Post by Marion on Nov 30, 2014 18:36:03 GMT 7
Hi there, I have half this story written, half of it planned. Before I flesh the later scenes out further, I'd like to know whether this material is actually worth the effort and whether my current plot notions or totally daft or not. Thanks for any input short or long!
Marion
Crime Watch
Artie Lim lurked in the night shadow of the banana tree, out of reach of the street lights, tense as a cat in ambush – he would catch her in the act tonight. His home had been under assault for weeks. Digicam carefully stowed in his shorts pockets, his chronically stooped head tilted sideways, he kept watch over the orangey, sodium-lit stretch of Kembangan Rise, patiently awaiting his suspect. But there was nobody around, the blare of dinner TV shows the only human presence. It was a strain to peek out at the familiar terraced two- and 3-storey houses – his head always got heavier over the course of a day.
Artie felt a great affinity to birds – like him, they could not look anyone directly in the face, but had to cock their head sideways to get a proper glimpse. At the same time Artie knew how others saw him: decrepit and bent, easily 20 years older than his virile age of 65. He was easily under-estimated. Not easily deterred, be it by the current heat wave or the ashen flavour of the Haze in the air. Chronic alertness sustained him, sharpened during a lifetime of supervising the arrival of cargo into Jurong Port.
Every hair on his bent neck stood to attention. Every detail spoke to him. The gentle promises of pink bougainvillea in front of the two- and 3-storey homes as well as the stern gaze of high-rise condos towering where the South China Sea used to lap. Tiny acacia leaves crackled into Artie’s driveway like a whisper without a whisperer.
His gaze eventually locked in on that rubber sole of a shoe in the driveway diagonally across the road. Nobody had bothered to pick it up for weeks – Artie withstood its call. Let them take notice. Things had started to change on Kembangan Rise once rich folk started to move in with their overfed dogs and sloppy domestics. The evidence was everywhere: the pulp of uncollected, rained-on newspapers in the driveways, unclipped hedges, even ice pop sticks. Too much money and too little sense. Then, the doo-doos had started to appear in his bin – that’s where Artie drew the line. “Disturbing the peace” was a punishable offence.
And there it was: the tell-tale slapping of flip flops accompanied by a beastly pant. Artie moved deeper into the banana tree’s shadow and readied the Digicam to shoot the evidence. The distant hoot of a ship on the Strait exhilarated his senses; his nostrils registered the sweet bite of cigarette smoke.
But it wasn’t her, his prime suspect. It was another, stockier maid dragging a different pooch around the block. Her black hair hung loose; her face was lit by the smartphone in one pudgy hand while the other yanked the retriever pup away from the curb. The unhappy duo laboured past.
Artie loosened his muscles, irritated. This was his third night watch in hiding. Futile. And yet. Something else tugged at his senses. It involved the sizzle of an extinguished cigarette, at first he still couldn’t tell who or where. Then followed the click of a door falling shut and the breathy, perplexed sigh of a woman from the shoe sole driveway.
Artie couldn’t tilt his head up far enough to catch a glimpse, he had to give up his camouflage. Stepping out of the banana tree shadow, he faced a pale lady clad in nothing but a floor-length nightgown. What on earth was the woman thinking?
‘Oh shucks, aren’t I the fool!’ She beamed at Artie. ‘Just went and locked myself out. I’m not used to doors falling shut like that. We don’t lock them where I come from.’ Her hands nervously rummaged through a dirt-blonde mess of hair.
‘We didn’t start locking them long ago here, either,’ Artie managed to retort.
‘Hi, I’m Veronica. I’ve seen you from across. So pleased to meet you.’ She held out her hand.
Artie managed to swivel his heavy head into a position that prevented him from looking at any part of the madwoman other than her radiant, faintly wrinkled face. A right tai tai. No common sense. Veronica pressed his hand a bit too firmly before he could withdraw it.
‘My name is Artie – there is a lock-stop at the inside of your door, I assume.’
‘Oh, how good to know. We just moved in.’ She cocked her head at the same angle as Artie and pointed behind her. As though he didn’t know.
‘How much rent do you pay?’ he took her cue. ‘It was 4k for the last tenants, you know.’
‘I’m not sure of the final – my husband did the negotiations.’ Veronica straightened her head again and patted down her nightgown. ‘You’re not living by yourself, you said?’
‘My wife is visiting our daughter in town just now.’
‘How lovely – we don’t have kids. We’re kiwis by the way, from New Zealand. This is such a charming neighbourhood, with all those frangipani trees. Fresh bouquets of flowers growing by our window every day.’
Artie sustained his head position with increasing difficulty. ‘You better go back in now – your husband might get worried.’
‘I wish! Problem is: he’s off to Beijing on business.’
‘Or your maid –’
A sad shake of the head. Veronica’s eyes widened with mock exasperation: ‘We’re fending for ourselves here!’
‘Surely you have deposited a spare key somewhere?’
‘We haven’t gotten around to any of that yet,’ Veronica laughed. ‘It’s a right pickle I got myself into. Wouldn’t you say?’
Artie was not prone to perspiration, but he could feel an uncomfortable heat rush up his back. ‘Maybe your backdoor is unlocked? You know there is a passage-way behind those houses?’
‘Now there is an idea. How would I get there?’ She seemed thrilled.
With a tortured sense of duty, Artie showed the nightgowned lady down to the end of Kembangan Rise, round the corner and gestured at the shoulder-wide open drainage canal. It took some encouragement to get her to slip in, barefoot and all. Artie stood watch for a small eternity, breathing calmly while his prime suspect was probably just in the process of dumping another stink bomb into his bins – the injustice of it!
Eventually Veronica returned, flustered and moss-streaked, her gown billowing around her. She hadn’t been able to get in, she was terribly sorry for his trouble. But oh no, she couldn’t have the lock broken by a locksmith, her husband would ‘go spare’.
They were back on Kembangan Rise when the aunties from number 37 ambled past them on their way home from some dinner function. Heavy bags suggested a win in the raffle. They kindly pretended not to see Artie converse with the dubious foreigner.
‘I have it, Artie. Would you perchance have a ladder, a good long one?’ Veronica was biting her lip now.
‘You don’t mean to –’
‘I so do! The sliding door on the balcony – that’s definitely not locked.’
For once, Artie was at a loss for words. He thought of his aluminium extension ladder, all too obviously gleaming behind him against the brick wall. He thought of Bernadette’s return, the billowing gown …
‘Listen here, my husband’s due back tomorrow morning,’ she sounded rather subdued now. ‘If it doesn’t bother you too much, I’m fine just crashing on your couch. I’d go to a hotel, but all my cards and cash are in there …’
‘You may use our ladder, of course. Let’s hope it can be managed.’ There went the last shred of his peace of mind!
However, Veronica turned out a lot more capable than expected. She shouldered the 8-foot-ladder all by herself and propped it up against the steel and glass balcony between the frangipani trees. Artie held the bottom and listened to one barefoot step after the other going up, gladly unable to raise his head and look. Veronica rustled the branches, frangipani flowers and a few drops of rainwater showered onto his neck and bare arms. He just gasped at the discovery of a litter of cigarette stubs at his feet when that hateful flopping and panting sound became audible on the Rise. Artie had no choice but witness what happened next right in front of his very own house. The no-good Philippines maid let that outsized Alsatian relieve himself all over the recycling bin, leg cocked high, his big brown ding-dongs knocking about. Artie couldn’t desert the ladder, nor could he get the camera out in time.
‘Wa lau! Have you no shame,’ he shouted in his despair.
[to be ctd.]
Sum-up of rest – to be fleshed out:
It all went very fast after that. The maid ran off, Veronica tumbled onto her own balcony and squealed with joy when she found the sliding-door open. The two police officers arrived at the exact moment when Veronica had carried the extension ladder back across the road and Artie was trying to shoo her back into her own home. At least Veronica proved a great help at dissolving the accusation of a break-in. However, the officers were not forth-coming when it came to the identity of the accuser. And once he launched into his own tirade about “disturbances of the peace”, they moved off rather quickly. (A short dialogue follows, in which Artie explains his bin situation and finds a wonderfully sympathetic listener in Veronica! The expectation must now be of a happy ending where Artie comes out of himself and mellows up due to Veronica’s kind promise to “help him out”. He expects her to help photograph the evil act.) Finally Veronica left, but not quickly enough before Bernadette’s return. It was a long time before Artie found himself in the only position where his bent neck was of no consequence whatsoever: flat out.
After that episode, Artie decided to change his guarding of the bins to early morning. Exactly three mornings after the incident, [briefly describe setting – contrasting with night-time setting], Veronica crossed over and called to Artie in his banana tree hide-out, sheepish and gushing. Unaware of her trespass. She had a little gift for him, she said. She was properly dressed at least, in a loud, flouncy dress and heeled shoes that made her tower above him. Of course she did not have the decency to leave and let him unwrap the gift by himself. Rather, she pressured him to rip open the expensive-looking gift-wrap then and there, in his own drive-way. A surveillance camera! Now that would have been the last thing on his mind.
‘It’s not actually real,’ she confessed before he could muster any response of gratitude. She seemed to expect him to cherish that fact.
‘You can just put it up on your gate, and it’ll stop absolutely anyone from messing with your bins. They’ll all think they’re being recorded!’ She mounted the little cubic device on his brick gate-post and pressed a button to make a red light flash.
‘See? Now you have time to enjoy yourself a little. Spend some more time with that daughter of yours?’
‘My daughter visits every Sunday, thank you.’ Artie simply kept his eyes down now. It was the easiest.
Fortunately, her taxi showed up at that moment. Veronica manoeuvred herself first into the front seat, then at the instruction of the driver into the back. She lowered her window and waved back at Artie, a feather bracelet bobbing on her wrist. Once the taxi was out of side, Artie gave up his watch-post. There was only one thing he could think of doing. He took the camera and walked over to the discarded gym shoe sole with it. Picked it up between two fingers and plonked both items into Veronica’s green bin. How long would it take her to find out that the Semcorp men never collected anything other than full trash-bags from the bins? Then again, she might never notice. [he moves back into watch position, final detail of setting that connects with the beginning]
Is the title stupid? Is Artie's final act of vengefulness too crass? Would you prefer a happier ending? Or should I take the story somewhere completely different? Happy to hear any thoughts at all.
Marion
Crime Watch
Artie Lim lurked in the night shadow of the banana tree, out of reach of the street lights, tense as a cat in ambush – he would catch her in the act tonight. His home had been under assault for weeks. Digicam carefully stowed in his shorts pockets, his chronically stooped head tilted sideways, he kept watch over the orangey, sodium-lit stretch of Kembangan Rise, patiently awaiting his suspect. But there was nobody around, the blare of dinner TV shows the only human presence. It was a strain to peek out at the familiar terraced two- and 3-storey houses – his head always got heavier over the course of a day.
Artie felt a great affinity to birds – like him, they could not look anyone directly in the face, but had to cock their head sideways to get a proper glimpse. At the same time Artie knew how others saw him: decrepit and bent, easily 20 years older than his virile age of 65. He was easily under-estimated. Not easily deterred, be it by the current heat wave or the ashen flavour of the Haze in the air. Chronic alertness sustained him, sharpened during a lifetime of supervising the arrival of cargo into Jurong Port.
Every hair on his bent neck stood to attention. Every detail spoke to him. The gentle promises of pink bougainvillea in front of the two- and 3-storey homes as well as the stern gaze of high-rise condos towering where the South China Sea used to lap. Tiny acacia leaves crackled into Artie’s driveway like a whisper without a whisperer.
His gaze eventually locked in on that rubber sole of a shoe in the driveway diagonally across the road. Nobody had bothered to pick it up for weeks – Artie withstood its call. Let them take notice. Things had started to change on Kembangan Rise once rich folk started to move in with their overfed dogs and sloppy domestics. The evidence was everywhere: the pulp of uncollected, rained-on newspapers in the driveways, unclipped hedges, even ice pop sticks. Too much money and too little sense. Then, the doo-doos had started to appear in his bin – that’s where Artie drew the line. “Disturbing the peace” was a punishable offence.
And there it was: the tell-tale slapping of flip flops accompanied by a beastly pant. Artie moved deeper into the banana tree’s shadow and readied the Digicam to shoot the evidence. The distant hoot of a ship on the Strait exhilarated his senses; his nostrils registered the sweet bite of cigarette smoke.
But it wasn’t her, his prime suspect. It was another, stockier maid dragging a different pooch around the block. Her black hair hung loose; her face was lit by the smartphone in one pudgy hand while the other yanked the retriever pup away from the curb. The unhappy duo laboured past.
Artie loosened his muscles, irritated. This was his third night watch in hiding. Futile. And yet. Something else tugged at his senses. It involved the sizzle of an extinguished cigarette, at first he still couldn’t tell who or where. Then followed the click of a door falling shut and the breathy, perplexed sigh of a woman from the shoe sole driveway.
Artie couldn’t tilt his head up far enough to catch a glimpse, he had to give up his camouflage. Stepping out of the banana tree shadow, he faced a pale lady clad in nothing but a floor-length nightgown. What on earth was the woman thinking?
‘Oh shucks, aren’t I the fool!’ She beamed at Artie. ‘Just went and locked myself out. I’m not used to doors falling shut like that. We don’t lock them where I come from.’ Her hands nervously rummaged through a dirt-blonde mess of hair.
‘We didn’t start locking them long ago here, either,’ Artie managed to retort.
‘Hi, I’m Veronica. I’ve seen you from across. So pleased to meet you.’ She held out her hand.
Artie managed to swivel his heavy head into a position that prevented him from looking at any part of the madwoman other than her radiant, faintly wrinkled face. A right tai tai. No common sense. Veronica pressed his hand a bit too firmly before he could withdraw it.
‘My name is Artie – there is a lock-stop at the inside of your door, I assume.’
‘Oh, how good to know. We just moved in.’ She cocked her head at the same angle as Artie and pointed behind her. As though he didn’t know.
‘How much rent do you pay?’ he took her cue. ‘It was 4k for the last tenants, you know.’
‘I’m not sure of the final – my husband did the negotiations.’ Veronica straightened her head again and patted down her nightgown. ‘You’re not living by yourself, you said?’
‘My wife is visiting our daughter in town just now.’
‘How lovely – we don’t have kids. We’re kiwis by the way, from New Zealand. This is such a charming neighbourhood, with all those frangipani trees. Fresh bouquets of flowers growing by our window every day.’
Artie sustained his head position with increasing difficulty. ‘You better go back in now – your husband might get worried.’
‘I wish! Problem is: he’s off to Beijing on business.’
‘Or your maid –’
A sad shake of the head. Veronica’s eyes widened with mock exasperation: ‘We’re fending for ourselves here!’
‘Surely you have deposited a spare key somewhere?’
‘We haven’t gotten around to any of that yet,’ Veronica laughed. ‘It’s a right pickle I got myself into. Wouldn’t you say?’
Artie was not prone to perspiration, but he could feel an uncomfortable heat rush up his back. ‘Maybe your backdoor is unlocked? You know there is a passage-way behind those houses?’
‘Now there is an idea. How would I get there?’ She seemed thrilled.
With a tortured sense of duty, Artie showed the nightgowned lady down to the end of Kembangan Rise, round the corner and gestured at the shoulder-wide open drainage canal. It took some encouragement to get her to slip in, barefoot and all. Artie stood watch for a small eternity, breathing calmly while his prime suspect was probably just in the process of dumping another stink bomb into his bins – the injustice of it!
Eventually Veronica returned, flustered and moss-streaked, her gown billowing around her. She hadn’t been able to get in, she was terribly sorry for his trouble. But oh no, she couldn’t have the lock broken by a locksmith, her husband would ‘go spare’.
They were back on Kembangan Rise when the aunties from number 37 ambled past them on their way home from some dinner function. Heavy bags suggested a win in the raffle. They kindly pretended not to see Artie converse with the dubious foreigner.
‘I have it, Artie. Would you perchance have a ladder, a good long one?’ Veronica was biting her lip now.
‘You don’t mean to –’
‘I so do! The sliding door on the balcony – that’s definitely not locked.’
For once, Artie was at a loss for words. He thought of his aluminium extension ladder, all too obviously gleaming behind him against the brick wall. He thought of Bernadette’s return, the billowing gown …
‘Listen here, my husband’s due back tomorrow morning,’ she sounded rather subdued now. ‘If it doesn’t bother you too much, I’m fine just crashing on your couch. I’d go to a hotel, but all my cards and cash are in there …’
‘You may use our ladder, of course. Let’s hope it can be managed.’ There went the last shred of his peace of mind!
However, Veronica turned out a lot more capable than expected. She shouldered the 8-foot-ladder all by herself and propped it up against the steel and glass balcony between the frangipani trees. Artie held the bottom and listened to one barefoot step after the other going up, gladly unable to raise his head and look. Veronica rustled the branches, frangipani flowers and a few drops of rainwater showered onto his neck and bare arms. He just gasped at the discovery of a litter of cigarette stubs at his feet when that hateful flopping and panting sound became audible on the Rise. Artie had no choice but witness what happened next right in front of his very own house. The no-good Philippines maid let that outsized Alsatian relieve himself all over the recycling bin, leg cocked high, his big brown ding-dongs knocking about. Artie couldn’t desert the ladder, nor could he get the camera out in time.
‘Wa lau! Have you no shame,’ he shouted in his despair.
[to be ctd.]
Sum-up of rest – to be fleshed out:
It all went very fast after that. The maid ran off, Veronica tumbled onto her own balcony and squealed with joy when she found the sliding-door open. The two police officers arrived at the exact moment when Veronica had carried the extension ladder back across the road and Artie was trying to shoo her back into her own home. At least Veronica proved a great help at dissolving the accusation of a break-in. However, the officers were not forth-coming when it came to the identity of the accuser. And once he launched into his own tirade about “disturbances of the peace”, they moved off rather quickly. (A short dialogue follows, in which Artie explains his bin situation and finds a wonderfully sympathetic listener in Veronica! The expectation must now be of a happy ending where Artie comes out of himself and mellows up due to Veronica’s kind promise to “help him out”. He expects her to help photograph the evil act.) Finally Veronica left, but not quickly enough before Bernadette’s return. It was a long time before Artie found himself in the only position where his bent neck was of no consequence whatsoever: flat out.
After that episode, Artie decided to change his guarding of the bins to early morning. Exactly three mornings after the incident, [briefly describe setting – contrasting with night-time setting], Veronica crossed over and called to Artie in his banana tree hide-out, sheepish and gushing. Unaware of her trespass. She had a little gift for him, she said. She was properly dressed at least, in a loud, flouncy dress and heeled shoes that made her tower above him. Of course she did not have the decency to leave and let him unwrap the gift by himself. Rather, she pressured him to rip open the expensive-looking gift-wrap then and there, in his own drive-way. A surveillance camera! Now that would have been the last thing on his mind.
‘It’s not actually real,’ she confessed before he could muster any response of gratitude. She seemed to expect him to cherish that fact.
‘You can just put it up on your gate, and it’ll stop absolutely anyone from messing with your bins. They’ll all think they’re being recorded!’ She mounted the little cubic device on his brick gate-post and pressed a button to make a red light flash.
‘See? Now you have time to enjoy yourself a little. Spend some more time with that daughter of yours?’
‘My daughter visits every Sunday, thank you.’ Artie simply kept his eyes down now. It was the easiest.
Fortunately, her taxi showed up at that moment. Veronica manoeuvred herself first into the front seat, then at the instruction of the driver into the back. She lowered her window and waved back at Artie, a feather bracelet bobbing on her wrist. Once the taxi was out of side, Artie gave up his watch-post. There was only one thing he could think of doing. He took the camera and walked over to the discarded gym shoe sole with it. Picked it up between two fingers and plonked both items into Veronica’s green bin. How long would it take her to find out that the Semcorp men never collected anything other than full trash-bags from the bins? Then again, she might never notice. [he moves back into watch position, final detail of setting that connects with the beginning]
Is the title stupid? Is Artie's final act of vengefulness too crass? Would you prefer a happier ending? Or should I take the story somewhere completely different? Happy to hear any thoughts at all.