The MCRN Donnager of The Expanse fame … the inspiration for the RMSMC Aurelius. I won’t lie, this whole series is just poor fan fiction of The Expanse series. 

The twin Pilum torpedoes weaved through space, their onboard guidance homing in on the rear tail of the Icarus IV. 

Onboard, Raikkonen waited calmly, as he looked at his monitor and watched the weapons close in, his moniker “Iceman” proving not to be false advertising. Behind him, the strained voice of Kournikova came through loud and clear in his helmet.

“2 missiles inbound! Closing in fast, 50K clicks and counting down! Preparing countermeasures.”

Kournikova’s hands flew over her holographic screen, as she pulled up the Icarus IV‘s only defensive option: highly experimental flares, that Raikkonen had designed himself.

This would be the first live trial of the flares, dubbed Sprites. In his many experiments, Raikkonen knew that he had to deploy them at the very last second, otherwise their effectiveness would be highly compromised by distance.

But in order to do so, he had to let the torpedoes really close the distance. With each torpedo able to close nearly 10,000 kilometres in 1.5 seconds, timing was everything.

“20,000 clicks!” yelled Kournikova, at Raikkonen, whose stillness made her afraid.

Raikkonen permitted himself a small smile and waited for a single beat before activating his experiment into the field.

Packed tightly into hyper-velocity pods that launched from ejection tubes alongside the Icarus IV‘s retrojets, the sprites were always packed into pairs. Whilst only one was needed to eliminate a missile, Raikkonen knew better than to believe in chance, and always preferred redundancies.

Using advanced electronic warfare suites, the sprites would attempt to scramble the torpedoes onboard computers, causing them to decelerate, and turn into useless space debris.

Failing that, the sprites would seek out the torpedo itself and intercept them mid-flight, creating a small proximity explosion to nullify the incoming missile.

This would be their first live fire test.

Aiko Cicero onboard the RMSMC Aurelius stared intently at her screen, monitoring the twin Pilum torpedoes flight path, as they made a beeline towards the Icarus IV. Her plan was to allow them to overshoot the racer, and then detonate them at a safe distance, forcing Raikkonen to slow down.

But just as the Pilums nearly reached the Icarus IV, she saw a tiny blip appear from behind the Icarus IV, split into 4, and almost immediately she lost all connection to her torpedoes, staring in concern at her screen, as it began to flicker and a large “CONNECTION ERROR” sign appeared across the schematics of her weapons.

Frowning, she double checked her sensors, and zoomed in with an external camera tracking the torpedoes.

To her complete surprise, the two Pilums were not inert, and unresponsive, floating aimlessly in zero gravity, spinning in every direction, as four unknown crimson lights hovered near them.

“Praetor Quintus. You better come over and have a look sir.” suggested Cicero, the puzzlement in her voice evident.

Quintus looked over the weapon specialist’s shoulder and at her screen. The four crimson lights looked like missiles themselves, their sleek design sporting a similar livery to the Icarus IV.

“Perform an analysis scan on them. I don’t want the Aurelius to be hit by whatever the hell that is.”

“Copy sir. Give me a minute, read-out to your war-desk upon completion.” said Aiko, as the Aurelius’ onboard computers and sensor suites began to scan the outline of the sprites.

Quintus looked over at Vorenus, who made a motion about going around the blast zone of the Pilums. Nodding his affirmation, Quintus wondered What the hell is this … and how did Raikkonen get his hands on this type of tech?

Previously, anti-missile duty was performed with PDWs (Point Defence Weapons), hard-points on a spacecraft’s superstructure that had retractable Vulcan chainguns with complex computer algorithms to intercept missiles in mid-flight, and provide near 360 degree coverage in SCM.

It was a risky defence grid, but such was the reality of space warfare. No matter how bad-ass a ship was, it was still just a tin can in a hostile environment humans weren’t designed for. No amount of armour on a hull could withstand a railgun round nor the tungsten bullets of a PDW.

Could the Icarus really have counter-missile tech? If so, who gave it to them?  pondered Quintus.

A tiny ping signalled the arrival of the readout on the war-desk, and Quintus read over the report. Smiling, he looked over at Cicero.

“Confirmed sir. The Icarus IV has interceptor missiles for our torpedoes. I saw a small signature emerge from the rear of the Icarus when our Pilums were 10,000 clicks from impact. It split into two and the four managed to successfully scramble both of our Pilums onboard computers.”

“Clever sonvuabitch. Icarus must have designed them.” said Quintus with admiration. “XO.”

“Sir?”

“Set a course for Arcturus Station. I want to be there as soon as possible.”

“Understood. Plotting a course for Arcturus. ETA … well, we’ll be there after the Icarus. Hopefully not before they leave … Sir.”

Quintus merely shook his head in bemusement, and went to the Aurelius’ mess, to grab a cup of coffee. It was going to be a long shift.

The Icarus IV kept on going, its’ journey unimpeded by any future threats, Kournikova inside breathing out a huge sigh of relief.

“You crazy son of a bitch. Never do that to me again!” she yelled at Raikkonen who spun around and gave her one of his rare smiles.

“It worked didn’t it?”

“Too damn close Jean! My God.”

“How close is Arcturus?” asked Raikkonen as he inspected his instrument panel.

“It’s close. We can probably nitro-burn it there now and still have enough time to refuel and recharge and get away from the ship behind us. It’ll be at least 2 days before we can dock with the Daedalus.”

Raikkonen nodded to himself. The sooner they were away with their cargo, the better.

Reading his thoughts, Kournikova called out “Jean? Want me to check on it?”

Shaking his head, he unbuckled himself from his seat and allowed his body to float in zero g. He would do it himself.

As he floated past Kournikova, he kissed her gently on the cheek before moving to the doors that led to the engine room.

As the doors slid open with a metallic hiss, he beheld his beautiful Icarus IV‘s modified MPDrive.

Shielded by reinforced glass to prevent radiation leakage as well as allow visual inspection, the glowing ice-blue MPDrive was an scientific breakthrough that was made spaceflight possible and colonisation of the outer reaches of the solar system a reality.

Shaped like an cylinder, the core of the MPDrive was a centrifugal system, that allowed for the burn of the element known as “nitro”, a highly rare and stable fuel that granted vessels two types of speeds, sublight and NFTL (Near Faster Than Light) travel or more colloquially known as “nitro-burns”.

Current development of the MPDrive was still underway, with many scientists saying that they could still unlock more speed out of the engine. Raikkonen, with his modifications, owned one of the fastest vessels ever made in human history, courtesy of stolen Martian space-tech but even he knew that to push it further would risk destroying his spacecraft.

Nitro whilst highly efficient could only be “burned” for so long. This was the key problem with the MPDrives. The engines could only sustain a nitro-burn for a set amount of time, before its’ nitro supply would deplete. Pilots had to be extremely careful with such burns, otherwise they would risk floating in space for an eternity.

So many Formula 0 racers had overestimated their nitro-burns, and thus DNF (Did Not Finish) their races, not accounting for the supply needed to sustain reasonable sublight speeds.

However the Icarus IV had a glaring weakness. Whilst its NFTL speeds were the fastest ever built, its’ sublight speed was woefully inadequate, thus Raikkonen was forced to store a large abundance of nitro onboard, to “nitro-jump” most of his races, using controlled bursts of speed to gain and maintain distance on his rivals.

This weakness was what allowed the RMSMC Aurelius to catch up, its’ quartet of  MPDrives sublight speed much quicker than the Icarus IV‘s. However, due to Martian doctrine, it could only nitro-burn in the most desperate situations.

In spite of its’ poor sublight speeds, Raikkonen loved his Icarus IV. It was his pride and joy, his one true love, beyond Kournikova.

Icarus allowed him to escape Earth, venture amongst the stars and almost touch the sun.

But he had risked it all, for the crimson red cylinder that was secured in a strong  metallic case, attached to the wall of the Icarus‘ hull.

This is the future thought Raikkonen as he checked over the case and saw the 5 green lights, indicating its’ structural integrity.

What is in this case, could revolutionise everything. Time itself will be faster.

Patting the case gently, he spun around weightlessly and moved back to his chair and strapped the harness around his chest.

Giving Kournikova the thumbs up, he watched as she flicked him the trajectory to Arcturus Station and they both felt their chairs recline down, to lock itself into place as Raikkonen commenced the nitro burn.

G-forces slammed the breath out of their chests, and the Icarus IV’s blue MPDrive glowed icy white as nitro burned and the engine began to spin faster and generate more and more energy.

Raikkonen and Kournikova allowed the Icarus IV‘s auto-pilot to take over, as their bodies slowly succumbed to the immense G-forces and knocked them out, sinking their world into a high-pitch screams of engines and darkness.

Onboard the RMSMC Aurelius, Praetor Quintus and his crew could only stare in astonishment as the Icarus IV literally rocketed off their screens and sensors and into the emptiness of space.

So that’s the power of a Formula 0 racer mused Quintus.

Author’s Note

Apologies for the delay in between posts.

My schedule is now more or less normal, so I hope to keep pumping this out soon. I might do a bit of different writing just to get my juices flowing again, but I will not be abandoning this world.

~ Damocles. 

Quite possibly one of my favourite shape-ship design ever, the Razorback from The Expanse TV Series. The whole series just has a fantastic aesthetic to all their spacecraft. 

It is the year 2279.

Humanity is now master and commander of the entire Sol region of the Milky Way, with colonies that stretch all the way to Uranus. 

Mars is now a Empire, calling itself the Royal Martian Systems (RMS), ruled by a mysterious Emperor obsessed with Ancient Roman mythology and culture. 

Earth is a shadow of its’ former self, governed by the United Nations Federation, clinging to former glory, deeply beset by internal in-fighting amongst various factions vying for power.

Both sides are locked in a cold war, limited only by their technology, which revolves around Magnetic Pulse Drives (MPDrives), advanced engines that can achieve nearly 10% the speed of light. 

MPDrives require highly specialised minerals, known as Nitro, that allow the engine to burn at steady rates across large distances. While the mineral has an extremely long half life, this has sparked a resource-race, reminiscent of oil in humanity’s past, for reserves of Nitro. 

Controlling this race, is the Quintant Mining Corporation, greedily monopolising the few reserves that can be found across the Sol system, trading with both sides with impunity.

This is the world of Sol, a solar system that shows, even with the ability to engage the stars, humanity will never truly learn to live together. 

~ 

Europa floated gently on its axis, its bone-white surface, marked by thousands of soft brown cracks and streaks, a serenely beautiful moon, oblivious to the drama several thousands kilometres above its’ icy crust. 

Jean “Iceman” Raikkonen glared at the blue holographic screen that showcased the trajectory of his beloved Icarus IV, as it rocketed through Europa’s gravitational pull, using the orbit as a sling to accelerate further out into the vastness of space.

A warning alarm pealed loudly in his ears, as he felt immense G-forces assault his body. Behind him, Raikkonen could hear the pained gasp of his co-pilot, Lada “Frost” Kournikova as their chairs injected a cocktail of drugs into their necks, to prevent blacking out.

With such immense force being applied to their body, Raikkonen and Kournikova could only stare at their screens, and watch as their racing craft began to peel away from the malignant blip behind them, until it was out of immediate danger.

Raikkonen, using the armrest controls, gently began to ease the acceleration of the Icarus IV, and ever so slightly, the huge weight on their body began to ease, as the vessel began the process of deceleration.

Kournikova’s thick Martian accent came from behind; deep, low, husky and gravelly.

“Do you think we lost them?”

Raikkonen stared at the holo screen, and shook his head, even though he knew Kournikova couldn’t really see it.

“No. We’re still in range of their scopes and missiles.”

Kournikova looked at her own screen, doing mental calculations of the distance between them and the pursuing vessel.

Frowning at the result in her mind, she pulled up a star-map, and began to look over the Icarus IV, noting the fuel load, and the stress the vehicle was under and where it was in relation to other colonies.

Kournikova found herself sweating profusely, nerves and fear and exhilaration racing through her body. Gingerly lifting her right hand against the G forces, she pressed a button on the left side of her suit, and felt her skin tighten as it was sucked against her suit, voiding the interior clear of sweat.

Sighing, she turned her attention to the screen again, and noted the critical systems status.

“We still got our full payload of counter-measures and enough Nitro to make it to Arcturus Station.”

“Then that’s where we’re going.” said Raikkonen quietly.

“OK. Let’s do it. If we continue this speed to maintain distance, and we should be able to Nitro-burn the final straight to Arcturus. I think.” said Kournikova, as she punched in the necessary calculations.

Spinning on a gimbal, Raikkonen turned his chair around and looked at his co-pilot in the eye. It was rare for her to second guess herself. But then the entire scenario they were in was alien to them. It was his idea to pull this off. His responsibility.

Kournikova looked through the holo screen, and felt her fear begin to fade, as she beheld her best friend’s blue eyes.

“Everything will be alright Frost.” said Raikkonen calmly, and holding out his hand, he squeezed Kournikova’s gloved hand reassuringly before readdressing his screen.

Shaped like an arrowhead, the Icarus IV was a crimson-silver bullet in space. Raikkonen affectionately once called it “an MPDrive with seats” and in essence, that was all it was.

Like most Formula 0 racing crafts, it was extremely lightweight, durable enough for the rigours of high G-force turns and reliable in most circumstances. Equipped with retrorockets near the base of the MPDrive’s main thruster, it could effortlessly spin around in any direction, and re-engage its MPDrive within a second of shut-off.

Yet acceleration was its primary purpose, capable of nearly 11% the speed of light, however after extensive modifications by Raikkonen and Kournikova, it was now on the apex of achieving 12%. But such speeds were unable to be proven, as both pilots would black out before they could hit such velocities.

With its’ distinct crimson and silver livery, the Icarus IV was a legendary racer, having already won several Formula 0 Grand Prixs and setting the fastest lap records for multiple inter-planetary-courses.

Which was why, the Captain of the RMSMC Aurelius was so utterly confused as to the reason why his ship, the flagship of the Martian Marine Corps, was chasing it.

At an imposing 2 metres and 20 centimetres tall, Praetor Deckard Quintus was as typical as a Martian could get; dark features, a tall, lean muscular frame and a deep guttural voice.

Aged 45, Quintus was one of the Marine Corps youngest and most exemplary officers/strategists. His numerous victories against several smuggling crews and pirates vessels earned him the title of Praetor, one of the highest honours bestowed upon anyone in the Royal Martian Systems, a rank only succeeded by Consul. 

Taciturn, experienced, unflinchingly loyal to his men, and a surprising teetotaller, Deckard Quintus was a typical example of the type of men and women that were lost to Earth, during the Mars Revolt against the UNF.

As Quintus stared down at his war-desk, the Captain’s station on the bridge of the RMSMC Aurelius, his XO, Marcus Vorenus, came alongside him and saluted.

Looking across at the slimmer, younger man, who Quintus treated like a son, despite not ever having any children, he raised an eyebrow in question.

Marcus gestured at the war desk, and Quintus opened the readout his XO had sent.

“Arcturus Station hmm?” mused Quintus.

“Yes sir. We compared their Nitro load to other typical Formula 0 racing craft, and based on their current velocity, and trajectory, that is their most likely destination.” said Vorenus, curtly.

“Any chance we can make it there before them?” queried Quintus, with bemusement, knowing full well the answer.

Vorenus smiled back. “No sir. Definitely not.”

“Pity. If we can’t race them, give me options to slow them down.” said Quintus, with a wolfish smile, wondering which of the Aurelius weapon platforms could perform the job.

Vorenus walked over to the weapon specialist, Aiko Cicero, a tall, attractive young Asiatic woman who was now busy flicking through multiple options.

“What do you have for me, Principales Cicero?” asked Vorenus.

“Sir, they are out of our SCM (Space Combat Manoeuvring) range, so our only option is to use our torpedoes and set it to proximity.” replied Aiko

“What are the odds, it will destroy Icarus IV?”

“If we detonate 10,000 clicks ahead, it should be OK. At the very least, it will cause them to slow down or take evasive manoeuvres. We can always direct the missile away, further sir.” said Aiko confidently.

Vorenus clapped Aiko’s shoulders and reported the news back to the Quintus.

Nodding his approval, Quintus gave the order.

“Fire, 2.”

“2 torpedoes. Understood sir.” Aiko glanced at her holographic screen and with a flourish, tapped a button.

“Torpedoes away. Controlling proximity detonation.”

Seen from the outside, the RMSMC Aurelius was a incredible feat of engineering, a true military vessel, that had little penchant for flair, except in its brutal aesthetic. Coloured in orange and black, after its’ homeworld’s distinctive soil, the Aurelius was one of the most advanced and sophisticated warships ever conceived by man.

Essentially a tree-trunk styled vessel, with 4 large MPDrives at its base, and featuring multiple railgun turrets with a sharply defined nose section, the Aurelius was classified as a Decurion-class frigate, one of the biggest sized vessels in the system, dwarfed only by the Centurion-class capital ship.

The Aurelius’ front bays opened, and out shot two Pilum torpedoes, glowing blue as they engaged their small MPDrives, accelerating quickly and shot out in pursuit of the Icarus IV.

Author’s Note

This is the first time, I have ever ventured into the sci-fi genre and what a ridiculous struggle it was. I don’t think I have ever even tried to build a world before.

I realise now, how easy it is, to get lost into the descriptions of things, and lose sight of the characters.

I scrubbed this story, 5 times, before being satisfied with how it starts. That meant 5 attempts to write the first 400 words and deleting it all to start afresh.

Fans of The Expanse show will see obvious parallels. I truly tried to differentiate it, but since I am currently watching it, and was so inspired by it to write sci-fi because of it, I ended up borrowing almost everything.

Hopefully by the second chapter, I will be able to start pumping differences between this story and The Expanse, but I love the show so much, that I suspect this will just seem like a hollow fan fic story.

I will also start reading The Expanse stories relatively soon, because …. you can’t write sci-fi without reading sci-fi.

I will probably need 2 days to write chapters, instead of pumping them out day by day, because this is such a challenge for me to write.

I don’t know how many parts this will be either and I am definitely concerned I will run out of good images to use for this story.

Anyway, I got to think about the next chapter.

~ Damocles

Alex Ryder walked in, his heartbeat abnormally fast, his mind whirring at a thousand thoughts a minute, and his hands clenched into fists.

Liverpool guided Alex into the centre of the apartment, which was spacious, and had two connecting rooms; a bedroom and a bathroom. Like most modern designs, it was all about clean lines, a simple contrasting colour theme (black, white, grey, with a splash of dark brown) and slightly dull aesthetics.

It was as sterile an environment as it could get.

Flat Cap sat on a couch nearby, inspecting a small suppressed pistol, his hands at ease with the weapon.

“Easy mate. Our boss will be with us temporarily. He’s just dealing with a Frenchman at the moment. Why don’t you take a seat?” said Liverpool cordially.

Flat Cap pulled a chair from the nearby kitchen and slid it into the centre of the room.

“Don’t worry. We won’t hurt you. We just want to talk.” intoned Flat Cap candidly.

Alex sat down, wondering where the hell Eveline could be. Thinking to himself, how he allowed this to happen.

Liverpool and Flat Cap watched with amusement, at Alex’s fury. Liverpool even placed a placating hand on Alex’s shoulder.

“It’s alright mate. Everything will be explained soon.”

A knock at the door stiffened both men.

Liverpool checked the peephole, whilst Flat Cap hid the pistol behind his leg.

Motioning the all-clear, Flat Cap relaxed and Liverpool opened the door to reveal a mountain of a man.

At an imposing 2 metres tall, with a muscular frame, and dark eyes, the Jackal looked like if a bodybuilder was smashed into a scholar, his face was avuncular and intelligent, with soft brown eyes and a wry smile playing across his lips.

Expensive glasses were perched atop a sharply bridged nose, and the Jackal dressed more like a university professor out on a forest stroll than a highly trained, and lethal mercenary.

A dark brown tweed coat bedecked the muscular body, with a striped blue/green soft wool scarf tied loosely around his neck. A handsome classic umbrella was held loosely in his huge tanned hand, and in the other, gripped a large briefcase.

The Jackal, when he spoke, had a soft deep voice, his tone and inflection curiously flat. He spoke English, but without any trace of an accent. Not Australian, not English like his henchmen, and certainly not American.

It was a truly neutral accent. A voice you would hear in a strange forgettable dream.

“Alex Ryder. Private Investigator. I’ve been following your hunt with great interest. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Alex said nothing, as the Jackal came in, and gently placed the briefcase on the kitchen table, and grabbed a chair to sit in front of Alex.

“I must say, when I came after the former Francois Dujardin, I didn’t expect that there would be so many players involved in this … quest for a Cezanne.” said the Jackal with slightly bemusement.

Alex’s emerald eyes narrowed at the use of the word “former.”

“Oh yes. He … won’t be joining us. He has lost his usefulness. A pity. I would have liked to have seen the little stash that he kept hidden away. But I find myself unable to crack the code.”

The Jackal reached behind him and grabbed the briefcase off the table, and popped it open to reveal a convincing fake of The View Auvers-sur-Oise.

Alex stared at it. So this was the tiny 46cm by 55cm painting that had everyone searching and upturning Melbourne for.

“I think both you and I are aware this is a fake. The late Mr Dujardin kept two copies of this lovely painting. He commissioned a fake one so that he could actually keep one in his house, however, he never did so. He kept both in his vault.”

“How do you know it’s a fake?” asked Alex, curious despite himself, drawn in by the landscape.

“It lacks Paul Cezanne’s signature here, in the bottom left corner. Plus the brushwork is a little bit sloppier than the real one. However, the artist did an overall good job. I am impressed. A lesser student might not have been able to tell the difference.” said the Jackal softly.

Placing the replica away gently, the Jackal handed the briefcase to Liverpool who took it away.

“You may be wondering, what this all has to do with you, Mr Ryder. Well, the thing is … Ms Eveline Winston has actually double-crossed you. She sent you here, and promised Francois Dujardin that she would wait for him in this very room as well.”

Alex swallowed hard and felt fury like he had never experienced before.

“We actually were very surprised that you turned up. We knew that Dujardin was meeting us at the Central Pier, but I am sure you can imagine our shock when Ms Winston wasn’t in this room, that we found this room empty.”

“We were vastly disappointed of course, that you turned up. But it does allow us to dot the i and cross the ts.” smiled the Jackal.

“I already have Ms Winston’s phone number. I’ve tracked it. It’s at the bottom of the Docklands pier. So I doubt we’ll see any more of her.” said the Jackal with cold amusement.

A trace of emotion crept into the Jackal’s voice.

“I’ve spent the better part of a year chasing this painting, Mr Ryder. It has always been my desire to secure a Master’s work for myself. I will only ask you this once.”

“Do you know where it is?”

Alex ran through all the clues and decided to tell the truth. Survival was paramount here, not his revenge or anger.

“No, I don’t.”

The Jackal’s copper brown eyes scanned analytically over Alex’s emeralds.

Nodding to himself, he stood up and motioned to Flat Cap.

Alex squeezed his eyes shut.

Soft chuckles erupted from Flat Cap and Liverpool, which prompted Alex to open his eyes again.

To his surprise, his laptop was in his lap.

The Jackal looked at Alex seriously.

“I believe you. I suppose my only way to the Cezanne is to find Eveline hmm?”

Alex nodded wordlessly, fear and shock still burning through his system.

“Thank you for your assistance Mr Ryder. I don’t need the access Mr Dujardin’s stash. However, if you would indulge me, how do you solve his encryption?”

Alex took a ragged breath and softly replied “Caesar’s cipher.”

The Jackal smiled coldly and looked up momentarily.

“Ah yes. Niagara Lane. Most clever.” he whispered.

With a cold nod, the Jackal left the room, and Liverpool and Flat Cap, smiling in his wake, gave mock salutes to Alex and disappeared with the mercenary.

Alex stared at the open door, before rousing himself and grabbing his laptop and wondering what the hell just happened.

Tucking his laptop under his peacoat, Alex was about to leave, when he realised that the Jackal had left the fake painting behind.

You’re not going to get paid anyway. To hell with it. thought Alex, and he grabbed the briefcase, opened it, and tucked his laptop under to stop it from getting wet from the rain and then left the accursed Docklands to head home, on a lonely tram ride, with another precious cargo on his lap.

~ A month later.

The Atrium on 35 was Alex’s favourite haunt. A drink there was an affront to his bank account, but he had recently solved another case, involving a cheating husband and his concerned wife, so the bank app showed that he was flush with funds for now.

It wasn’t going to last long at the rate he was burning through classic cocktails at the Atrium, but the spectre of Eveline, and the Cezanne still lingered in his mind, so he needed more.

Set inside one of Melbourne’s most exclusive hotels, the Sofitel, the Atrium on 35 was a luxuriously quiet and elegant bar, that mixed Arabesque elements into its interior design and boasted the best toilets with a view in the entire of Melbourne.

Going into a toilet, was like stepping into a room made of glass, and it offered spectacular views of the MCG, and Parliament, often stunning patrons who were about to relieve themselves, only to be distracted by the magnificent scenery.

The Atrium on 35 itself was decorated by gorgeous gold diaphanous silk that hung from invisible wires, creating waves above the seated occupants, and beautiful amber honey lighting from the enormous roof above, lending the entire proceedings with a rich, private vibe.

The bar itself was circular, and it served classic cocktails, like Mojitos or New York Sours to grateful hotel patrons or diners who had just left the No35 Restaurants. Alex was a well known patron, the manager often reserving a private space near the edge of the bar, so that he could enjoy his drinks alone and in silence.

Nursing a neat whiskey, Alex stared at the amber liquid, forlornly considering the case that nearly killed him and robbed him of his dignity.

His paranoia was also at an all-time high, his nightmares often involving Flat Cap and Liverpool following him, causing him to always check behind him and walk around the block twice, before meeting anyone now.

Worse, Eveline’s blue eyes still haunted him, the scent of her perfume, the soft warmth of her curvaecous body and the taste of her crimson lips tormenting him with their broken promises whenever he tried to sleep.

As Alex took another sip, and tried to chase the buzz, his phone vibrated next to him.

Hoping it was a new case, Alex opened the message and frowned.

It was his bank, telling him that a lump sum had just been deposited into his account.

Enough to cover 9 month worth of bills.

Enough to grant him opportunities to eat out more and afford better clothes.

Enough to live like a stable person.

Plus change.

His phone vibrated again. An unknown number. No identity.

Alex thumbed the text open, his heart beating quicker as he recognised the tone. He heard her soft voice in his mind as he read the text.

 

Alex.

As promised, here is the money I signed off to you, plus a little bonus.

No doubt, you’re probably wondering whether I meant anything of the last text I sent to you.

Some of it rang true at the time. But you know how it is. I don’t think anyone else understood that about me. You did, just for a little bit. That was enough.     

You won’t hear from me again.  

But I am grateful.

E.

 

Alex’s finger hovered over the delete trash-can icon … but he ultimately didn’t press it.

Instead he locked the phone, took another sip of his whiskey and thought about the fake Cezanne that hung over his office.

He knew whose signature deserved to be on that painting.

Feeling the demons subside a little bit, Alex could sense that closure was all he really needed, even if it came from a cold bitch like Eveline Winston.

Studying the amber liquid in his glass, Alex gave a rueful smile and raised his glass in an imaginary salute.

Bye bye, blackbird. Enjoy the view.

Author’s Note.

That concludes my first attempt at writing a proper short story in a long, long time.

I hope you’ve all enjoyed what has essentially been a live-crafting of a first draft for a story.

I know there are plenty of errors, from “past/present senses” switching, and probably numerous spelling mistakes, as I wrote this on a far less precise keyboard at work, whilst serving customers at my retail job.

However, I am overall pleased with how everything turned out. I wanted it to end on a bittersweet note, as is the common thread with most crime noir stories, especially the ones by the great Raymond Chandler, who, whether I realised it or not, had a huge influence on my writing style for this story.

I will write a reflection piece that dives deeper into the crafting of this story, but for now, this note is about this final part, which proved really difficult to write and tie up.

I actually had to think hard and write down notes for this chapter, something unheard of me, as usually I follow whatever hops into my mind. I rarely ever script things in advance, I tend to let things unravel.

So this chapter was a bit uncharacteristic of my writing style and approach.

I originally had Eveline tied up in the room, and somehow Alex would contrive to rescue her and himself from the Jackal, Flat Cap and Liverpool.

But that didn’t fit the narrative, the whole “explosive” ending that I felt cheapened and made it too Hollywood.

Instead, I dove deeper into Eveline’s character, what type of person she is. If she truly is the femme fatale I wanted her to be, it only made sense that she would double-cross Alex in the end with the bait.

Alex, still in love with what might have been between them, would go and be confronted by a cleverer villain in the Jackal.

After all, she only sleeps with Alex, because she wants to manipulate him and Francois into working for her. But there is a strange connection there, so hence she gives him the money in the end.

I will explain in deeper details about characters and how I originally planned it all out, in my reflection piece!

However, a big thank you for all who have been reading along so far. I hope it’s been entertaining and that this ending wasn’t too much of a bust for you.

~ Damocles.

 

Alex stared at the grimy screen, a borrowed pen in his mouth, as he looked at the precious excel sheet. 

He had lost his laptop and now his phone to Francois and Eveline. This left him with no choice but to spend a dollar at the nearest 24 hour gaming lounge.

All around him, the cacophony of mechanical keyboards, and optical mouses rattled away, as young men tapped away at their computers, oblivious to the private investigator searching for a Cezanne.

The room smelt rough, with cheap deodorant, spicy 2-minute noodles and arid energy drinks suffusing the atmosphere.

Chairs squeaked as gamers rocked back and forth, thoroughly engaged in their virtual world; numbers, lights and colours flashing across their tired, intent faces.

Alex jotted down on his notepad, and finally broke the 4 cryptic sentences and the strange caption that ran across the first Excel sheet. He arranged the letters and in a grid, fascinated as he saw one of the first examples of cryptography come to brilliantly to life, Roman ingenuity at its most innovative.

To solve the cipher, Alex merely arranged the long sentences atop of one another and read down.

CIPHER:

3AAEETOONO1A.

1GLBMAVMAN2S.

NAAAELEBT39H.

IRNSNCCCII19M.

 

CAPTION:

VOVUS

IFERE

EASOC

WUSIZ.

 

SOLUTION: 

31NIAGARALANEBASEMENTALCOVECOMBINATION311299ASHM 

VIEWOFAUVESSUROISECZ 

 

Alex added in the spaces.

31 NIAGARA LANE BASEMENT ALCOVE COMBINATION 31 12 99 ASH M

VIEW OF AUVES SUR OISE CZ

Logging off the PC, Alex dashed out, and began his run from QV to the small, cobblestone alleyway, that held the Cezanne.

Alex ran down Londsdale street, the small decline in the topography of Melbourne assisting his speed. Buses blurred past him, as did hundreds of waiting passengers. A couple in a ramen shop, stopped slurping noodles for a second, as they beheld Alex in a full blown sprint, blast past their window and nearly careen into a mother with a pram.

Tram drivers pealed angrily as Alex sped across the tracks on Swanston St, and was now surging his way past Uniqlo and the iconic skyway that linked the two major shopping hubs, Emporium and Melbourne Central above him.

Two blocks were covered in less than 5 minutes, as Alex panted his way down, through Elizabeth Street and then up a small incline towards Niagara Lane.

A young, pretty girl, exiting the local Korean grocer, gave a muffled scream of surprise behind her face mask, as Alex shot his way up, nearly scattering her groceries everywhere.

Alex saw the blue and white sign ahead and performed a hard left turn at Club Retro, the loud disco music blasting the eardrums of a surprised bouncer who wondered why so many people were going down this alleyway.

Breathing hard, Alex pulled a powerful, rugged torch from the inside of his peacoat, and began to scan the alleyway.

Atypical of Melbournian alleyways, Niagara Lane was paved with uneven cobblestones that had a distinctive inward slant towards the middle, that allowed for drainage.

The lane itself, was wide, and featured several unique entrances to apartments, shops, and obscure law firms and private clubs. Small alcoves dug into the walls of the alleyway, with little concrete lips where people liked to smoke, obscuring the curious windows that allowed voyeuristic snapshots into basements.

31 Niagara Lane was signalled by a circular frame that proclaimed in faded gold text: 31.

To his disappointment, Alex was too late. The elaborate door, an imposing wooden modern design, was ajar, and the amber light inside left on, because doubtless Francois and Eveline had already absconded the premises.

However, clues needed to be found, so Alex found himself switching off his torch and wandering down the old concrete steps into a veritable valuables stash.

A shelf lined the wall on his left, a stout beautiful mahogany study table in the centre, against the back wall, and on his right, littered on tables, the floor and rudimentary shelves, were artworks and stolen antiquities. The rustic brick interior was beautifully lit and shadowed by an art-deco lamp, that cast a cheerful amber light over the entire cache.

Alex whistled to himself. Take one, no one will know it’s missing. said a voice in Alex’s head. I wouldn’t know what to do with one. answered Alex, as he held up an Impressionist piece.

Alex kept his eye on the open door behind him, as he looked around, paranoid that Flat Cap and Liverpool would enter and mess everything up. When he finally came to the back desk, he noted the wall safe next to it. It was locked.

Remembering the deciphered code, Alex keyed the code 311299 ASHM into the keypad and watched as the door slowly sung open on its hinges.

He was surprised by the sight of his phone lying there, in place of the Cezanne it would have held.

Frowning, he used his thumb to unlock the phone and saw that he had received a text message from Eveline.

Alex, 

I swear to you, that what happened between us, wasn’t nothing. There is something there, I promise. 

Francois and I are on our way to the Docklands, at the Central Pier. I didn’t tell Francois did, but when you used my laptop to access the files, I actually solved the cipher before we met and I already took the painting with me. 

Francois is currently holding a fake one, and just before the meeting with the Jackal I will disappear. 

If there is anything between you and me, if you feel the same way, please meet me at Astra Apartment 79.

Yours, 

Eveline. 

Alex frowned at the implications of the message.

Don’t do it said his mind.

Alex turned off the lamp in the treasure trove, and closed the door behind him as he re-entered the alleyway. Marking it in his mind, Alex felt torn between desire and paranoia.

Gritting his teeth, and knowing he had to see it to the end, Alex cut through more alleyways and made his way onto Bourke St, where he caught the 86 tram to Waterfront City, Docklands.

The tram was packed, filled with Melbournians who were quiet, silent and wet. Almost everyone had earphones in, their heads and hands subtly moving to the beat of their music. Alex watched as nearly three-quarters of the entire tram population got off at Southern Cross Station, Victoria’s most advanced looking train station, a mass of steel, glass and plastic, modern design at its finest.

He watched as people ducked for cover, as a deluge of water came rushing in, the soft howl of the wind abruptly cut short by the tram’s closing doors.

Enjoy this. thought Alex. In less than 10 minutes you’ll be doing the same thing as everyone else out there.

The tram slowly rolled past the huge Melbourne Police Station, the uniforms inside completely unaware of the treasure hunt that was happening in their precinct, before accelerating across a bridge that offered a spectacular view of the ever-pretty, but forever quiet Docklands.

The Docklands was evidence that no matter how much money is injected into an area, it is the people that drive popularity, not the other way around.

Despite the local government’s best efforts to drive the people into the area, from renovating the area into a glistening architectural hub of modern designs, creating Harbour Town with its affordable shops, and the huge Melbourne Star Ferris Wheel, no one lived there.

Apartments were highly affordable for those who worked in the city, but its emptiness,  lack of activity and the freezing chill that came in from the ocean caused the entire area to be disliked.

There was something strange and artificial about Docklands, as if it tried to capture everything Melbourne in an area, but failed to truly replicate its essence and unique style.

However it was pretty despite its artificial charm. The huge West Gate Bridge towered over the area, Melbourne’s very own Brooklyn Bridge, complete with imposing concrete towers that glittered red to warn incoming aircraft of its’ height.

The water was tranquil and still, playing host to dozens of expensive boats, and even a restaurant boat moored at the Central Pier.

It was an area that spoke to those who enjoyed solitude. The urban sprawl, the modern designs, the silent shops and the lack of people on the streets, created a strange ethereal atmosphere, that made you think you were alone in a pandemic that caused everyone on Earth to disappear.

Alex recalled all of this from his experience and time, as the tram slowly descended the bridge. He also wondered about how many bodies were going to be dropped into the docks before the end of the night.

Patting himself down, he knew that he had nothing to truly protect himself with. All he had was a pen, a notepad and his powerful flashlight.

A pitiful collection.

Sighing, he waited for the tram to stop, before walking out, the shimmering water reflecting moonlight across his face. Rain lashed away at him, and Alex popped the collar of his peacoat and began to make his way across, ignoring the Central Pier, where the deal between the Jackal and Francois was taking place.

He was walking directly towards a uniquely unattractive apartment complex, its’ white exterior marred by thousands of hole cut into its shell, to allow for windows and balconies. It was triangular in shape, but curved at all the sharp edges, creating a rounded effect to the entire structure.

The Astra Apartments was also in one of the quietest areas of Docklands, with barely any souls walking the streets after work hours. It was a place where empty shop windows featured nothing but promises to be filled and residents were eager to get home and never leave.

Alex ducked for cover under overhangs and the shadows of buildings whenever he could, trying to get less wet, as the rain intensified and his thoughts threatened to overwhelm him.

His silhouette presented a strange sight, under the bright lights and rain, a lonely figure on the streets of an empty city.

When Alex finally reached the Astra Apartments, he buzzed the apartment number, 79, the designation indicating the 7th floor, 9th room.

The electronic doors silently slid open, and Alex was greeted by ambient music, soft white lighting and modern aesthetics.

Calling for a lift, he could feel his heartbeat grow quicker and quicker, as he wondered whether he truly would see Eveline waiting for him.

Padding quietly across carpeted flooring, and an empty hallway, Alex knocked on door 79 and waited for the reveal.

A smile and a thick Liverpool accent greeted him.

“‘Hello luv. Come on in, we’re just about to fix tonight’s entertainment.” said Liverpool jovially.

Author’s Note

You ever write a story and find that it’s hard to wrap things up?

That’s what I’m going through.

If the finale is horrible, I apologise in advance.

If the final is decent, I too apologise in advance, because I should have made it perfect.

The end of the story is paramount to the success of whether people think it’s good or not.

I spent most of this part setting the stage for the finale.

Let’s hope it all pays off.

~Damocles.

 

Joel McNamara nee Francois Dujardin, stared at Alex, confusion etched across his handsome face.

The antithesis of Alex Ryder, Francois Dujardin was the consummate European gentleman, with attractive soft features, that made him more beautiful than handsome.

A strong patrician nose, high brow and luscious, wavy brown hair perfectly complemented the square jaw that had just the right amount of scruff.

He was impeccably dressed for a man on the run, with an expensive dark brown waistcoat, that contrasted well against his bone white dress shirt. The trousers matched the cut and colour of the waistcoat, and Francois had added a turquoise kerchief to the breast pocket.

In his frozen right hand, was a French crime book by Pierre Lemaitre, whilst his left hand grasped a Cabernet.

The differences between the gaunt Alex and the healthy Francois was like making a comparison between charity and welfare.

The only similarity they shared, were the intensity of their eyes, Francois’ sapphires matching the piercing quality of Alex’s emeralds.

“What the hell do you want?” shouted Francois with indignation, as he placed the book and wine glass down gently on a table to the side of the luxurious bed.

Alex looked at Francois coldly.

“A View of Auvers-sur-Oise, if you don’t mind.”

Francois’ eyes widened further, and he gasped “How do you know?”

“A goddess showed me.” said Alex drily.

“Merde.” whispered Francois under his breath. Recovering from his shock, Francois tried to re-establish the equilibrium.

“You have me at a disadvantage, Mr …. Ryder was it? If you don’t mind, starting from the beginning, as to how you found me, and who sent you, I would much appreciate it.”

Francois looked at Alex’s expression and hastily added “I won’t run, I swear.  You’ve caught me. I just want to know who sent you.”

Alex relented, but he kept his guard up, worried that Francois was hiding some kind of weapon in the drawer next to him.

“Eveline Winston.”

“Eveline …” whispered Francois. “Of course …”

Francois leapt off the bed and advanced towards Alex. Alex held his ground, prepared for an attack.

But instead Francois took him by the shoulder and urgently asked. “Is she alright? The Jackal hasn’t killed her yet has he?”

That’s the name of the mercenary thought Alex.

“No. She’s safe.”

“Thank God.”

An awkward silence descended on the room. Francois looked away from Alex’s unwavering gaze and began to pace the room. Alex, on his part, stayed silent, preferring to sweat Francois.

After what seemed like an age to Francois, he seemed to arrive at a decision and looked directly back at Alex.

“Do I have your word, you will not harm me if I show you the way?” implored Francois.

“Depends on whether you actually have it or not.” replied Alex.

“Believe me I do. It’s not here. I’ve hid it somewhere close and safe. But I can tell you the whole story behind this accursed Cezanne.” said Francois ruefully.

Alex checked his watch. He wanted to get Francois back towards Eveline, but a part of him wanted to hear the story of one of the most daring art thefts before the turn of the century. Giving in to his curiosity, Alex grabbed a chair from a baroque desk and motioned Francois to sit on the bed in front of him.

Francois, confused, sat down and was astonished when he heard the words; “Go on. Tell me.”

Francois found himself resisting at first, after all, who was this stranger to demand such information from him? But suddenly the urge to boast and tell a story he had kept hidden for years overtook him.

He had kept it within him for so long. It needed an appreciative audience. What better audience than the man who managed to crack and solve the secret vault he had made? Any man who had worked out his Venus de Milo secret was worthy of this tale.

But more importantly, it would also buy him time to formulate an escape plan. The private investigator may have earned his respect, but he would never deserve the prize.

Francois grabbed the Cabernet from the desk, swirled it in his mouth and swallowed. His voice was deep, articulate and wistful.

“I was much younger then. Younger and more skilled. By the time I was 25, I had already stolen lesser art from 7 museums around Europe. The papers called me le renard. For a time, I was famous. Everyone was looking for me, but none ever came close. I miss those days still.”

Francois saw the intent concentration on Alex’s face and knew he had him captive.

“But I longed for a bigger prize. My collection was not complete, without a master’s work. I love art, you see. I steal art because I obsess over them. I still remember being entranced by a lesser artist when I was much, much younger. I loved the brushwork, the serenity that comes with staring at a beautiful picture. My cravings only demanded more, after I stole my first one. I couldn’t stop at one painting. I need more to fill my bare private room.”

“It was then, I heard about a Cezanne being exhibited at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford University. The wonderful Paysage d’Auvers-sur-Oise. My collection was crying out for a landscape and a Master. This ticked all the boxes.”

Francois’ voice dropped slightly. He was walking down memory lane now.

“So I flew to England, along with two of my crew. Throughout our entire career, nothing had ever gone wrong. We didn’t use guns. We didn’t knock out guards. We went in, sliced the paintings out the frames and went out, with people none the wiser.”

“Security in the 90s could be defeated easily. I mean they let terrorists onboard planes with guns, so why wouldn’t they let a man with a box cutter into a museum?” laughed Francois.

Sipping his wine, Francois felt himself come alive as he relived the fateful night.

“This job was probably the easiest thing we had ever done. It was like stealing candy from a baby. We could not have found an easier mark. Everyone was out, celebrating the turn of the century. It was New Years Eve …”

“This gave us cover and would overwhelm the security guards. The Ashmolean at the time, was also undergoing repair works. So there was a scaffolding that we could climb to get to the roof.”

He paused, a smile creeping across his face. Alex stared intently at Francois, mentally matching the plan he had read on the Excel sheet to what he was hearing.

“We left our safehouse at 11pm, and took the bus to Oxford. Have you ever been Mr Ryder?”

“No? It’s a lovely campus. Lots of gorgeous old buildings and green grass everywhere. No matter where you look, it’s impossible not to be distracted by the history on display.”

“The Ashmolean Museum is equally attractive. I must say, whenever I think about iconic Museum designs, I always revert to that place. The walls, the columns, the frames they use … are exquisite. It’s the classic museum. If there were pictures in dictionaries, the Ashmolean would be next to the word museum.”

“But I’m getting off topic … forgive me. Where was I?” asked Francois, to the silent Alex.

“Oh yes … we were mingling with all the university students who were out and about ready to celebrate the New Year. We had all our equipment in our bags. We didn’t need much. Just a good hammer, a pick, a sharp Stanley knife, a rope ladder and a flashlight. One of my crew managed to source a smoke grenade from a mate of his in England. You know, those surplus stores?”

“Anyway, we partied with everyone else, and had a good time. We were meant to blend, and my God, did we blend. I think we all drank a bit too much. But it didn’t stop us.”

“At exactly 11.45, we made our way to the scaffolding, after jumping the fence. There were crowds of people everywhere, so no one noticed we were gone.”

“One of us stood guard outside, while the other guy would support me, as I made my way down through the skylight via the rope ladder. There was a very convenient air-conditioning unit that we tied the ladder to, so that made our life even easier.”

Francois’ voice was picking up in speed, his body excited to be reliving such drama.

“Boom!” exclaimed Francois with glee.

“We smashed the skylight with our hammer when everyone was lighting their fireworks. My comrade lit the smoke grenade and threw it inside. The smoke would obscure my movements, my face, the alarms and the cameras. I had walked the Ashmolean a hundred times before, so the moment my feet touched the ground, I knew exactly where to go.”

Francois mimed his movements.

“I ripped the painting off the wall and smashed the frame on the ground. This popped the priceless Cezanne right out from the frame and I barely had to cut anything.”

“Alarms were going off, but I didn’t care. Our plan was flawless. People who saw the smoke would assume it was a fire. Fireworks and crowds would delay the security response and cover all our noise.”

“All I had to do, was literally shove the painting in a large briefcase, clip it to my belt and climb up the ladder.”

“The whole job, took me 3 minutes. It was flawless. A masterpiece of thievery” exclaimed Francois.

“Security had no idea who or where we were. By the time they investigated and found out what we had done, we were already on a bus back to our house. We disappeared into the crowd, like a fox before dawn.”

Francois sat back and finished his Cabernet, a smug smile on his handsome face.

“It was that simple. 3 minutes was all it took for a Cezanne to end up in my hands. I often think back to that night and truly the stars aligned for me. It seemed like fate that, that Cezanne would end up in my possession.”

Alex sat back and evaluated the vain, arrogant Frenchman before him. A reality check was needed.

“So why do you want to sell it to the Jackal? What happened to you?”

Francois turned away in disgust, shame suffusing his face.

“One of my crew ratted me out. The cowardly bastard revealed where I was. The Jackal tracked me here. He was the one who killed Candice because I … messed up.”

“How?” asked Alex with more concern than he wanted to admit.

“You saw the CCTV footage on the SD card yes? We met, but I didn’t bring the painting. I thought I could fool him. I bought a poster instead.” groaned Francois.

“He saw through my stupid ruse straight away, he told me that I could either bring the real Cezanne, or watch another one of my girls die.”

“Eveline.” whispered Alex.

“Yes. Candice died because of my miserable stupidity.” breathed Francois. Anger ran across his blue eyes as he paced the room furiously.

“I refuse to see Eveline die for another one of my mistakes. The Jackal, gave me two weeks to bring the painting. But I need the SD card that I hid in my Venus. Unfortunately, I have been unable to go home, because of the murder case built against me.”

“But …” Francois continued “You saw it didn’t you? Do you have that card with you?”

“No” admitted Alex. “But I made a back-up.”

“Please, show me.” implored Francois.

Alex paused a beat, considering his options.

“No.” said Alex coldly.

Francois stared at Alex incredulously.

“No?”

“Not until you come with me, to meet Eveline. Then, we shall hunt for the Cezanne.”

“Wouldn’t that just put her in more danger?” asked Francois.

“If you love her, you’ll protect her.” replied Alex, struggling to keep his own feelings in check.

Francois sighed. “Very well. Let me get my coat.”

Alex waited, and without losing sight of Francois, he texted Eveline.

MEET ME ON COLLINS ST AT THE DOME. I FOUND HIM. 7PM.

Francois, now layered up with a long coat, walked out in front of Alex, and they both bid farewell to the Pink Palace, as Francois fired up the gold Renault and drove to the city in silence.

Pulling up into the central business district, Alex noted that the rain that had plagued him this entire case was still prevalent, its’ rhythm forever etched into his mind, as he looked up and down Collins street, wary of Flat Cap and Liverpool. There were hundreds of people everywhere, most of them eager to get home and out of the rain.

All sorts of colours were represented by umbrellas, as they bobbed up and down, weaving to and fro, avoiding people, avoiding other umbrellas and street furniture.

A tram buzzed past the pair of them, its’ plaintive bell pealing at jay-walkers who crossed the street with reckless abandon. Taxi cabs honked at each other, as a poor newcomer to the Melbourne struggled with the concept of hook turns at a busy intersection.

The Dome on Collins St, was an architectural marvel. The mosaic-tiled floor, was already arresting enough, but it was the Domed Chamber that stole the breath away, with its Baroque and Italianate elements, the arches, windows and pillars cascading together to create elegant, intricate symmetry.

Beneath the natural shafts of dying grey light that came through the windows, stood Alex Ryder and Francois Dujardin, two men whose fates were now connected by a woman and a painting.

As they waited to the side of the main doors, Alex kept a watchful eye on the elegant surroundings; the distinctive flooring of the Dome issuing a sharp clacking noise as women in heels strutted past the pair.

The distinctive soundscape soon became mundane, as Eveline walked in from the other side of the Dome, her beauty apparent, as yellow lights from old-fashioned lamps reflected across her pale skin.

Francois’ breath caught in his throat, while Alex did his best to control his jealousy. The night of passion they shared must have meant little to her, as she walked towards them, her blue eyes fixed on Francois.

Francois ran towards her and held her tight, her arms wrapping tightly around his torso, as they hugged under the Dome. Alex noted that the kiss was equally rapturous.

They make a beautiful couple thought Alex traitorously to himself. He allowed himself a rueful smile, and began to mentally shove his feelings into a box, to be processed later or perhaps even better, never.

Francois turned back to Alex and and motioned, without letting go of Eveline’s hand.

Alex wordlessly handed over his phone. Francois smiled in triumph as he opened the excel sheet that he had designed, before glaring at Alex to step back.

Alex hesitating, relented and stood out of earshot.

Francois turned back to Eveline, and began to whisper urgently, not knowing that Alex had activated a voice-recorder on his phone and was currently listening via a bluetooth headset.

“I created this map years ago, using a simple encryption system, that only I know. I didn’t trust my comrades back then, but I trust you, Eveline. I am so happy that you are not hurt. I’m truly sorry that I bought you into this whole mess of mine.”

Eveline, nodded, not trusting herself to say anything.

“This is the key to this map, all you have to do is remember’s Caesar’s Box. Always place everything in 4 grids and it is very easy to solve. OK? Now, we have to lose this detective. You must come with me. I can take you to the painting and we can run away together my sweet.”

Eveline looked over at Alex, who was looking back at her, with an open expression. She tried to convey something to him, but it was futile.

Looking back at Francois, she nodded.

“What should we do?” she whispered.

“Distract him, then run out the door. I will have the car ready for us.” promised Francois.

Eveline nodded and was about to walk over to Alex, when he held up a hand and tapped the headset to the side of his head. They both stared at him, shocked.

Alex smiled coldly at the pair before running out, shoving the great doors open and disappearing into the street.

Francois swore and grabbed Eveline, and they ran out, but it was too late. Alex had already disappeared into the rush-hour crowd.

Author’s Note

This was difficult. You take 2 days off from the story and suddenly you feel like your writing is awful.

When your hand is off the rhythm, suddenly a lot of things don’t flow, and your morale takes a hit.

It wasn’t until I reread and edited certain parts, I actually realised, that it wasn’t as horrible as it seemed.

I apologise for the delay in the delivery of this part. But I got my hand back on the throttle and things should be a bit quicker now.

The main focus of this part was to flesh out the main antagonist, and make him oddly endearing. Francois turned out to be a very difficult character to write, as I wasn’t quite sure how to make his dialogue smooth.

But I tried and I keep forgetting that this is my first attempt to write a short story in a very long time. It’s not meant to be perfect. It’s just designed to get me writing again, consistently and fluidly every day.

So apologies if the quality of each part varies a lot from shite to decent, and then back to shite again.

~ Damocles. 

It was the next day, and Alex found himself alone, cold and sleep deprived. 

The passion that had fuelled last night had worn off and Alex found himself longing for the warmth of Eveline’s slim body as his body shuddered in the cold dark, and he padded naked to the shower to restore some heat in his body.

She had disappeared shortly after they made love twice, citing that she needed to prepare for work the next day.

“Promise me, you won’t keep me in the dark, Alex.” she had whispered as they laid intertwined on his small single bed, pale moonlight shining through, and illuminating her blue eyes.

Alex had silently nodded, his paranoia still screaming in his mind. He didn’t trust himself anymore. Things were moving so rapidly that he wasn’t sure how to feel, behave or act.

Eveline sealed his lips with a kiss, before slipping her clothes on and walking away with her laptop.

Alex didn’t sleep at all, choosing to stare at the ceiling and just appreciate sex for the first time in many years.

When he felt energised to move again, he booked a PC at the local internet cafe and went through the footage, making a phone call to trace the garbage truck’s route with an irate operator.

By the time it was 5am, Alex was jumping onto a train, to the city where he would walk the rest of the way to South Melbourne.

He had passed through the suburb earlier, on his tram trip to St Kilda, but he was venturing on the elite side of the neighbourhood, with its’ high rises, corporate buildings, and brothels.

The entire area, was split by St Kilda Road, in which multiple tram tracks and roads ran down, into the centre of the Melbourne CBD. On one side, it was dominated by the Royal Botanic Gardens, a beautiful parkland that was guarded by the Shrine of Remembrance, a stunning replica of the ancient Wonder, known as the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus.

It’s presence, a sobering reminder of the ANZACs that fought for Australia since its inception, a place all too familiar to Alex.

However Alex was walking on the other side, a strip that boasted luxurious apartments like the Melburnian, with its sweeping, ultra modern sleek design, and another reminder of his past, the Victoria Barracks, its tall stout brick exterior betraying nothing within.

However, the true undercurrent that always accompanied the military, were the numerous brothels hidden and scatted amidst all this honour and prestige. They could be found tucked next to tall buildings, their single storey design, unassuming and innocuous, barely risque signs at the front, with vague promises, like The Cherry Blossom. 

Alex, already harbouring suspicions about Francois’ whereabouts, had already googled the Pink Palace, and noted that it was not on the route that the garbage-men took. However, the brothel was only less than a kilometre away at certain points.

Candice the Collateral thought Alex, as he recalled the image of the slain prostitute whose services Joel nee Francois frequented. She was attractive in a heroin chick sort of fashion. Her features were similar to Kate Moss in her hey-day, with sharp cheekbones, straight blonde hair, doe-eyes and a sensual mouth that was perfected by a small sharp chin.

The similarities between Eveline and Candice’s facial structures were striking, however Eveline’s eyes were far too cold and intelligent, giving her a razor-sharp maturity and mystery. Her figure was a classic hourglass, the silhouette strong and curvaceous.

Candice’s eyes, even in death, were tragic and soft, her body more girly, with smaller breasts and a slimmer profile hinting at innocence and purity, an irony considering her job.

The two women provided a fascinating dichotomy in Francois’ taste and an insight into the man himself.

It also solved the mystery as to who the red Agent Provocateur bra belonged to. It was Candice’s.

Wondering what she might have been like, Alex kept walking along the garbage truck route, as the rain slowly intensified until it reached its zenith, before subsiding into a soft mellow rhythmic pitter-patter that coincided with his footfalls in puddles.

His peacoat soaked through, Alex ignored the water that sluiced its’ way down his neck, and kept following the route, until he finally came across an alleyway.

The emerald eyes widened in recognition as he recalled the work car that was parked behind, and the angle of the bins.

Taking a brief look at the front, the shop that had all the drama, revealed itself to be Alan Grant’s Antiquities, a store that specialised in European furniture and French decor.

Alex smiled to himself, and wandered around the back, looking for clues.

The footage from the video played constantly in his mind, as he mimed it, in the drizzling rain, and paid extra care as to whether he could see any tracks left behind by Francois’ Renault.

Determining there was nothing he could discern, Alex looked hard at the rear door and the size of the alleyway. Making a face of consternation at the mental calculations he performed in his head, Alex moved away and began to make a beeline to the Pink Palace.

He took the most direct route, pretending that he was driving a gold Renault, and to his shock, after 15 minutes of walking he saw such a car parked at the Pink Palace.

Incredulously, he walked closer to the hatchback, and confirmed the number plate.

9KM 87L – Victoria The Place to Be.

Was this really where Francois, the man who was accused of murdering his mistress, was hiding?

Was the art thief on the run from a shady Mercenary, cavorting his way through women?

After all this searching, had Alex really found the notorious owner of a Cezanne?

Alex, remembering his encounter with Flat Cap and Liverpool, kept ambling past the Pink Palace, painstakingly checking his tail for a solid walk around the block, before walking back to the Renault, which was parked at the rear entrance of the Palace.

Alex, shaking his coat to get it something akin to dry, walked in and was assailed by 70s nostalgia and neon pink.

Disco was playing softly, the music giving a fun and energetic vibe to the brothel, emphasising the carefree nature of the transaction that was about to take place.

Amber striped walls, with erotic photos and artwork were accented by honey coloured lights and neon lava lamps. The carpet was a psychedelic cascade of circles, swirls and spirals, that reacted crazily to the lighting.

Even the smell of the Pink Palace, hinted at its unique groove; sweet, sharp and citrus, the neon orange diffuser in the corner of the reception desk pumping out its sensual mist into the foyer.

A neon pink sign hung behind the attractive receptionist, clad in the stereotypical sexy secretary garb.

TRY NOT TO BLUSH

“How can we help you today stranger?” said the receptionist sexily.

“I would like to see the Madam of the house, if you don’t mind” replied Alex.

The receptionist lost her smile, replacing it with a frown of confusion.

“OK,” said the receptionist recovering, “just give me 5 minutes.”

Alex nodded and looked around, noting the thick book on the table, which allowed visitors to look at bios and photos of the girls they wanted for the night.

About a third of the way through, there were empty sleeves, no doubt the bio for Candice removed and the Madam of the Brothel unable to find a replacement girl just yet.

“How can we help you?” said a husky voice coldly.

Alex turned around, and saw the receptionist standing behind the Madam of the Brothel, a pale, tall curvaceous woman with dark eyes and even darker hair. The Madam looked like a pin-up woman come to life, the thin eyebrows perfectly arched, the red lips wrapped around a cigarette and the curly sable hair parted just so.

“Don’t you recognise me?” said Alex with a smile.

The Madam stared at Alex for a moment, before her lips curled upwards in a smile.

“Alex Ryder. I haven’t seen you in over 4 years. Now here you are, even skinnier and closer to death than when I last saw you.”

“It’s good to see you too” remarked Alex drily.

“Now what trouble are you bringing to my establishment Mr Private Eye? You scared Tilly here a bit with your attitude.”

Alex made an apologetic face to the receptionist who pouted prettily back.

“I’m here about Joel McNamara.”

The Madam raised a perfect eyebrow. “Joel?”

“Joel.”

The Madam stared at Alex’s emerald eyes, questioning his motives, looking for any signs she could actually trust him to do right by her and her girls.

“You can trust me. I helped you once, that wasn’t just a one-time thing. I can help you again. Let me help you. This isn’t just about Joel. It’s also about Candice.” said Alex gently.

The Madam sighed in an exasperated manner. She turned to Tilly. “He was exactly the same way when we first met. I can’t deny him when he talks like that.”

“Very well Alex.” sighed the Madam, relenting. “I had a feeling someone was going to come for him sooner or later. Better you than some asshole who wants to hurt one of my girls. Take this card. You’ll find him in the Pink Room. Tilly, show Alex the way please.”

“Thank you.” said Alex gratefully. The Madam nodded and blew a kiss his way, before walking back to her office, disappearing behind a curtain.

Alex followed Tilly up the affectionately named “Stairway to Heaven”, Tilly taking the time to study Alex’s gaunt features and his intelligent attractiveness. She smiled to herself. If only all clients were so unique looking.

They passed down the hallway, filled with alluring pictures, warning posters about condoms and the rules of the brothel.

The hallway itself was hazy, dim and alluring. The sounds from the speakers was rhythmic and throbbing.

It was the music of improper girls, doing naughty things to bad, bad boys.

Alex thought he could hear soft moans, but ignored them, keeping his eye open for fire escape doors and quick exits. Tilly paused outside a beautifully crimson door, with the words The Pink Room labelled in cursive script.

“Here it is, Mr Ryder. Knock first and then slide the card the Madam gave you OK?”

Alex nodded his thanks and she pouted prettily at him, before flicking her blonde hair over her shoulder and making her way back to the reception desk.

Alex looked at the door, and found himself shaking his head.

A French art thief caught in a brothel. How novel.

Alex knocked twice and entered, using the keycard. He stood in the doorway, a barrier for any escape and looked cautiously in the room.

Designed after the infamous Red Room in Twin Peaks, the floor was black and white, with scarlet curtains covering the walls. The bed was black to match the couch in the show and beside it stood two simple lamps. Much to Alex’s surprise, another replica of the Venus De Milo statue was also staring at the bed, mirroring Joel’s house.

Joel McNamara himself, was sitting on the bed, reading a book.

Alex wondered whether he was in some surrealist dream. Shaking himself out of his paranoia, Alex shut the door behind him gently and introduced himself.

“Mr McNamara. The name is Alex Ryder, private investigator. You’re a hard man to find.”

Author’s Note

The story is being made up as I go along. But I can definitely feel the world starting to become more real in my mind.

In this part, I wanted to add a few more layers to the subplot about Francois being a suspect to a murder, but I will be the first to admit, it’s a weak one and I kind of want to remove it. However this is what it’s all about, making mistakes and learning to tighten things in future stories.

So I tried to flesh out Candice, the murdered girl more. But it is very weak and probably my least favourite part of writing this story so far. I wanted to show that Francois was possible of loving two girls, hence the similar facial structures, but he had to want more than just what Eveline offered to him, hence the variance in body style and shape.

I might find a way to strengthen this subplot, but I get the feeling, it’ll be too much of a distraction to the real plot, regarding the Cezanne.

I also wanted to just subtly hint at extra parts to Alex’s past. I won’t mention any details, as it is important to me, that you, the reader, have your own image of Alex and fill him out with your imagination.

Your interpretation of him, is just as important as me writing him.

The featured picture is an legit photograph of The Pink Palace in South Melbourne. However, it has long been sold and renovated into something else. I was struck by the interior design, as it was built during the 70s and knew I had to incorporate it into my story somehow.

I also hoped the details about interiors have helped you, the reader, better picture the place in your mind. I really wanted them to stand out as unique locations in this story. The idea for Joel’s French-centric design was born out of a pure random flash of inspiration as I wrote it, and that literally let to the idea that he was an retired art thief, who adored his home country and wanted to own a piece of artwork from his culture.

I will get into more detail about the Cezanne robbery in the next chapter, but note it will be a fictionalised version of the real heist itself.

Part 5 will come soon.

~ Damocles.

Eveline Winston looked at her rear-view mirror and pressed her lips together. 

The crimson stained her lips and turned the natural pout into a more sensual gloss.

Sighing, she looked over at her outfit, the same uniform that she was wearing yesterday, the only difference being the dark grey turtleneck she was sporting underneath her coat.

Touching her neck, Eveline ignored the tired look in her blue eyes, before flicking back her onyx hair and opening the door to her BMW sedan.

Opening the latch to the small fence at Alex’s house, Eveline saw that the door was open and she slowly creaked it open, knocking as she did so.

“Alex?” she half yelled to the empty house.

As she moved to take off her shoes, before venturing further, she looked down and saw a thin trail of blood.

Fear blossomed rapidly in her mind and Eveline found herself morbidly curious as she followed the trail into Alex’s kitchen.

~ Earlier

Alex was sitting in his office, entranced and desperate to see whether the CCTV footage would reveal anything of use.

Looking down at the program, he noted that he was only an hour and a half in. He had already poured through the damning excel spreadsheet, his mind abuzz with Joel’s ingenuity and the prospect of a proper Maltese Falcon hunt. Excitement was rampant and Alex could not believe he had scored such a case.

Alex, as he stared at the video, noted the hour and time when a garbage truck arrived in frame and two men began to go about their business, their actions looking small and decisive as they threw bag after bag into the back.

Looking down at his note pad, Alex placed down a question mark regarding the number plate. If he could pull the plate off the truck, there was a good chance he could track down the route and work out where this footage was taken.

However, it was around the 2 hour and 45 minute mark, that Alex finally found why Joel had kept this footage.

It was his alibi to the current crime he was accused of. However the only problem was … it showed Joel doing something else that would raise a lot more questions, and thus lead to the discovery of the elusive Maltese Falcon gambit that now everyone was looking for.

Joel, casually dressed in a polo and slacks, had pulled up in his gold Renault Megane and gotten out, his hands grasping a rolled cylinder. Opposite him, unseen off screen, another car’s lights were extinguished and a man stepped out, large and muscular, dressed impeccably in a suit and overcoat.

The two were seen animatedly talking, Joel using many hand gestures and casually waving the large cylindrical roll in his hand. The muscular stranger was much more tense, his body language still and taunt, hands buried deep in his pockets, his face overcast by the night shadows of buildings.

Alex, wishing he could hear what was going on, paid close attention to the proceedings and the damning date, time, camera type information in the corner of the screen.

The conversation, went on for a full 3 minutes, Joel gesticulating and placating, the stranger menacing and frozen. Joel, exasperated, made a fruitless gesture with his hands, before shouldering the cylinder and walking away.

The stranger stared at Joel’s retreating Renault, before taking out a phone and making a brief 30 second call and then spinning around to his car off-screen.

Alex looked at the time and his emerald pupils widened at the implications it did to his mental timeline.

They widened further still, when he heard a knock at the door.

Alex, assuming it was Eveline got up and opened the door.

The door swung inward violently, breaking Alex’s nose.

Instantly disoriented and stumbling backwards, Alex barely felt the hand that grasped his shirt and register the second blow, which cracked into his cheek and sent him tumbling to the floor.

A boot came and smashed into his abdomen. Alex would have vomited, but there was nothing to give in his wretchedly empty stomach.

Dazed and in more agony than he could remember, black gloved hands lifted him up from under his armpits and Alex could see the yellowed wooden floor of his house lift away from him, in a bizarre surreal experience, as he experienced weightlessness, his feet dragging along the floorboards.

He felt his arms being strapped to a chair in his kitchen, the ripping sound of duct tape burning across his hands and wrists, the sensation followed by a resounding slap across his other cheek that knocked him back into a painful reality instead of a haze of stars.

The two men that stared at him, looked liked modern gangster gentlemen. Both had professional, cold miens that showed, despite their youth, they were confident and experienced at their jobs.

Undercut haircuts, three-piece suits and tattoos that sneaked past their expensive watches and cuff-links, indicated that these men weren’t your average run-of-the-mill street gangsters.

They were adept and proficient. Apex predators that had risen up the food chain and were now in command of everything … sartorially and criminality. They viewed Alex as a means to an end. Nothing more. Nothing less. Nothing personal mate. It’s just pure business.

On Alex’s end, his mind was furiously berating him for not spotting these two men who were most likely watching Joel McNamara’s house. His paranoia was only going to be ratcheted up further by this incident.

“Alex Ryder. Private Investigator.” stated the professional with a flat cap on his shaven head, his tone hinting at derision.

“It’s a cool name innit?” inflected the professional whose Liverpool accent came thick, strong and proud.

“Not bad at all. Myself, I would have gone with Private Detective. But, I’m old fashioned that way.” critiqued Flat Cap.

“Aaah well. Either way, little cunts like you always end up running into guys like us. Nosy little buggers aren’t you?” smiled Liverpool.

“Ain’t that the truth” intoned Flat Cap.

“Look mate, between you and me? I’m not really into this sort of stuff. Myself? I’m more a whiskey and cigar man. These hands?” Liverpool smacked his right tattooed knuckles into the palm of his left.

“They prefer to cut the tips off Cubans, not widdle fingers like yours, eh?

Flat Cap punctuated Liverpool’s speech with a dry and bored statement “So give us what you found.”

“And any notes you might have made yeah? We really prefer not to have this sort of shit whizzing around the suburb.”

Alex coughed and tasted the metallic tang of his own blood. Defiance still glittered behind his emerald eyes, as his mind raced to salvage the situation.

“Look mate” said Liverpool gently, “We’re professionals you and I. Just give us what we want, and we’ll be on our way, like the darkness before dawn. We’re not gonna hurt ya. You don’t have to say nuthin if you prefer it. Just point, and we’ll take care of it for you. Easy as that sunshine.”

“By Order of the Peaky Fookin Blinders and all that rubbish” said Flat Cap with amusement.

Alex, stared at these two men, confused and wondering what the hell they meant, by Peaky Blinders, until it clicked that it was a pop culture reference.

“Mate, you’ve confused the bloke by that last statement” despaired Liverpool.

“Sorry mate. Thought it was a cool line to say.” demurred Flat Cap.

“Come on man, a bit of professionalism here.” tutted Liverpool.

Flat Cap raised his hands in a placatory manner.

“Right, so Mr Ryder. Where is it?”

Alex, feigning defeat, nodded to the study and Flat Cap went inside. Alex hid a smile,  remembering that he religiously backed up the files on his personal google account whenever and wherever he could. Everything he worked on was always on the cloud. Even the CCTV footage and the Excel spreadsheet.

To his regret though, the laptop was probably going to be lost forever. Just another financial loss that he would have to live with. Perks of the job.

Flat Cap came out with the laptop and the notes that Alex had written down about the case. Thankfully the manilla folder that Eveline had given him was hidden in a hollowed desk drawer and he couldn’t see it in Flat Cap’s hand.

“Anything else?” said Liverpool to Flat Cap.

“Unlikely. His office is more sparse than a monastery.”

“Well, Mr Ryder, this is your first and final warning. Please don’t go peeking about again yeah? If you do, you’ll probably run into us again. I hate being a proper twat about it, but this is our job yeah? Here, as a gesture of good will, I’ll reset your nose.”

Liverpool grabbed Alex’s nose and with a sickening crunch, slammed it back into its proper place. Tears sprung to Alex’s green eyes and he kept the groan that was coming up, down in his throat.

“Next time, I’m afraid we won’t be so judicious OK? So please mate, for your own sake, just stay out of this.”

Liverpool placed a placating gentle glove hand on Alex’s shoulder and patted him gently.

“It’s only business mate. Perks of the job yeah?”

Alex nodded and agreed. “Perks of the job. Right.”

“Attaboy. I knew he would understand. Well, these tapes should loosen up soon, so keep struggling lad.”

Liverpool and Flat Cap gave Alex mock salutes and silently exited the house as suddenly as they came in.

Alex could only watch them go and wriggle uselessly against the duct tape.

“Shit” muttered Alex before he cynically decided that there wasn’t much point to struggling. After all, Eveline said she would be coming soon. So Alex allowed his head hang down, and took a nap.

It felt like ages later, but when he woke up, he saw Eveline staring at him, and her arm shaking him violently awake. He glanced at the elegant silver TAG Heuer watch on her arm and noted that he had only been sleeping for 25 minutes.

“Oh my god Alex. Are you OK? What happened? Who did this to you?” rushed Eveline as she checked over him, her hands running over his face and body.

“First things first. Can you get a knife and cut me loose first?”  said Alex, exasperatedly.

“Right. Sorry.” Walking over to the kitchen, Eveline pulled out the first knife she found in the knife slots, and cut Alex loose, who gasped as blood rushed back into his hands, pinpricks of pain erupting all over his nerves.

Eveline watched as Alex tore off strips of duct tape from his wrists and winced as he took a glass of water and rinsed the blood out of his mouth, the pain evident on his face.

Alex looked at her and shrugged. “This comes with a lot of jobs. I’ll explain everything soon. You got a laptop? They took mine.”

Eveline nodded and went back to her car, and took out her work laptop.

Powering it up, in Alex’s office, she listened as Alex explained what happened, why he was tied up and what he found in Joel’s house.

“And so that’s the basics. Did you know anything about where Joel was on the night of the murder?”

Eveline thought back to the case and replied “He said he had an alibi. That it was impossible to link him to the murder case, because he was somewhere else at the time. Joel even mentioned that he think he could get evidence that he wasn’t there, the night that Candice died.”

“Do you know what time Candice died?”

“It was 8.10pm. Reports stated she died with 4 stab wounds in her abdomen. The knife that was used apparently corresponded to the ones in Joel’s kitchen.”

Alex frowned and checked the virtual gallery he took. Sure enough, there was an empty slot in the knife holder on the bench.

Angered that he had missed it, Alex stayed silent for a moment.

Eveline, with a hint of nervousness in her voice, asked “What did you want to show me? Why did you need my laptop?”

Alex, still angered missed the tone. “When I was searching Joel’s house, I found something. It was in my laptop, but I backed it up on my google drive. It was an SD card with just 2 files on them. An excel spreadsheet and CCTV footage. I’ll show you the footage first, because that is what proves Joel’s innocence. He was meeting someone the same night that, the prostitute Candice died.”

“Which reminds me, what’s so special about Candice?” queried Alex.

“She was his favourite.” replied Eveline with a strange quick dismissiveness.

“Do you know which brothel she belonged to?”

“The Pink Palace.”

Alex raised an eyebrow and made a note on his phone.

“OK, well, here …” Alex spun the laptop around to the point where Joel was wielding the cylindrical sphere and he frowned when he saw Eveline gasp at the footage.

He waited for her to finish, and crossed his arms before asking her direct.

“What do you know about the Cezanne?”

Eveline looked down.

“Enough” she said softly.

“I don’t need to show you the excel spreadsheet do I? Joel already told you about it all already.”

“What excel spreadsheet?” asked Eveline confused.

“It’s the blueprint to the Ashmolean Job.” said Alex with a smile on his face. “I didn’t know I was chasing an art thief. It’s very bizarre that he kept this kind of evidence. But then, it was his greatest job. A proper turn of the century heist.”

“But what I can’t figure …” said Alex wonderingly, “is where you fit in all of this, Eveline. What’s your real relationship to Joel? If that is, of course, his real name.”

Eveline stayed silent. Alex, stared at her, questioning why all the sudden, he was feeling more and more attracted to this sad woman in front of him, her hands in her lap, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Damn it thought Alex. Every time. 

He stood up, grabbed his peacoat and placed it over her shoulders.

He sat on the desk in front of her, his face close.

“Tell me the truth Eveline. I can’t help you, if you don’t.”

Eveline sighed and looked up at Alex. His green eyes piercing through hers.

“I don’t know his full name. He just goes by Francois.”

Eveline’s voice became softer as memory grew stronger.

“I met him a year ago through a mutual girlfriend. I had just gotten out of a 5 year relationship and was desperate for something new …”

“At first, he was shy and awkward, but once I got to know him a bit better, he showed me that was all an act. The real Francois, is genuinely confident and smart. He’s … everything a European man is meant to be.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed in slight jealousy.

Eveline gave a bitter laugh. “He promised me a lot. Some he delivered. A lot he didn’t. But on our first holiday together to Europe, he showed me the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford and made jokes about the security of the place. I remember being so confused as to how much he knew about the place. So later that night, I googled it and put two and two together.”

“Did you confront him straight away?” interjected Alex.

“No” replied Eveline. “I knew I had this on him now. I wanted to save this for the right moment.”

Alex scoffed to himself. “What a lawyer you are.”

“I’m a good one” shot back Eveline. “I didn’t work my way out of a shithole for nothing. You don’t know what I’ve been through to make it to where I am now.”

Alex raised his hands in an act of surrender to calm her down and concede the point.

“Anyway, you would have done the same.” said Eveline defensively. “Francois opened a new world for me. There was no way I would have shut it down early. I had everything I wanted for the first time in my life. I didn’t care he was an art thief. I just wanted him to love me.”

Alex looked around at his sparse house, the lack of trappings and decor and privately agreed. He would have done the same. Living on the edge of ruin wasn’t a lifestyle, it was a cycle that never ended.

To break free of that cycle would be liberating.

“Anyway, about a month ago, he came to me, telling me about a mercenary that knew about his past. Francois desperately needed money and he only had the Cezanne left. The mercenary offered him 11 million. Francois agonised over it for days. He really didn’t want to part with the painting.”

“Did you know who the mercenary is?” asked Alex slightly urgently.

“Francois never told me.” said Eveline. “He just said that somehow the mercenary tracked him down somehow and that if Francois didn’t do as he was told, he would kill someone close to him.”

“When Francois heard about that, he told me to go into hiding. So I went to Brisbane to stay for a while with my aunt before coming back. But when I did, Francois had disappeared and his case actually turned up at my legal department. He was contacting us remotely, saying that he did not kill Candice, the prostitute he must have been seeing behind my back.”

Eveline said with hatred “I didn’t know about Candice of course, but …”

“You were too far in.” said Alex quietly.

Eveline nodded. “What Francois did, doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is that Cezanne. So I investigated the case for a week. But I couldn’t find anything.”

“And that brings you to my doorstep, promising money you don’t have.” said Alex amused.

Eveline looked up at Alex. The feminine sapphires locked into the masculine emeralds with a strange intensity.

“You need to help me find it Alex. If we find the painting, then we can both be free.” Eveline grasped Alex hands imploringly. “I promise you, if we find the painting, then the money will allow us to disappear. We won’t have to worry about anything.”

Alex felt his resolve weakening. His paranoia screamed at him, but he cast it aside. He wanted to feel liberated. He needed a break from the prison he had created for himself.

Alex searched for words to answer Eveline’s pleas. “OK. Let’s find this Cezanne.”

Eveline gasped and hugged him, her arms tight around him. Alex’s mind flashed an image of a pen signing another contract, in servitude to this beautiful, desperate lawyer.

“Thank you Alex.” she whispered.

Then, in a moment of desperate spontaneity, she kissed him.

Alex, reeling from the recent injuries, emotions and revelations, pushed her back momentarily. Looking at the half closed eyes, the sensual lips and the glistening tracks that her tears left down her cheeks, Alex gave in and pulled her close.

They scrabbled at each other, tearing clothes off in a frantic bid to release something that they both held tight within.

Author’s Note

At 3088 words, this is the longest chapter I’ve written. This was done, because I needed to follow the structure I’ve written for myself, as well as believably build up to the final climax of this chapter (pun fully intended).

In particular, this is Eveline’s chapter. I wanted to flesh her out as a character, to give her motivation and go beyond the cool, cold professional that I originally set her out to be.

She had to be vulnerable, yet manipulative, as per the femme fatale style that she always was meant to inhabit in this narrative. For those fans of film noir if you read a bit deeper into her actions and words, it should all be familiar tropes.

I was going to delve deeper into writing a proper sex scene, but I liked how I ended it too much, so I decided to scrap it, in service to the story.

Part 4 will be coming soon.

~ Damocles.

Alex stared out of the 96 tram, the smooth electric light train cresting a small hill to reveal the beach and the iconic ivory St Kilda Sea Baths building.

It was the day after he had received the investigative case from Eveline Winston, the lawyer who he suspected was in love with her client.

But such qualms were not any of his business. So instead of pondering further, Alex spent the entire night reading and rereading the dossier that she had given him, memorising the details and feeling the old excitement of a new job slowly take over his thoughts.

It was so infectious, that Alex ended up only getting 2 hours of sleep, before jerking awake and taking a quick warm shower and walking to the tram stop to change onto the 96 at 4am in the morning.

In the early hours of the morning, St Kilda was a sleepy and lonely place, with morning mist rolling in and grey clouds adding to the strange surreal atmosphere. Beaches were emptied, with only a few early risers walking their dogs along the footpaths of the beach, their thoughts wrapped in woolly beanies and puffer jackets, little puffs of breaths fighting to escape the chilly air.

Even on board the tram, the vibe was quiet and still, Alex leaning his head against the glass, mirroring the forlorn look the other 5 passengers had.

Deciding to stop by the McDonalds for a quick brekkie, Alex got off a stop earlier, atop the hill and looked around, admiring the Esplanade, the huge mouth that was Luna Park and the classic art-deco exterior of the Palais Theatre.

Checking behind him, to ensure no other lawyers would ask him for business, Alex crossed the empty road and along the lawn, remembering the childhood dreams he had of owning one of these beach apartments when his parents used to take him here often.

After making a quick stop to grab a couple of Hash Browns, Alex left the McDonalds and continued his way deeper into St Kilda, towards the true heart of the suburb, the strip at the end of the Esplanade.

Dressed the way he was, with his all black outfit; peacoat, chinos and dress shoes, Alex might have looked out of place in other parts of Australia, but in Melbourne, such was the norm; overdressing for the beach.

Victoria … the only state where the beach is an optional extra to the Australian lifestyle.

Alex wandered slowly past the bakeries that sold fresh Turkish delights and baklava, the thrift stores that had discount retro hippy clothes and the cafes that were slowly opening up for brunch. He peered into shops and made mental notes about everything and nothing, as he slowly ambled his way down the street, familiarising himself with the lay of the land.

By the time he reached the end of the street, the time was nearly 7am. The morning dew and mist was beginning to clear, and people were beginning to awaken and start their daily routine.

Alex, deciding he had enough acclimatisation, began to pick up his pace and start for the address of Joel McNamara, the missing innocent man.

Located only a few blocks away from the heart of St Kilda, Joel’s house was a handsome affair down Foster Avenue. With its handsome limestone exterior, the home was accompanied by a small palm tree that stood guard on the front lawn. A single-storey affair, it reflected the beach vibes that was prevalent across the entire block, and after picking the lock, Alex discovered the interior was equally affluent.

A strong French motif was prevalent across all the interior design choices. Joel was clearly a Francophile, with multiple tri-colour themed decor and mugs. Taking the centrepiece was a large model of the Palace of Versailles on a coffee table.

Alex found himself, remarkably confused and impressed. On the wall, were several Monaco Grand Prix inspired posters, the eye-catching use of colour and fast cars adding more talking points about the living room.

Treading carefully through the living space, Alex slipped on cheap latex gloves and began to examine the L-shaped couch that framed the Palace of Versailles. Noting there were no rise or indentation in the soft rich leather, Alex moved to the kitchen. The sink was meticulously clean, with all the dishes placed away and even a layer of dust on the metal basin itself.

With the obvious hot-spots not providing dividends, Alex decided it was time to move to the bedroom.

Cracking open the door, Alex frowned when he saw the state of the bedroom.

It was ransacked.

Clothes were strewn everywhere, from coats to shirts to pyjamas. Underwear was heaped over the side table, a post-modern lamp thrown casually on the floor, the cable reaching desperately behind it to the socket. The double sized mattress was flipped off its bed-frame and was leaning against the wall.

The wall was open, the large mirrored sliding door agape, revealing a cavernous wardrobe that had all of its content on the floor or haphazardly strewn against one another on the hanger.

Alex was standing in the only clean corner of the room, with the only other relatively intact item being a life-sized replica of the Venus de Milo, a pair of grey and white Calvin Klein underwear over her head, leaning provocatively opposite to him.

Alex stared at the room, trying to deconstruct the mess and piece together what the room might have looked like before it was ransacked.

The bed was central and against the wall, with the large mirrored wardrobe opposite, next to Alex and the Venus. When the ransacker had come in, they had flipped the bed first, assuming whatever it was that Joel was hiding, was under there. Once it was obvious nothing much was there except mothballs, the ransacker had torn through the wardrobe and probably left empty handed.

Alex wondered whether any other room was trashed. He stepped out and saw that the house had one extra room, the study, in which a large ornate mahogany desk had its drawers opened, but was relatively undisturbed. None of the books on the shelves were on the floor, and things were ruffled but still neat.

Confused, Alex walked back into the bedroom, thought hard and long for a good few minutes, before smiling.

Walking over to the Venus, he flicked off the underwear and looked at her, admiring for a few seconds the workmanship of the sculptor that did such good work for a replica.

Running his hand over the marble, Alex found what he was looking for.

A switch, in the area just beneath her navel, and beautifully disguised as part of her robes.

The Venus statue’s knee popped open.

On a very small tray, was a SD card.

Alex peered at it and frowned at the myriad of questions it raised. Pocketing the SD card in his coat, Alex closed the tray and waited for the responding click before walking out, leaving everything as exactly as he had found it.

As he stepped into the hallway, he took out his phone and began snapping photos. He had just finished collating a gallery on the living room, when he saw a strange clue tucked to the side of the couch, in the corner of the room.

Walking over, he found a red brasserie. Checking the label, he noted the Agent Provocateur label and the bust size. Taking a photo of the bra, he placed it gently back where he found it and continued his work, doing his best to stop his wandering mind from delving further into possibilities and suspicions.

A half hour later, satisfied with the gallery he had built in his phone, Alex walked back out the same way he came in, quietly and unobtrusively, another voyeur capturing the essence of a person without their knowledge.

As Alex waited for the 96 tram to take him back to the city, he pulled out the business card that Eveline had left in the dossier, and punched in the numbers.

Eveline’s cool, professional voice came through after the second ring.

“Eveline Winston speaking.”

“It’s Alex.”

“Alex. Why did you call me?” queried Eveline coldly

“I paid a visit to Joel’s place. Found something of interest there. Care to meet me at my office?”

“You what?” Eveline asked incredulously. “What did you find?”

Alex milked the moment for a second unnecessarily. “Just meet at my office.”

“I’m tied up at work. But I’ll come straight away when I’m free.”

“OK.” stated Alex bluntly, before hanging up.

Alex spent the tram ride home, looking through the pictures he had taken on his phone, combing through the house, recreating a virtual tour in his mind and realising a little too late, that he hadn’t check whether Joel had owned a car. He flicked over to the front of the house photos and noted, there was nothing in the driveway.

Wherever Joel was, he had taken his car with him. Recalling the details of the dossier, Alex knew that Joel owned a bright honey gold Renault Megane hatchback, with the registration number being 9KM 78L. Thinking back, Alex knew that he hadn’t seen any such vehicles along the road either whilst walking there.

The ransacking would have taken place between the period when Joel went missing, so within 2 weeks. Alex patted his peacoat’s pocket to reassure himself that the SD card he had found was still there.

Back at home, Alex turned on his laptop and glanced at his cheap watch. There was still a good 2 hours before Eveline could arrive at his house. Plugging in the SD card, Alex felt a brief moment of panic about password protection, when to his relief, the files aboard could be opened without any security.

To his surprise, there were only 2 files onboard the card.

The first, was a long CCTV footage reel, that went for 4 hours. Black and white, with heavy grain, the camera was locked to the back entrance of some restaurant, showcasing dumpster bins, and staff cars. It was largely still footage, with the occasional movement of staff throwing things in the bin, and curious feral animals wandering around.

Alex stared at the grainy footage, for the first half hour, trying to figure out why this footage was on the SD card, and where this could be, before restoring it into a small window, and leaving it aside for him to occasionally peer at while he looked at the next file.

The second was an excel spreadsheet, that when Alex looked at it, seemed to be encrypted. Numbers,symbols and letters were juxtaposed, smashed and joined together in seemingly random combination with each cell seemingly more incoherent than the next.

However, when he looked at it closer, he noted that there was a full stop at the end of each row. Indicating some kind of sentence that could be made.

There were 4 of these sentences, of varying length, at the top of the excel sheet, and then when he scrolled further down, a large block of white empty cells appeared, accompanied by a caption that ended with an exclamation mark.

Alex stared at the sheet before flicking over to the next 3 sheets, which to his shock, was un-encrypted and instead displayed details of a heist. Names of associates with their contact numbers,

“Joel, Joel, Joel. What the hell were you up to?” asked Alex to the air.

Author’s Note: 

Part 2 of 7 part series, proved to be a much smoother write for me, now that I’ve established some basic rules about the world I am building. I’ve made a couple of basic character traits for each of the main players, and I admit, I am now starting to fall in love with the world I’ve built.

It probably also helped that I am assisted by some excellent dark/noir jazz playlists on Youtube that provide par excellence ambience for me to write.

Part 3 will be coming very soon. Hopefully later today.

Please note that a recurring theme will be exploring a new part of Victoria in each part of the series.

~ Damocles.

The Private Investigator cradled his precious cargo on his lap as the green and white tram rattled along the wet road.

Hot, warm, protein and carbs heavy, the cheap Chinese meal was a luxury that his bank protested. But the P.I. was sick of living off board-like pasta and failed disasters in his kitchen. 

He needed this meal, like an addict needed his fix. It would keep him sane enough to function for a few more days, before he would relapse again. To hell with financial consequences when there were a lot more pressing matters at hand like his growling stomach. 

The P.I. was readjusting the meal on his lap, finding a spot where it wouldn’t burn him, when a woman sat next to him. 

He shuffled inwards towards the window, the Melbournian in him eager to get away and establish some personal space.  

Briefly checking her over, he noted the expensive cut of her coat, the thigh high boots that were slightly splattered by rain and the heady scent of her perfume. 

The face was angular, with sharp cheekbones, gaunt cheeks and heavy kohl applied across her piercing blue eyes. Dark raven hair cascaded down her long neck and buried itself deep into the collar of her coat. 

Blocking out the attraction that stirred his heart, the P.I. turned up the music on his phone and looked out the window, the jazz accompanying the rain drops that splattered the glass and casting the world in hues of blurry grey. 

The rhythm of the tram’s movement was sleep-inducing, the slow acceleration that would briefly propel the wheels, creating a soothing mechanical cacophony that dulled the senses. 

Then a bell would chime, as one of the weary, cold and self-occupied passengers would pull the string that ran along the upper handrail and indicate their stop was next. 

The tram driver would gently apply the brakes, letting the tram slow to a strangely abrupt stop that would make everyone lurch forward a little. The doors would issue their strange rattle and vibrate as they shook open in their hinges and passengers would shuffle off and more would waddle on, their faces a similar moue of quiet isolation to everyone else. 

Occasionally the P.I. would hear a muffled curse, as a passenger door refused to open, courtesy of an older model tram, and the driver would begrudgingly unlock the door to his cabin, straggle down to the door, undo a latch and force it open with a twist of a key. 

The P.I. ignored most of this, a familiar routine on the 59 Airport West route, and instead watched the suburban landscape roll past, the classic houses with their brick roofs and square windows slowly being encroached by tall eucalyptus trees and vines that crept ever upwards. 

As the tram climbed the hill, the P.I. sensed, rather than felt, the woman next to him, begin to shift a little uneasily. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, and deduced that this tram ride was alien to her. She was peering out his window more, checking the number of the stop, and slowly counting down. 

To his concern, as the 59 tram slowly came to a stop, near the Church where it would turn past the Royal Children Hospital, it seemed like she was getting off at the same stop as he was. 

The P.I., suspicious and paranoid, decided that he would get off one stop early, even if it risked getting his precious dinner cold.

The tram rattled onwards, oblivious to the tension that was being ratcheted inside of it. 

As it serenely passed another tram, a long number 57 to Flinders Street Station, emblazoned with advertisements for a new Marvel film, the P.I. saw the iconic highway that stretched overhead, it’s circular frame illuminated by thousands of LED lights that shone red and yellow.

As the lights passed over his head, he wondered whether he was being overly paranoid. The woman might just be lost. She might not have any relation to him. Hell, he should ask her, where she was going. Be polite and offer her guidance.

But the P.I. did none of those things. He had been burned too many times now, to afford to make any mistakes.

The amber and crimson glow awashed over both of them and he waited for the tram to roll to a stop at the Flemington Community Centre, near Debney’s Park. 

Getting off a stop early, but knowing that he could cut through the park and make it to his small home on Princes St Street, the P.I. waited for traffic to pass, before running through and jumping the low fence that separated the park and the footpath.

He instantly regretted it, as the grass turned to slush and mud under his foot, and began to kick up flecks of mud on his pants. Scowling at the laundry disaster that awaited him, he kept running anyway, his dress shoes squelching with every step. 

The rain only grew stronger, as a wind berated him for being outdoor and paranoid, nearly sweeping the dinner out of his hands. But he held on tight and was grateful when his feet finally hit pavement.

Rushing up High Street that adjoined his home’s street, he took out his house keys from his peacoat and ran left of the first roundabout, trying to ignore the sensation of water running down his neck, as the rain intensified. 

Undoing the latch at his small red and white picket fence, he held the dinner plastic bag between his teeth as he ducked under overgrown trees and opened the door, before setting down the bag on the hall-table and starting to shrug out of his wet shoes. 

Kicking them off, he stripped off the wet black chinos he had on and threw it in a washing machine, before wriggling out of his peacoat and dress shirt.

Now nearly naked, he grabbed a towel and began to dry his hair, before slipping on a fresh polo shirt and chinos and addressing his dinner.

He kept a paranoid eye on his front door, afraid that, at any second, the woman would come through and ruin his life with her problems.

Plating the combination noodles, he had just gotten through 4 bites, when he heard the dreaded bell at the front door ring.

The P.I. looked forlornly at his dinner, the habit that kept him sane every week, and sighed, before pushing it aside and walking to the front door.

There, standing in the doorway of his home, with an umbrella over her dark hair, was the woman from the tram.

Her eyes widened in shock, as she recognised him. He was the man sitting next to her on the tram, who kept glancing over at her in suspicion. The gaunt guy who, in another lifetime, would be considered handsome, but instead was unhealthily skinny and tired, his sharp cheekbones a knife’s edge across his face and his thin mouth more of a slash than anything attractive.

But despite his emaciated appearance, the emerald eyes were still alert, sharp and intelligent. They pierced hers like a spotlight shining on a stage.   

The P.I. on his part, acted as if all his dreams were turning into boring hellish realities, and motioned her in.

“How did you … I’m sorry, I …” she started, confused and surprised.

“It’s OK. My name is Alex. Come on in to my office.”

The woman nodded silently, and placed her umbrella off to the side of the door, and began to take off her shoes. 

Alex nodding, walked through the tiny hallway that led to his kitchen at the rear and instead opened a door off to the right, which had a tiny study room.

Bare and clean, with a simple desk, notepads and a laptop, the office was Alex’s domain, where he ran his P.I.’s business, a venture that had seen very little clients.

The jobs were scarce, but there was just enough money to ensure that bills were paid.

It was fortunate that the house was already paid off. If it weren’t for that happenstance, he would be homeless.

Pulling out a chair for the woman, Alex sat down on the other side of the desk and powered up the laptop and arranged the notepad. He turned on the nearby CD player, and inserted a custom CD that had mellow songs to induce better memory recall.

Whether it worked, was up to debate, but it was a tip given to him by a friend who was no longer around, and he was doing it out of habit and remembrance now.

The woman from the tram peered around the door and sat down gratefully when Alex gestured.

Sparing one last thought for his Chinese dinner, Alex pushed the regret away and looked attentively at the attractive woman who, in the span of less than 20 minutes had steered his life in another direction. 

“So, what’s your name?” started Alex. 

“I’m Eveline Winston. I work as a lawyer at the local magistrate court. I need your help with a case of mine. “

“A lawyer huh?” said Alex dismissively. “Don’t you guys usually have your own in-house investigators for these sort of situations?”

“We do, but this case is … different.” replied Eveline coolly. 

Alex raised an eyebrow and raised his pen in anticipation. 

“My client has gone missing. He’s been away for 2 weeks and we suspect he’s on the run. But the evidence all suggest that he’s innocent of the crime he’s supposedly guilty of. So we’re not sure why he’s disappeared.”

“I’m going to need a name Ms Winston.”

“Call me Eveline. I’ll give you the name once you agreed.”

Eveline reaches into her coat and hands him a piece of paper. 

Alex, looking down at it, scans it quickly and finds his heart racing a bit quicker. It’s a sizeable amount of money. At least 9 months worth of bills paid off here. He could eat out more often. Afford better clothes. Live like a person with a stable income. 

But the fine print says a voice in Alex’s head. Reading further, Alex isn’t allowed to market this case if things go well. He’ll have to make this case a first priority. 

At first, Alex refuses to accept the job. He hates conditions and stipulations and strings attached to a job. And there are many on this contract. But … he was poor and when would be the next time he would see this amount ever again? 

Alex gritted his teeth and took out a pen and signed the dotted line on the bottom. To hell with financial consequences. He also provided the bank details for his account. 

Handing it back, he watched as Eveline kept the carbon copy and handed him back the original. 

“Thank you, Alex. Here, this is my dossier on the case. Read through this and it’ll explain everything.” Eveline passed him a manilla folder and made to get up. 

“Hold on”, said Alex, raising his hand in a stop gesture, “I want to hear it from you first.”

Eveline sigh. She’s a busy woman. She would rather be elsewhere than here, in a stranger’s office. But Alex’s green eyes compel her to stay. 

“Fine. What do you want to know?” said Eveline with exasperation. 

“Tell me your client’s name. I also want his stats. The usual like, height, weight, eye colour, hair colour.”

“It’s all in the bio I gave you.” said Eveline coldly. 

“I want to hear it from you. You’re a lawyer aren’t you? Surely your memory is as good as they say.”

Eveline rolls her eyes and recites mechanically “His name is Joel McNamara. He is 176cm tall, with blue eyes and sandy coloured hair. He weighs around 80 kilograms and his main distinguishing feature are a pair of winged tattoos on his arms.” 

Alex scanned Eveline’s blue eyes. She was acting like every other professional doing their job. But the way how she answered, seemed to hint at something more. 

He didn’t like it. 

“What’s Joel like?”

“What do you mean, what’s Joel like?” 

“As in, he’s a nervous kind of guy? A funny larrikin? A sarcastic prick? That’s what I mean by what’s he like?” 

Eveline pauses for a second and Alex continues to scan her eyes. He senses there’s something more to this. 

“He’s sweet. But also shy and awkward. He’s an innocent man accused of doing something he didn’t do.” 

Alex grunts, his suspicions confirmed. But now that he has deduced it, it’s of no more interest to him. 

“Where was he last seen? I’m also going to need his address.” 

Eveline skips a beat again. Alex doodles a small love heart next to her name. She’s fed up with this interrogation. 

“He was last seen at the courthouse. His address is in the dossier. Read it. Give me a call when you got something.”

Standing up, she glares at Alex and walks out, pausing only to put on her shoes and collect her umbrella. 

The sound of rain pitter-patter and the smell of petrichor wafts through the open door, before being punctuated by the front fence’s gate being slammed shut.

Alex, watching her from the doorway, made no mental apology for his paranoid questioning. No courthouse would offer the sum he had just signed just to get some random Joel back. They would let the police handle it. This was Eveline’s doing and she was doing it out of love. 

Scoffing slightly, Alex closed the door and remembered his cold Chinese meal. Grimacing at the taste, he endured for 5 bites before tossing the rest of it into a bin, his appetite gone.