I don’t even want to know this time…
Here is the unedited first draft of a work in progress. Sharing my writing to get back into the habit of writing regularly.
St North Said.
The plain blue flag whips and tugs this way and that, sometimes snapping against the tall white pole it is tied to. Everything seem primary coloured in this sunlight and McMaster narrows her eyes. Honez is talking again.
‘This is where he said the porcelain originated.’ He kicks an imaginary stone with his scuffed brown slip on.
There is a shed over the other side of the white concrete glare. Its bleached and cracked yellow wood is dusted with white powder. Everything looks two dimensional now, like a line drawing with splashes of colour. Maybe it was. She is beginning to question. Come on Deidre, pull yourself together she thinks.
‘You check over there then,’ she waves over in the general direction of the shed. Honez frowns but does as he’s told.
McMaster pulls her shades out the breast pocket of her white blazer and puts them back, balanced across the bridge of her nose. They automatically polarise to a darker shade of rosy pink.
She looks back at the boat bobbing at the jetty. There is a dirty yellow canvas covering the deck at the bow. She strides purposefully over and jumps down into the little vessel. She bends over and lifts the canvas. Underneath are damp, open cardboard boxes full of shards of blue white porcelain. Bingo. She smiles for the first time in days. Somewhere among those shattered pieces will be the information they need. Time to go.
‘Honez,’ She tries to shout as she straightens up and looks over the side of the dock but the heat and light seems to muffle sound, even the desire to make a sound.
‘Honez, come on, it can’t take that long to search a shed.’ She’s still too quiet.
‘Damn it.’ She lifts herself back up to the dock, and runs towards the shed, the door hangs open, swaying on a single rusted hinge.
Honez is filthy, dust flies everywhere almost glittering in the bright sunlight lancing through the many gaps in the walls. Everywhere soggy cardboard boxes full of broken pottery, covered in canvas. Honez straightens up and looks at her, wiping his face with the brown sleeve of his jacket.
‘We’re going to need a whole team of kaomancers.’ He says.
‘Let’s call this in,’ she pulls her qphone out.
An hour later and Deirdre and Honez are showered and changed and watching St North through the two way mirror in the holding room. Their prisoner is leaning back in his chair, feet on the table, and staring at the stained pitted ceiling.