Martin Returns; British Museum, Britain

Chapter 12    Day Three; 2: 30 pm; The Lion; Galapagos 12   , Ecuador

Chapter 13    Day Four; 11: 45 pm; Ben and Jane go over the Medley; Taj Mahal, India

Chapter 14    Day Five; 1: 30 pm; The Water Falls on Sun Beams; Martin Returns; Iguazu Falls

Chapter 15    Day Six; 7: 30 pm; The Gremlins; Machu Picchu, Peru

Chapter 16    Day Seven; 12: 15 pm; Return to the Waterfall; Martin Returns Again; Fiordland National Park, New Zealand

Chapter 17    Day Eight; 8 am; Runaway; Twelve Apostles, Australia

Chapter 18    Day Nine; 12: 45; Good and Bad News; Museum of Old and New Art, Australia

(3) Expanding

Chapter 19    Day Ten; 11: 30 am; The Talented Son Contacts the Quixotic Nephew; Grand Canyon National Park, USA

Chapter 20    The Laws of Music

(a) Day Eleven; 4 am; The Talented Son Crawls Home Drunk; Aya Sofya, Turkey

(b) Day Eleven; 9: 15 am; The Quixotic Nephew Goes on a Bender; Tikal, Guatemala

Chapter 21    Day Twelve; 12: 15 pm; The Disgruntled Client Visits the Talented Son

Chapter 22    The Suspects Mix

(a) Day Thirten; 4 pm; Alex Confesses to Sean

(b) Day Thirteen; 6 pm; The Talented Son Contacts the Battered Niece

(c) Day Thirteen; 11: 45 pm; The Overshadowed Fiancée Meets the Henpecked Husband

Chapter 23   Day Fourteen; 10: 30 am; Susie Asks Sean to Leave; Great Wall of China

Chapter 24    Day Fifteen; 7 pm; Girl Talk; Fez Medina, Morocco

Chapter 25    Suspicion; Sagrada Familia, Spain

(a) Day Sixteen; 8 pm; The Henpecked Husband Calls the Overshadowed Fiancée

(b) Day Sixteen; 8:10 pm; The Overshadowed Fiancée Calls the Talented Son

(c) Day Sixteen; 11: 45 pm; The Battered Niece Returns Home

Chapter 26   Day Seventeen; 7 pm; Double Pregnancies; Santorini, Greece

Chapter 27   Day Eighteen; 8 pm; Chase Invites Wren to his Home

Part C Data Collection

THIRD INTERLUDE: Jack Dorcha Takes Wren and Chase on Board Jack Dorcha Takes Wren and Chase on Board

(1) The Second Re-investigation; Abuse; The Tastes

Chapter 28    The Surprise Breakfast

(a) Day Eighteen; 10: 15 am; The Talented Son Abuses the Daughter

(b) Day Eighteen; 11: 55; The Talented Son Cheats Again

Chapter 29   Japanese

(a) Day Nineteen; 4: 30 pm; Food Torture

(b) Day Nineteen; 11:45 pm; The Henpecked Husband Goes through Hell

Chapter 30    Day Twenty; 11 pm; The Aftermath

Chapter 31    Day Twenty-one; The Reflection

Chapter 32    The Troubled Cousin’s Artistic Destruction

(a) Day Twenty-two; 12 pm; Fast Lunch

(b) Day Twenty-two; 3: 45 pm; Onslaught

(c) Day Twenty-two; 4: 45 pm; The Quixotic Nephew Says Goodbye to the Troubled Cousin

(d) Day Twenty-two; The Quixotic Nephew Runs to the Sea

Chapter 33    The Streak

(a) Day Twenty-three; 8: 45 pm; The Daughter Attempts Fratricide; Three Course Meal

(b) Day Twenty-three; 10: 45 pm; Force; Nibbles for Supper

Chapter 34    The Paternal Instinct

(a) Day Twenty-four; 6: 45 am; The Second Breakfast

(b) Day Twenty-four; 9 am; the Disgruntled Client Gives the Talk: the Birds and the Inglorious Bastards

Chapter 35    Day Twenty-five Suicide

Chapter 36    Day Twenty-six; Suicide Survivor

Chapter 37   Revenge

(a) Day Twenty-seven; 7 am; The Quixotic Nephew Seeks Revenge; The Third Surprise Breakfast

(b) Day Twenty-seven 5 pm; The Habituated Cousin Accosts the Quixotic Nephew

(c) Day Twenty-seven; 9: 45 pm; The Battered Niece and the Quixotic Nephew

Chapter 38    Day Twenty-eight; 7 am; Coming Home; Seafood Breakfast

Chapter 39    Day Twenty-nine; 4 pm; The Rivalrous Uncle Confronts the Disgruntled Client

Chapter 40    2 pm; Chase invites Wren to the Publishing Company

(2) Deaths/Disappearances; The Redolence

Chapter 41    The Demise of Albert Bennet

(a) Day Thirty; 7:30 am; The Fruitiness of Death

(b) Day Thirty; 11:15 am; Wren Visits the Florist

(c) Day Thirty; 8: 45 pm; Calling Angels; The Rivalrous Uncle Dies

(d) Day Thirty; 11 pm; The Quixotic Nephew and his Cousin Go Back Home

Chapter 42   The Disappearance of the Disgruntled Client

(a) Day Thirty-one; 7: am; The Police Visit the Talented son

(b) Day Thirty-one; 7 pm; The Talented son Calls the Henpecked Husband

(c) Day Thirty-one; 9 pm; The Talented Son Calls the Overshadowed Fiancée

Chapter 43    Day Thirty-two; 6: 30 pm; The Demise of the Matriarch: The Bitter and Twisted Grandmother

(3) Insanity

Chapter 44   Day Thirty-three; 9: 15 am; Fresh Breakfast; Leaving Paranoid Schizophrenia for State Persecution

Chapter 45    Day Thirty-four; 8 pm; The Henpecked Husband and the Arrogant Doctor Argue

Chapter 46    The Suspects Philander Again

(a) Day Thirty-five; 7:30 am; Fruit Breakfast

(b) Day Thirty-five; The Henpecked Husband and the Overshadowed Fiancée Drink Together

(c) Day Thirty-five; The Talented Son Calls the Battered Niece

Chapter 47    The Quixotic Nephew Commits Seppuku

(a) Day Thirty-six; 7 am; Return to the Waterfall

(b) Day Thirty-six; 4: 30 pm; The Troubled Cousin Comes to the Rescue

Chapter 48    A Monster like Me; Ben Makes Good

(a) Day Thirty-seven; The Starter

(b) Day Thirty-seven; 9: pm; The Performance (1, 810)

Chapter 49    Day Thirty-eight; 11 pm; The Talented Son Returns to the Crypt

Chapter 50    Day Thirty-nine; 8: 15 am; Return to Innocence

Chapter 51    Day Forty; 5: 30 pm; Libel

Chapter 52   Day Forty-one; 4: 40 pm; Closure

Chapter 53    Day Forty-two; 1: 15 am; Auto-mutilation (2, 258)

Chapter 54    Day Forty-three; 1: 30 pm; Consensus in Idem (2, 522)

Chapter 55   9: 45 pm; Wren Takes Chase to Doolin

PART D Data Analysis; (8, 344)

FOURTH INTERLUDE: Jack Dorcha Takes Wren and Chase into the Air Jack Dorcha Takes Wren and Chase into the Air

Chapter 56   Day Forty-four; The Courtroom; Belay and Me

Chapter 57    Day Forty-five; Wren and Belay; The Recent Developments Between Wren and Chase

PART E Conclusions and Recommendations

FIFTH INTERLUDE: Jack Dorcha Takes Wren and Chase for a Spin Jack Dorcha Takes Wren and Chase for a Spin

Chapter 58    Jack Phones Ewald

Chapter 59   The Panther

Chapter 60    Jack Exhumes Chase and Bogs Down Ewald

Chapter 61    Belay Arrives

Chapter 62    The Presumed Death of Andrew McLean: The Solution

Chapter 63    The Presumed Death of Susanna McLean: The Solution

(a) Nature; The Disappearance, the Aftermath, and the Body

(b) Motives; From Survival to Revenge

(c) The Means; From Dangerous to Personal Weapons

(d) The Revelation

(e) The Culprit; The Switch-over

Chapter 64   The Other Deaths/Disappearances; The Other Crimes

Chapter 65    Chase Returns

(a) Wren Thanks Chase

(b) Social Death

(c) Glasson Returns Again

(d) Strike and the Overlords of Justice

PART A

INTRODUCTION;

THE PRELUDES

FIRST INTERLUDE

JACK DORCHA BRACES

UP HIS GRANDSON

As the moonstruck glitter ball, funky music, aperitif punch, impalpable blow, and snuff incense infused the Siberian hard-boiled basement, Glasson Dorcha’s delectably extirpated mind was an iridescent salmagundi of Roman candles, bottle rockets, and fire flowers, a chayotant pyramid of diaphanous awareness and recondite consciousness of the polychromatic world enshrouding him and his motley experiences, his abstruse thoughts an efflorescence of deviceful conceits and matriarchal worshipful opinions; his smouldering pejorative body was a catchpenny vaudeville theatre, a dance troupe of indictable and uncurbed moves, his friable physical structure, his magnetized bones a necropolis of resurrected morts, an osteology of a potter’s field of warbling stiffs, his lean flesh a stockyard of extant dynamited scaffolding, his eviscerated organs a sinfonietta of furore; and his purely exultant spirit was a manumitting sacellum of pneumatic freedom and devout sentience, his apostasic and proselytising zealous feelings a fulmination of rapturous catharses.

As the drifts of the class A’s abated, he pirouetted, circumducted plumb into the stone wall, teetered backwards, clambered to his feet, and collapsed into his swivel chair. The occasional table tumbled and the quaich of McCallum with his usual four ice cubes crashed onto the floor. This time he was listening to ‘So am I’ by Ava Max. He gave it a ten out of ten in his mind. He knew he was different as well. Again he was doing methylenedioxymethamphetamine; ecstasy. It was also known as Adam, XTC, go, disco biscuit, crystal, X or hug drug. He had a whole cabinet full of recreational drugs. As previously he switched off you tube, climbed out of his seat and stood naked, gazing in to his full-length mirror. He was singing to himself; crooning. His voice was still high and scary voice. No, he didn’t look quite the way he used to; he was older, far less pretty, much heavier. He was not happy twenty years ago either, but with the ecstasy surging through his senses he could feel as beautiful as before, as anyone else. He peered at his tiny shrivelled penis and smiled wistfully. He glared at his ghastly beard and bathetic tears pricked his eyes. Physically, he was a man. Indeed he had been raised as a boy.

Having been fixed by the judge, Glasson Dorcha smiled ambivalently. He was in his basement. He was replevining his ruggedness and brandishing his cleaver to eviscerate. He recalled he had gotten the judge who had put him away. He had given him the Glasgow smile. He had also poisoned his enemies’ descendants before he had fled. He had taught the old man what it felt like to look like a monster. If their forefathers hadn’t done what they had done his father would have been very different. Despite the way he had treated him- like a cockroach- he still loved him; continued to miss him. Before falling asleep again, he remembered his words: ‘Whatever you are, Glasson son, I love you.’ It was the first and last time he saw his father cry.

His mobile rang. He answered the phone. His voice was singsong. It rose and fell in a musical way. ‘Hello, my darling.’

‘Yes, my love. How are you?’

‘Happy as a sand girl.’

‘It worked?’

‘Yes, I’m potent again.’

‘Well done, my love.’

‘The judge saw that I had been put in a lot of pain.’

‘He did?’

‘Yes.’

‘So?’

‘He claimed he lost freedom of the body, the freedom of the mind. He said none of his thoughts worked.’

‘Good night my darling.’

‘Good night my forever love.’

Once he had finished playing, he moved away from the piano seat and sat down on a chair. He took a cigar and lit it. As he always did he remembered his conversation with his lawyer.

‘So what happens?’ he had said. He remembered the penalties.

He was singing his next song.

Verse 1:

The eye is back

The spy is back

Corrected vision

Keen enough

To probe the suspects:

The dust specks

He’s looking for aggrieved ones

All of the deceived ones

Who appeared to resent

The victims

Verse 2:

His mind is black

The hired hack

Superstition

Mad enough to scold

The rejects:

The rust checks

He’s looking for bereaved ones

Ill-conceived ones

Who seemed to fire

The last gun

Chorus:

And so with the:

Crescendos of the gavel

Drowning out

All of the evil

The medieval

The weasels

The takers

The cruel

And so with the:

Dynamo of decision

Comes the precision

The division

The incision

The takers

The fools

Verse 3:

The face is cracked

The case is slack

Bold enough to face

The insects

He’s facing the displeased ones

The unachieved ones

Who seem to look

At your pun

Welcome home

Back to reality

He has known

Flights of fantasy

Chorus:

And so with the:

Crescendos of the gavel

Drowning out

All of the evil

The medieval

The weasels

The takers

The cruel

And so with the:

Dynamo of decision

Comes the precision

The division

The incision

The takers

The fools

The mobile rang again.

Glasson shuffled in his chair. He modulated his voice. ‘Hello, my darling?’

A dark arcane voice cringed. It was gruff. It had a rough low sound. ‘Darling?’

Glasson did a double take. ‘Who’s there?’

‘It’s me, Glasson.’

‘Who?’

‘Your grandfather.’

Glasson goggled. He pulled his smart phone away from his ear for a moment. He composed himself. He returned the phone to his ear. ‘Who is this?’

The voice chortled. ‘It’s me Glasson, your grandfather.’

Glasson waggled his head. ‘It can’t be, you’re dead.’

‘So they presumed.’

Glasson frowned. ‘Are you in my mind again?’

The voice relaxed. ‘No, this time I’m speaking to you over the phone. Do you remember anything?’

Glasson inclined his head. He scraped his skull with his fingernails. ‘Yes. You bought up the families’ companies. It was called Dorcha Enterprises. You bought them all out. It was a takeover. You wanted to wage a war that was even. You wanted me to poison them all and then stab them. You suggested I invite them all to a secret location. You told me to poison their provisions with mushroom derivatives. You said you were in my mind. You said you didn’t have a body. You said if I liked it you were a ghost.’

The voice was warm and obliging. ‘Yes, well remembered.’ The voice paused. ‘Tell me, what else do you remember?’

‘I told them you visited me. I told them that you wanted me to punish the descendants. I told them their fathers had murdered you. I told them you said to make you proud.’

The voice seemed to smile. ‘And did you?’

‘I hope so.’

‘Go on.’

‘I rounded them all up.’

Jack Dorcha simulated an impressed voice. ‘You did?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me grandson, whom did you round up exactly?’

‘All the families.’

Jack Dorcha smiled proudly. ‘Yes, go on.’

‘The Wren family-’

‘Yes, who exactly.’

‘The judge and his daughter.’

‘What were their names, Glasson?’

‘Wren and Lilly.’

‘I thought so. And?’

‘I got the Sharp family in.’

‘You did?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who?’

‘Hugh Sharp and his son Ben Sharp.’

‘I see, that was pretty good. And?’

‘The Bennett family.’

‘You did?’

‘Yes, who were they?’

‘Albert Bennett and his nephew Alexander Bennett.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘The White family.’

‘Who?’

‘Judith White and her daughter Jane White.’

‘And?’

‘The Reid family.’

‘Who?’

‘Jean Reid, her son Doctor Taylor Reid, and his son Richie Reid.’

‘And?’

‘The McLean family.’

‘Who?’

‘Susie McLean.’

‘And?’

‘The Fields family.’

‘Who?’

‘Catherine Fields and her sons Mickey and Sean Fields.’

‘And?’

‘A woman shot me.’

‘You were shot.’

‘Yes.’

‘With a gun?’

‘No, with a tranquillising dart.’

‘So?’

‘I staggered out of the treat and we drove way.’

‘We?’

‘Just a guy I know.’

‘I see.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes. I already knew that.’

‘How?’

‘I have ways of discovering things.’

‘I lost to him.’

‘Who?’

‘The judge.’

‘Wren?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

‘I lost freedom of the mind.’

‘You did?’

‘Yes. None of my thoughts worked. I was blocked at the doors by bullies. People who didn’t care.’

‘Why not?’

‘They battened on to the social power. They believed in punishment, the highest levels of torture. I had to understand imprisonment. I didn’t really understand the imprisonment of my jailer. I was to understand his imprisonment, that he felt impelled to wreak revenge.’

‘What for?’

‘For poisoning him with magic mushrooms in his study, for binding him to a tree on the inch, and for poisoning him again with mushrooms at the country retreat.’

‘So?’

‘I told the judge that his imprisonment was hardly the same thing. He was only tied up for hours,’

‘Where as?’

‘I was jailed for two months.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said he had his body immobilised and his mind tormented.’

‘I see. And what did you say?’

‘I said that he deserved it for under-estimating my pain. He claimed he had gone through the pain, that he had had done it to him. He said he had factored in my pain, that that was why I got two months, not years. I felt we were almost square. He disagreed. He said that he may have sentenced me, but that he hadn’t tortured and mutilated me.’

‘And?’

‘I told him all my angst and surgery had gone to waste. I had lost all my sexual feelings. It had been going on for weeks on end. He said he wanted me to endure the reality of his own felt sense of imprisonment, as well as his mutilation. He thought the thing about mutilating a man was that it made them virtually impotent. He said that it not only made them look undesirable but it also exposed their vulnerability.’

‘So?’

‘He took it all from me. He made me impotent.’

‘How did he do it?’

‘He spoke to Doctor Taylor Reid. Not only was he a doctor but his father Peter Reid owned his own pharmaceuticals company. He asked him how to make a transgender impotent. I told him he was an unimaginable cunt. He said I was wrong, I was the one with the cunt. I asked him if it was permanent. He said it wasn’t. He said that despite my mutilating and tormenting him, that I had given him the means of escape and the way out. So he said he had decided not to overdo it. He said he was seventy-eight. He said he needed to take the right things as well if he desired to be potent. He told me to take these things instead. He tossed a bag of medications into my lap. He said they were the right things for my social membership, for my orientation, and for my character. G=He said that within no time at all, I’d be the potent woman I’d always wanted to be. I was overjoyed. I thanked him. He snarled at me. He told me never to assume his prehension on custodial issues. And with that he walked over to the stairs, climbed upwards, walked along the hallway, and exited the house.’

‘I see, he thinks he beat you then.’

‘Yes, I suppose.’

‘He thinks he can get one over a member of my family. He’s lead you by the nose.’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t worry, Glasson. Your grandfather will handle this.’

‘You will?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll contact Chase. I’ll make sure Chase contacts Ewald.’

‘Thank you Gram-pa.’

‘Not at all.’

Glasson put the phone down.

1980...

Lower White Craigs...

The Living Room...

(1) THE MCLEAN FAMILY (1980)

The rising heat in the living room was stifling as Andrew and Chase were squabbling. Olivia looked on disapprovingly. Lewis McLean drained a whiskey, the strength of the alcohol transmuting from his loaded mouth to his numbed brain.

Chase launched a paper plane at his brother Andrew. It struck him him in the eye.

Andrew whined. ‘Dad!’

Lewis McLean

‘Yes, son?’ said Lewis McLean.

‘Chase just assaulted me.’

Lewis McLean arched his brows ingenuously. ‘He did?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘He fired a plane at me.’

Lewis McLean chuckled convivially. ‘Yes, jet fuel.’

Andrew glowered at his brother. ‘Just you watch. I’m going to be a lawyer one day.’

Lewis smirked at his son hopefully. ‘Oh?’

‘Yes,’ said Andrew.

Olivia screwed up her eyes. ‘Why would you want to be a lawyer?’

‘I could sue him,’ said Andrew.

Chase sneered. ‘I’m going to be a writer. I could describe your notice of litigiousness.’

Olivia exhaled with exasperation. ‘Really. How old are you boys?’

Andrew puffed out his chest. ‘Ten.’

Chase sneered. ‘I’m eleven,’ said Chase.

Andrew seamlessly recovered from his injury. ‘How does a plane fly, dad?’

Lewis McLean smiled at his son. ‘Oil.’

Olivia adjusted her collar. ‘It’s rather stuffy dad.’

Lewis McLean grinned. ‘Yes, heating oil.’

‘What’s heating oil?’ said Chase.

‘It’s oil used to heat buildings.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Olivia.

Olivia glared at her younger brothers. ‘The two of you need to simmer down.’

Chase piqued. ‘You’re fat.’

Andrew nodded. ‘Yes, you look like a walrus with arms.’

Lewis McLean smiled tolerantly. ‘There is nothing wrong with your sister’s weight.’

Olivia snivelled. ‘I think my arms are too fat.’

Her father tried his utmost not to notice. ‘Too what?’

Olivia stampeded the ground. ‘Too fat.’

Her brother Chase hooted. ‘What were you looking for, Liv?

Olivia carped. ‘Slimmer arms.’

Chase chortled. ‘You mean a statue?

‘Of course not,’ said Lewis McLean.

Olivia glowered at the mirror. ‘My posture isn’t right either.’

Chase waggled his head. ‘D’you want to move like a snowman, Liv.’

Lewis McLean chuckled. ‘You move like a swan, Olivia.’

Olivia grunted. ‘My build isn’t right either.’

‘D’you want to be built like a brick house?’

‘My cheekbones aren’t high enough.’

‘You’re high enough to lift them.’

‘You’re cheekbones are fine,’ said Lewis McLean.

‘My constitution isn’t robust enough.’

‘Any more robust and the family will fold.’

‘I’m not sure I still have my natural talent.’

‘I’d be more worried about the skill,’ said Chase.

‘You have your mother’s expert looks.’

‘What about my eyelashes?’

‘What about an eye infection?’

‘Your eyelashes are fine. Just remember to curl.’

‘My lips are too thin.’

‘Any thinner and we’ll all fall through thin ice.’

‘You have to be careful, Olivia.’

‘Why is that, dad?’

‘They might not be able to resist you.’

‘My smile is crooked.’

‘Any more aligned and we’ll end up with a flat world.’

‘I’m not sure what I should eat.’

‘I suggest porridge.’

‘I’ve heard that leads to

‘As long as you don’t drink.’

‘I’ve heard that fresh clean water makes you want to go all day.’

‘Dad,’ said Chase, ‘they’re using our new driveway.’

Lewis McLean nodded. ‘’Oil and gas again.’

‘What?’

‘Tars and asphalts.’

‘There’s a car and a truck.’

‘The same.’

‘The car is the postman.’

‘How did he get here?’

‘Oil.’

Oil?’

‘He’s delivering the plastics and the chemicals.’

Olivia gazed at her father ingenuously.’

Lewis McLean scratched his scalp. ‘Aiden Fields was supplying the textiles.’

‘Who was Aiden Fields? said Andrew.

‘He was an associate of Jack Dorcha.’

Olivia gawked. ‘That man with the boat.’

‘Yes.’

‘So?’

‘Frank Sharp was providing the music. James Bennet was supplying the mechanical engineering. Jaeger White was supplying the food and beverages. Peter Reid was supplying the pharmaceuticals. Ealdahach Wren was supplying the business services.’

‘And what were you supplying dad?’ said Chase.

‘The oil and the gas.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Jack Dorcha is in charge.’

‘And?’

‘With a total loss of key supplies, none of the families can afford to keep our companies going. We would be forced to sell them to the parent company.

‘Aiden Fields stopped supplying textiles to Lewis McLean.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Lewis McLean hiked up the prices of oil and gas supply to him.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Jack Dorcha told Aiden Fields that Lewis McLean was condescending to what he considered to be a tinpot and effeminate enterprise.’

‘Frank Sharp stopped supplying music to Lewis McLean.’

‘Why would he do that, dad?’

‘Lewis McLean withdrew his power supply to his music company, dis-enabling all his electrical instruments.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Since Jack Dorcha told Lewis McLean that Frank Sharp had cancelled the jingle for his advertisement and was fed up amusing what he called his mob of philistines.’

‘And what did Lewis McLean say?’

‘He said he was fed up empowering them to criticise his philistines.’

‘So Jack Dorcha made Frank Sharp and Lewis McLean fall out.’

‘Yes.’

‘What else happened, dad?’

‘Apart from ceasing his supply of mechanical engineering to Aiden Fields and Frank Sharp, James Bennet also stopped supplying mechanical engineering to Lewis McLean.’

‘Why would he do that, dad?’

‘Lewis McLean didn’t like the way his energy was being wasted to drive obsolete inefficient mechanical system

‘What about the McLean family?’

‘Well, son, Lewis McLean stopped supplying energy to Aiden Fields.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Aiden Fields criticised Lewis McLean on the point that he was assuming powerful ideas rather than carefully crafted ideas.’

‘You mean Lewis McLean was getting too powerful for Aiden Fields?’

‘Yes, son.’

‘And Jack Dorcha told him this?’

‘Yes.’

‘What else happened, dad?’

‘Lewis McLean stopped supplying oil and gas to Frank Sharp.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Jack Dorcha told Lewis McLean that Frank Sharp felt that proper music was born of manual power, not stolen energy.’

‘So Lewis McLean was offended?’

‘Yes.’

‘What else happened?’

‘Lewis McLean stopped supplying energy to James Bennet.’

‘Why?’

‘James Bennet claimed that mechanical engineering for far more enhanced than basic energy supplies.’

‘What else happened?’

‘Lewis McLean stopped supplying power to Peter Reid.’

‘Why would he do that, dad?’

‘Peter Reid supplied impure pharmaceuticals that caused mistakes in his workforce.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘To get Lewis McLean back for assuming power over health.’

‘What about the other family? The White family?’

‘Jaeger White ceased supplying food and beverages to Aiden Fields, Frank Sharp, James Bennet, Lewis McLean, Peter Reid and Jack Dorcha.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘Aiden Fields claimed that the food and beverages he was supplying were damaging his textiles.’

‘In what way?’

‘Aiden Fields claimed his work force were so sick and intoxicated that they were patronising the textiles. They were positively ruining them.’

‘Jack Dorcha told him this?’

Lewis McLean claimed that Peter Reid’s chemicals had disempowered his energy company by incapacitating his staff. Jaeger White claimed that Peter Reid’s chemicals had put them off their food.’

‘Jack Dorcha told them this?’

‘Yes.

1980...

Newton Mearns...

The Backyard...

(2) THE WREN FAMILY

We were having a barbecue. The prismatic back yard was like a steaming oasis, a simulacrum of the strand: sun, sand, and sea- all the exotic features. The dazzling sizzling beams drenched the two prepubescents like a thunderstorm of molten sunshine. The sand in the pit was warm and sticky. The disc-shaped capacious paddling pool was hawkish and rejuvenating. The tweed-ling sound of children squealing with delight and seagulls squawking above filled the hot air. They could feel the merciless sun heat their naked bodies. The taste of hosed and deposited water tangled their throats. The perfume of new plastic, smouldering wood fire and smoke irritated their noses.

‘It seems different this time dad,’ said Melissa.

‘Different?’ I said.

‘Yes, duller.’

‘You were a lot younger then.’

‘So?’

‘Your senses would have been duller.’

Martin whined. ‘Dad!’

I groaned. ‘Yes, Martin.’

Martin wheezed. ‘David’s just punched me in the stomach.’

I fortified my voice. ‘David?’

David bridled. ‘He was pushing it, Dad.’

I arched my brows. ‘How was he pushing it?’

David asseverated. ‘He felt he could make unfair tackles.’

‘Unfair?’

‘Illegal.’

‘I see. Melissa?’

‘I don’t know, dad.’

I stiffened my tone. ‘Melissa?’

Melissa ducked. ‘I suppose he was bringing Martin in to line.’

Martin sulked. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘David?’ I said.

David protested. ‘He was trying to kick my feet rather than the ball.’

‘Lilly?’ I said.

‘I saw him do it dad,’ said Lilly. ‘He punched Martin in the stomach.’

‘David?’

‘Martin’s a maniac, dad.’

‘In what way?’

‘He thinks the only way to get somewhere is to bring on aggression.’

‘Andrea?’

‘Yes, Ewald,’ said Andrea.

‘Our children are at odds.’

‘Thank you, Ewald.’

‘You’re welcome my beloved.’

‘You know what this does to your dad’s brain.’

‘Look guys, your dad’s a lawyer, not a magician.’

(3) THE SHARP FAMILY (1994)

Plume upon plume of clabbered and crunched bracelets and gloppy ringlets sloped upwards, as a miasmatic nebula of magenta smoke enshrouded the hawkish dank basement. Ben spluttered as his