Strange Ideas: Article

The first part of the A-Z April Challenge 2016

The newspaper landed with a soggy plop on the bus-station tarmac, headline facing up to the cloud-laden sky, the grainy, overexposed photo smiling at the raindrops that fell in a drumming tattoo.

DOUBLE SUICIDE TRAGEDY SHOCKS COMMUNITY

Blinking stupidly, oblivious to the hurrying crowds that brushed and barged past him, Harrison Shaw stared into the eyes of the pretty brunette on the front page and fought the urge to throw up.

India Rayne. Jesus... 

No time to read it now; his bus was pulling in. Shaking the memory away before it had a chance to fully emerge, Harrison stooped to grab the newspaper and, tucking it under his arm, fought his way onto the packed bus.


At the office, Harrison barely had time to snatch a cup of coffee before Ted, his line manager and general pain in the backside, was on his case.

“I need you to show the Gatford house this morning,” he barked, abrupt to the point of rudeness as usual. “Got a couple of potentials lined up, so you can do the viewings back to back.”

Harrison stifled a groan. The Gatford house, a spacious bungalow up on the South Downs, wasn’t on the bus route and, after an unfortunate prang with a supermarket bollard the previous week, travelling by bus was his only option until the garage managed to repair his bumper. Ted wouldn’t give two toots about that though, and it could be worse- at least he’d only have to get there and back once.

“Sure. No problem.”

“Excellent.” Ted grinned, uneven tobacco-stained teeth adding nothing to his charm He threw the file on Harrison’s desk and spun on his heel, sauntering back to his private office with the smugness of a supreme delegator who’d just off-loaded a particularly troublesome task.

“First one’s at ten.”

Harrison swore under his breath, drained his mug, and jumped up to race back to the bus stop. Halfway to the door, he remembered the file and, swearing again, returned to retrieve it. It was already damp, landing as it had on the newspaper, and the article about the girl he’d once loved. Indias’s smile, wide and genuine even in a poor-quality snapshot, brought the scent of Anais Anais perfume to his nostrils, the echo of lusty laughter to his ears. He bundled the newspaper into his bag, along with the file, and was away, less than ten minutes after he’d arrived.

The story continues tomorrow with Blemish.