Part One

It was a dark and stormy night – it’s the way all atmospheric stories began, stories about unremarkable people in unlikely situations, proving themselves worthy to the reader. Nevertheless, it was dark outside, and it was stormy. Richard was seated in his office, the hard-boiled detective who was not actually a detective anymore, but his ‘unlikely situation’ would throw him back into his old job. Oh how he resented the things he had done yet had no choice in doing.

Tonight, he was at his cluttered desk, a touch-lamp providing the only light, writing a letter to his Mummy. Just writing “Dear Mummy” reminded him of all those times the boys had picked on him when Mummy would whip out a hanky, spit on it, and wipe his face before leaving him at school each morning. Well…Richard blinked a few times to clear his head and continued to write. It was her birthday in a week’s time, and he was making excuses not to come. No really, why would a virile man such as himself, in the prime of his life, want to sit around the coffee table with a bunch of old biddies discussing sponge cake recipes?

Richard scowled, his brows knotting together above deep blue eyes. A shot of lightning struck outside, illuminating the room for a brief second through the slits of the Venetian blinds. His fist curled around the paper and squeezed. He then threw it into the waste-paper basket beside the desk. There was no use – he had no excuse. Yet…yet he had to do something. It was at that moment that he had an epiphany. He could feel it in the air (well, at least the little amount of air that was present in the musty office), something was going to happen and he would make sure he presented himself to the opportunity.

He rose from the chair as a gust of wind rattled the window in its casement. He was tall and broad and dark, an epitome of the ‘tall dark and handsome’ gentleman. He towered over the little touch lamp and gently poked at its golden frame. He hated that thing, for he always had to touch it three times as it gradually got brighter and brighter until it finally turned off. And God forbid he accidentally touched it an extra fourth time so that the whole process had to ensue again.

At last he exited into the narrow corridor and reached for black gabardine coat and wide-brimmed hat. When he put it on, the coat reached his ankles and the hat skewed forwards so that it almost covered his eyes. He liked it that way; it gave him privacy.

Outside, the rain had stopped, but still there was a wind, and still the grey clouds patterned the bleak sky. The cobbled street was deserted and the street lamps threw a languid yellow light beneath them. The gutter was filled with rainwater, leaves, and other muck he preferred not to analyse. Richard stuffed his gloved hands into the pockets of his coat and started down the pavement with his chin down. To a passer-by he would seem to be deep in thought, a tragic figure whose cynicism ate at his soul and whose heart secretly cried out for the one thing he had been denied too long: love. At the intersection he paused to cross the road when he saw a car approaching, its headlights bleary. Its tired made a slishy sound against the wet road, and soon it was passing him.

But all Richard saw was a dirty wall of water hurling his way for a whole second and a half. The mini tidal wave splashed into him and crashed back down. Richard stood with his hands in his pockets and his chin down, eyes tightly shut. Water dripped from the brim of his hat and his black gabardine coat was soaked through.

“Hi stranger,” a throaty female voice came from right behind him.

Richard stiffly turned, his eyes cold. It was her, Garnet, the red-haired goddess with the Devil’s morals. She seemed to glow with colour, even in the darkness of the night and the harshness of the street lamps. Her hair glistened as it fell down her back in waves, her emerald eyes shone. And those lips, such a deep red colour, just as he remembered them.

“You,” Richard wiped the water from his face with the back of one hand. When he was done, he put it straight back into the pocket. “I thought you were gone for good. What troubles have you come to cause now?”

Garnet’s lips pouted innocently and there was a small intake of breath. “Why, Richard, I have not been exiled – I may come and go as I please.”

“I’d rather you not.”

Garnet smiled, her plump lips parting to show an even row of white teeth. “Come, come. Is this how old friends meet?”

And so the two of them made their way down to the local pub, known simply as the Corner Hotel, for no other creative reason but that it was on the corner. Garnet walked with her usually hip-swaying stride, while Richard slish-sloshed beside her, his rugged jaw set firmly and his eyes narrowed against the wind.

Richard took his usually seat at the bar, there was a squelch when his soaked backside met the cracked leather of the chair, but Garnet ignored it as she crossed her long legs, seated beside him.

The bartender appeared in his black and white uniform, wiping the inside of a glass with a white cloth. “The usual, sir?”

Richard nodded, resting his elbows on the bar. Garnet smiled charmingly at the bartender. “And a sherry for me, please.”

The two of them sat in silence until the bartender placed Richard’s “usual” beside him, a schooner of cranberry juice. Garnet took a swig of her sherry and smacked her lips. “So Richard, what brought you outside in such weather?”