THE DESK

Jane leaned back in her desk chair, looking out at the commotion on the lake through her bay windows. The inexperienced sailor on the white catarmaran was yelling expletives into the wind in frustration at the calm conditions. Jane pulled across the sheer white curtains as they flapped wildly across her desk in the early spring breeze.

She closed her eyes and drummed her nails on the exquisite writing desk, a hand-me-down from her grandfather. These days his calligraphy pens, nibs and ink had made way for more modern tools that she actually knew how to use; like a laptop, a couple of portable hard drives and piles of newspaper cuttings.

She looked out at the man dragging his boat back onto dry land. She hadn’t even written a paragraph since he had gone out this morning. Jane put her fingers on the keyboard and bounced them atop of the letters, as if they would start typing meaningful sentences by themselves. She jumped as her mobile vibrated on the desk, excitedly telling her that Joan, her editor of three years, was calling for the hundredth time this week.

Sorry Joan, I know I promised you the intro, but I’ve been distracted by a boat for the past five hours.

I bet grandpa never had writer’s block.

Her grandfather had told her this desk had saved his life during World War Two. For years, she had imagined him tapping away at his typewriter until the planes were overhead, then ducking under his desk, as if the rickety old thing were some sort of nuclear bunker.

But he hadn’t meant it so literally. Writing became his way of distancing himself from the horrors of war. Grandpa had been conscripted into the army in 1939. During a training camp six months later, he was hit by a stray bullet that lodged in his spine. Unable to walk, he was honourably discharged, and had discovered writing, the one thing that kept him going through the dark years.

But it wasn’t working out like that for Jane. It had been almost three years since the death of her beloved daughter, Sarah, who was killed in a boating accident at 12 years old. Jane’s fifth novel, which she was still working on, had been due for completion two years ago. It wasn’t so much writer’s block, but human fear. Fear of letting go of her emotions.

© 2010 Elizabeth Neil All Rights Reserved

Lucky Escape

The steel door slammed shut, sending a deep echo through the dark room. Mitch slid along the ground, until his beaten face was inches from the crack under the door. He shuddered at the feel of cold concrete against the bloody welts on his cheek and the cool sweat dripping off his neck.

“We must move him tonight!”

From the accent of the loud-mouthed guard, Mitch guessed he was in an Algiers prison. And that was as far as possible from where he wanted to be. It was hard to tell with swollen eyes, but from the size of the feet, Mitch figured the bozo guarding the door would not go down without a fight. The latching mechanism on the door slid into place, and the guard moved away until his brown combat boots were just a blurry shadow.

This wasn’t a standard prison door. But Mitch wasn’t a standard prisoner. Since joining the team, Mitch anticipated he would someday be captured. But this was not going to go down well at the Pentagon. The Defence Secretary fought hard for this Special Ops mission.

Mitch’s captors had been torturing him several times a day about the chip. But he was trained to empty his mind, particularly of anything that may get him killed on its admission. But last night they had mentioned Emily.

Emily, his five-year-old daughter, had lived with her grandparents since the death of his wife. She thought her daddy was a travelling insurance salesman. Sure, he had a level of charisma and self-confidence, but a travelling insurance salesman?

They know about Emily. He vomited again for the third time in as many hours. His captors were not forthcoming with room service, so there wasn’t much left in his stomach.

Mitch didn’t know if his team would come rescue him. It wasn’t standard procedure, but there were big egos involved who wanted results. And they knew that Mitch was in the best position to deliver. He fell asleep for the first time in days, trying to empty his mind of Emily, and awoke to hear a rattle under the floorboards. About bloody time.
“Boss, it’s good to see you. We gotta get out of here. Got the chip?”

Mitch smiled at the rookie he had hired a few months earlier. “Give me some of the local water and you’ll see it in the next few hours”.
© 2010 Elizabeth Neil All Rights Reserved

TRAGIC DECISION

Most spring mornings Jane got up early. Before heading to work, she enjoyed the beautiful crisp weather, stunning mountainous views, vegemite toast and strong coffee, with entertainment provided by local magpies and their young.

One crisp Tuesday in November, Jane overslept; and with an early appointment in town, the routine went out the window. If she had been up early, she probably would have noticed a young man sitting out the side of her house. Maybe he was angry, or sad, or up to no good. Jane probably would have thought he was a bored young thug, with nothing better to do, just looking for trouble.

If Jane had not rushed that morning, she probably would have fed the birds over the back fence. She would have definitely noticed the young man then, walking along in a daze, high as a kite. Knowing her, she would have watched him like a hawk. But then she would have decided that he was too miserable to cause any real damage. She probably would have ignored him after a while.

If Jane had not rushed that morning, she would not have forgotten her lunch. But it was such a beautiful day, she decided to go home during her break to eat it outside on the balcony. As Jane drove up her street, she saw a police car.

With young hooligans a few doors down, this was nothing new. As she opened her back gate, she saw men in suits with clipboards on the hill out the back. A cluster of police officers. A big blue structure had been erected around a tree. Bright yellow police tape was attached to her back fence. Detectives. A coroner. Something had happened. A camera flashed behind the blue tent as the sun dipped behind a cloud.

If Jane had been up early that morning she may have noticed a depressed young man out the side of her house. She may have nodded in his direction. Or do something, anything, except ignore him. But knowing her, she probably would have just dismissed him.

She probably wouldn’t have noticed him looking at the trees; looking for a sturdy one. He picked one that she could see from her kitchen window. A tree on a busy firetrail. Jane hoped that was unintentional. Because nobody noticed the young man throwing the rope over the branch.

© 2010 Elizabeth Neil All Rights Reserved

On The Radar

Tom had graduated top of his class in the Junior Officer Training Program. Now here he was, fresh from the Farm, waiting for the action to come and find him. Who wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity like this? Right now, filing classified papers. Protecting fellow citizens. Clandestine and routine work.

Routine alright. The closest I’m gonna get to the action is holding one of the bureau’s pens.

Tom sat stiffly at his desk, trying to straighten a paper clip without leaving any trace of a kink. It snaps into two pieces and he tosses it into the bin. Blast resistant walls. Protecting secrets? They’re probably to keep me in here shuffling papers.

Bored with paperwork, he starts to read the introduction to the Interrogation Training Manual, and feels the deep breath of the old hack peering over his shoulder.

“Shouldn’t you be shuffling papers?” the man hoots, and the rest of the hacks laugh loudly.

Before walking away, the old timer whispers in Tom’s ear. “The coffee schedule. Watch”, and points to the boss’ office.

A kid, about Tom’s age, dressed in a power suit, was striding confidently into the boss’ office with a styrophome cup in hand. Tom had seen this happen every day. Some days the kid gets a pat on the back. Some days the boss snatches at the coffee. Last week she threw it at the window. But always the same kid. Once he’s in her office, he’s in the inner circle.

The trainers at the Farm told him not to drink coffee; it messes with your head, weakens your reflexes, or something. But life at the Farm had created an insatiable appetite for all the things he shouldn’t have anymore. And who needs quick reflexes to shuffle papers anyway? Maybe when a sheet slips to the floor. Gotta scoop it up quick smart.

Tom gets out his new notebook, and bounces his new spring-loaded pen into action. Timing is everything. Picking the right time is also about the temperature of the brew. He watches everything, notices the smallest details, like he was trained. Like the days when she has multiple coffee circles on her desk, and the mood swings when she doesn’t get her morning hit. He gets out his notebook every morning, noon and afternoon. Waiting for the coffee boy. Trying to get on her radar.

© 2010 Elizabeth Neil All Rights Reserved