April 3 question: If you could use a wish to help you
write just ONE scene/chapter of your book, which one would it be? (examples:
fight scene / first kiss scene / death scene / chase scene / first chapter /
middle chapter / end chapter, etc.)
The opening where readers first encounter Sparkle Anwyl –
and so does she as she’s lost her memory. I’ll leave you as C for Confused as us.
The awesome co-hosts for the April 3 posting of the IWSG are
Purpose of IWSG: To share and encourage. Writers
can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak.
Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a
safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer
in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a
personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG
post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.
Posting: The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer – aim for a dozen new people each time – and return comments. This group is all about connecting!
Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!
Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG and hashtag is #IWSG.
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer
in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a
personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG
post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to
say.
[This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]
COMA – Tuesday Late Afternoon
“Coma complications?” Not what I want to hear.
“Still unconscious?”
The doctor is quick to clarify. “No, they’re awake but
confused. It may not be worth you coming back in – at least not again today. I’ll
tell your uniformed colleague to call you.”
“Can they talk? What have they said?” My tattoos
stab me. I dread his reply.
“Nothing significant. They are rambling and can’t even
remember their names and I would prefer that they are not pressured into
remembering. My preliminary diagnosis is retrograde amnesia. They have both
lost a substantial proportion of their declarative memory, especially their
autobiographical recollections.”
He launches into a detailed description of how the brain
functions. Enough for me to know they have post-traumatic brain injuries from a
blow to the head. Concussion.
Unravelling their identities is my task. Heart beats
quicken. My case, my challenge.
“Keep me informed of their condition, doctor. I’ll ring
if I discover anything. We have created composite images from the photos that
forensics took. Somebody will know who they are.”
Mobile off, I consider the best course. Calm the clamour of
scenarios. Alone is best – or with Kama. She must wait.
Aberdaron is a small village although tourists swell the
numbers, but someone might recognise our two men.
The church sits just above the beach and opposite are the
pubs. One seems more frequented by the locals and I approach the bar.
“Myrica Gale,” I say in Welsh, hoping they stock
the seasonal stout. I’m on-duty but who is going to report me.
The barman smiles and pours me a pint. “Perfect Welsh
but not local. Nor a tourist. Journalist?”
I laugh. “Heddlu.”
His brows lift. “Not your average copper, more like a
biker chick. Investigating the assaults?”
“I’m impressed, but publicans are a sharp lot. First, I
need to identify them.” I call up the photos on my smart phone and show
him. “Do you know them? Either of them?”
He shakes his head. “Never seen them before, and nobody
seemed to know them when the bodies were found. I don’t think they were even
tourists.”
Not what I want to hear, but there are no easy cases. That’s
the challenge – the charge to my life.
“I also need to find a local boat builder – clinker
boats.”
“Our Aberdaron beach boats, not many of those left.
Even fewer builders. You’re best asking at the Porth y Swnt Visitor Centre –
they have one of the boats there. And they might have a list of builders.”
With his directions, I find the centre and the clinker-built
exhibit.
A guide approaches me.
“Beautiful boat,” she says in English.
I detect her lilt and reply in our mutual tongue.
“Clinker built. She must be old. Are there many builders left?” I
show her my warrant card.
Relief floods her face. “I expected you to be a
tourist. Sorry. I’ve never met a police woman like you.” Her blushing face
appeals, but it’s not attraction. “Over 100 years old and there are very
few builders. Most of the boats are restored in Porth Meudwy, but this exhibit was
restored at Felin Uchaf Educational Centre in Rhoshirwaun near Pwllheli.”
Stay focused. “And are the restoration techniques unchanged?
I’m following a lead into boat building.” Attractions are dangerous. But one
risk was worthwhile.
“Pretty much traditional. Best to ask the builders
themselves, starting with Guto Thomas at Meudwy.”
The National Trust track to the cove is closed to the public
vehicles but not to me or my motorbike. Clinker built lobster boats on trailers
line one side near a single stone cottage. Beyond beside the sea are a couple
of old Land Rovers and the tractors for launching the boats including the ferry
to Bardsey Island.
I find a man working on a boat – he’s about forty, five foot
six, black hair and wiry. Clean Celtic blue coveralls.
“Guto Thomas? I’m DC Anwyl,” My Welsh relaxes him. “The
Visitors Centre said you might be able to help. I’m investigating the Aberdaron assaults and I
need to learn about the Aberdaron boats. One of the men may have been building
one.”
A long shot but my instinct – my tattoos – have never lied.
Maybe they’re misleading if I misread them. Caution is for colleagues. But my
head says careless kills.
His dark eyes read me. “Well. our traditional Aberdaron beach
boat was clinker built, transom sterned and single masted, and under 15 feet in
length so they could be handled by two men.” He pauses but I don’t curb his
enthusiasm. “Each one was slightly different as they were built specifically
for the individual fisherman who would be using them. We only restore them now…although
there a few replicas. Not the real boat.”
Memorise the details. My tattoos cry ‘continue’.
“Do you all use traditional materials in the restoration?
Pitch or tar for instance.”
“Most do, but some take short cuts – not that a layman would
notice. I still use pitch over the caulking. Others use the modern
alternatives. You suspect a builder was involved?”
“One of the victims might have been in contact with pitch.” I
hand him my smartphone with the photos.
Guto studies the two guys. “These guys asked my advice as they
wanted to rebuild an old lobster boat, one of them had bought.”
“Did they give their names or where they were from.”
“Not local but from the Llŷn – Nefyn area. They said they
were… Ellis Evans and Vic Vaughn.”
Fairly common names but a valuable step forward.
“Did they come here more than once? When did you last see
them?”
He glances at a chandler’s calendar. “Last week, on Monday.
I showed them how to seal the hull with caulking and pitch.”
A sigh. Relief my tattoo hunch works.
P for Pitch. But no motive for the A for Assault – or A for
Accident. Minimal evidence and confused victims. E for Evidence. C for
Confusion.
PACE. Never waver. Dig deeper.
“Were they far enough advanced with the boat to try to launch
at the weekend – before the storm?”
Guto shakes his head. “Impossible. They were slow workers.
Enthusiastic but amateurs who might have ignored the storm warnings. But they
said they had to go to Cardiff for a midweek deep-water diving course.”
Cardiff is almost 200 miles from Aberdaron. Did they go on
the course?
As a wild swimmer, I know about the dangers of diving. Decompression?
[This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]
BLOOD – Tuesday Afternoon
Beautiful beaches have two facades. One under an azure sky
invites tourists and recreation. The other wild and electrifying like the
storm.
Was that when the victims were both tossed up here? The sea was
turbulent over the weekend, and waves battered the shoreline. In local harbours
numerous boats were damaged, and a few were sunk.
Eyes closed, I see our beach, the beach where we met. Heart
pounds. Blood races. Our beach – where we first challenged biased beliefs. Ffyc prejudice.
Focus. The case calls. Two victims need resolution.
The injuries are violent. But were the two men washed
overboard from a ship or attacked on the beach. There was no blood visible at
the scene. Washed away? Waves and rocks might have done more damage if the
victims had been swept in by the storm.
Steady steps along the shoreline, thinking and looking. Do
forensics have everything? Ring them.
“What do we know so far, Liam? I’m at the beach
now.”
“Still early, DC Anwyl. Too many cases – and we are constantly
short-staffed. All we know is that the bodies and clothes were wet from salt
water. But we don’t know how the injuries occurred.”
My tattoos tingle. Something is missing. We can’t wait. I need
answers.
“The bodies can’t have been in the water for too long
in that storm or they would’ve drowned. Agree?”
“That’s likely, especially since the medical report
doesn’t show any signs such as hypothermia. But they had been in contact with
seawater and the weatherproof gear that we took was saturated.”
W for Weather. B for Blood. S for Seawater.
“What sort of gear?”
“Fishing or sailing clothes. So, the men could’ve been
swept off a pier somewhere, although our evidence doesn’t support them being in
the sea long.”
Unidentified and not reported missing – yet. Or whoever
attacked them was attempting to keep their identities hidden. But without
killing them. To gain time for something? Or robbery?
“You left some clothes – jeans and a T-shirt. Why? I
detected some dark substance. Tar?”
“We removed the weatherproof gear covering the men and
we took fabric samples from their other clothes. Including that substance.
Possibly bitumen or some derivative. I’ll let you know. Is that all, detective?”
I let him go and continue my slow pacing along the
shoreline. Does the tar mean that the second man was a mechanic or road worker?
Or is it from somewhere else? Is it even relevant?
I failed to check the other man’s clothes. Slipping. My
throat constricts. Why did I miss that? Who will know? A serious oversight I can
rectify.
A family is playing cricket on the beach. I stop and watch.
My motorcycling leathers are out of place against their summer seaside attire.
Out of place alongside most of my colleagues who dress more formally – except
Kama in her Indo-Western pant suits. But her Tamil heritage is an excuse.
“Unusual to see a biker here.” The father smiles
at me. “And female ones are even rarer. Do you play cricket?”
“I’m Welsh so I know rugby. But I spend more time in
the water.”
“Oh, so you’re a sailor. We try not to miss the local
regatta in August. Do you sail in that one?”
I’ve forgotten the Aberdaron Regatta next week. A clue? Like
the weatherproof gear our two victims were wearing?
“More of a wild water swimmer. But I might give the
regatta some thought.”
W for Wild and Weather. S for Swimming and Sailing. A for Aberdaron.
L for Llŷn.
The Llŷn Peninsula has some unique boats that may well use
tar or pitch.
[This story will be posted in full after the Challenge for those of us that like to read everything in one complete telling,]
ASSAULT – Tuesday Midday
Appalling abrasions are more than I expected from the
headlines – Another Aberdaron Assault.
But not from our photos.
I wince. Muscles clench. Concentrate.
The victim’s face shows signs of deep scratches like claws as
well as multiple angry bruises as if he was beaten up. More than the two
bloodied and black eyes. Arms. Shoulders. Legs. Aggravated assault.
He is asleep. Or worse. Breathe.
Has he regained consciousness, doctor?”
“Not since he was brought in, Detective Anwyl. We
treated his injuries as best we could, but he remains in this coma. I will
inform NWP when he regains consciousness.”
Another Aberdaron
Assault. Those attention-grabbing
headlines missed that detail. The reporter ran with ‘second man found assaulted
on the beach at Aberdaron’. But even the North Wales Police has minimal
information. Two unidentified athletic men in their twenties sprawled comatose
on Aberdaron beach.
“And the other victim?”
The doctor gestures across the corridor where a Police
Community Support Officer is stationed.
“The same. They’ve both received serious blows to the
head.”
I nod. Amnesia when they regain consciousness is my fear.
“Where are their clothes?”
He points to a neat pile on the shelf. “Your forensic
team examined them, I believe. Removed some. Ask the senior nurse if you need additional
medical information. I have more patients requiring my attention.”
The doctor leaves. Little I can do here until the two men
regain consciousness. My tattoos are tingling.
A for Aggravated Assault and Attire.
Clothes. Nothing unusual. Except the jeans have a dark
stain. Blood? Darker – the colour of my biking leathers. Black. Tar? Although
forensics will have removed any evidence, I need to visit the crime scene at Aberdaron.
Bike across to the end of the Llŷn Peninsula. Find what I can. This was
aggravated assault and my tattoos confirm my suspicions. What connects these
two men?
I finger my bracer, tapping on its studs. A for Assault. C
for Coma. F for Forensics. E for Evidence. T for Tar. FACET or FATE.
Clench my teeth. I must control my future – my life.
The PCSO relaxes as I approach. “I was hoping another female
officer would be assigned to the case. Some of our male colleagues demand too
much.”
“Agree. I just need you to watch both victims while I
investigate – and report anything suspicious to me.” I hand her my card. “Or my
partner – her number is on the back.”
Outside Bangor hospital, I check-in with the case’s supervisory
officer, Detective Sergeant V Kamatchi Pillai.
Breathe slowly. Deep. Remain professional – like she does so
well.
“Both victims are still unconscious. The doctor will
inform us when they are awake.”
A sigh. Perhaps a smile.
“But you have a hunch, Sparkle. Your tattoos
again?”
I smile. Kama knows me so well. Her voice is as dark and
sultry as her looks. My blood races. I close my eyes. Focus on the case not my
lover.
“Yes. I’m going to Aberdaron. To the crime scene – to
the beach.”
Initially, my thoughts had been drifting around the thoughts
I scribbled down after 2017’s Challenge and kept adding to after last year’s
Challenge. One ongoing possibility was to work with the list of places in North
Wales that were linked to my Welsh detective series.
As many of you must know, I’ve been working on various
aspects of Sparkle Anwyl’s career from the revision of her case, Fates Maelstrom, to short flash posts
for WEP/IWSG. I have also been deliberating over what to do with my writing. Do
I just blog more Sparkle posts? Do I focus on my Sparkle novel, Fevered Few?
Well, for the 2019 Blogging from A to Z April Challenge, I will be releasing a new Sparkle Anwyl short story, called Azure Spark.
Each day’s post will move the story forwards with the
appropriate letter playing a prominent role. For instance, the letter A is for
Assault as in the incident that triggers the story. This plays well with
Sparkle’s idiosyncrasy of using mnemonics to help her tackle crime. You’ll have
to wait to see how that ‘spells’ out.
I may add a little extra with a daily musical offering.
After last year’s A to Z challenge, I began collating a musical list for this
year, so at least it might survive in some form. For a taster, here – if this
works – is the soundtrack for one of the games that I play. Also, an echo of my
2018 gaming theme. This is one of the pieces of music playing as I work.
That’s all for this reveal. I’m off to work on Sparkle’s current
case. There are quite a few alphabetical threads left – blame it on my health
not my devious mind.
Writing Wings 