Monday, 17 November 2008

PATERNITY - An Original Australian Novel - Episode Two




Welcome to Episode Two of my Australian mystery quest novel Paternity. If you missed the beginning catch up on Episode One in my last post. You may recognise Pip's Poem from the 'taste' I posted earlier. It needs to be included here however.
Enjoy - and please leave a comment about what you thought, at the end. Otherwise it's free!

LINKS TO OTHER EPISODES ARE ON THE SIDE BAR


PATERNITY
©June Saville 2008
Episode Two

The ride into the bush was an atrocity of bodies and intrusions. They forced a filthy rag smelling of petrol into her mouth, and rasping cords bound her hands and feet. She was a helpless plucked chicken.

Now they all waited in the clearing … for what?

A car door slammed once.

The pack was half men, half beasts, and their strangely long teeth snapped and gnawed at her in the moon’s light. She lay on the hard stony ground, splayed, naked and open, and they lined up, one after the other to devour her, and to leave their residue.

The pain … no matter to them. No matter her degradation and her fear. They sucked at her pride and took away her spirit’s breath. They picked her up and spat and growled and shook her; worried at her, and scratched at her with their claws.

She was their meat, and their grotesque masks of hair and flesh flashed and burned into her soul. And picked at her bones.

It was always the same dream. The same nightmare.

Part Two
Pip's Poem

My mother died last night,
Secrets in the palm
of her hand.

She’s gone.
And with her the blue eyes
Which could be icy
Or take on the hue of a summer sky
Or cloud over
Milky weak with memories,
and mystery.
As a child
I’d read her eyes
And know when to steal
To her lap for comfort
Or leave her alone
to her sadness …

She’s gone.

And without living full.

Oh yes, when she was young
I’m told
She lived it full.
Then.
But something happened.
Her secret.
Her secret happened
And she died within.

My mother Selene
Of the beautiful long limbs
And the wheat field hair
Wound round her head.

Of the stutter,
The frightened look
And the deep voice
Sunk to a whisper.

She’s gone.

And with her the recipes,
The way to make apple pie.
Where to buy
Our favourite tea …
Little things that mean too much.

It seemed that
Without being truly loved …
She’s gone.

She didn’t tell me
who my father was …
I asked often enough
But her lips seemed sealed,
The knowledge lying there
A lump in her throat,
Threatening her breath
Should she let it loose.

Selene wasn’t spiteful
Although she must have known
What her secret meant to me ...
I just wanted to know.
That’s all.
So simple.

The secret strangled her spirit,
Sabotaged her life
And cut it short.

Why?

Do I look like him?
In my mirror …
Are those eyes his eyes?
With their curling lashes
And button shape
Are they his legacy?
The nose I’ve always hated
With its aquiline hook
That some call noble
And which I abhor.
Is it his?

I need to know!

I’m a runt …
Can’t reach the hanging straps in buses.
My toothpaste splatters
The mirror
I leave hairs in the basin and
squeezing pimples is my thing.
I shave my legs
But not
My underarms.

I don’t do drugs.
I do pump iron.
And grow vegetables
For their juice.
Each night I run miles
And top off my dinner with
Sticky date pudding
And runny cream.

I’m a woman and proud.
I am a writer —
Freelance.

My mother … tall and golden …
Angular.
Me … small, pale
And round.

The phone:
‘Pip
I’m so sorry
to hear the news.
So sorry …’

‘Aunty!
I’ve wanted to talk …
To ask …
Now she’s gone it seems
So important
Somehow …
I want to know
About my Dad!’

A gasp
And
Silence
At the end of the line.
‘Oh my sweet
I don’t know myself …
It was her secret.’

‘Please Aunty
Please!’

‘Oh dear …
I always felt …
The answer …
Lay in that wretched town.
I’d help if I could.’

Selene had
A strange fascination
For outback towns.
And loved driving.
But there was one place
Where she refused to go.
Is that the key?


Part Three
The street outside Pip’s study was as quiet as feather pillows before the pizza boy came. Feathers flew when the heap of old metal roared up the hill, stereo thumping. Brakes screeched, a door banged, and the guy’s boots thumped down the driveway opposite.

He was a large youth. So large that nothing fitted. The Tasty Pizza T-shirt and the jeans threatened to explode against his frame, and the inadequate baseball cap looked ridiculous …

A quiet moment and then the murmur of voices. Coins jingling. The throb of music again, fading around the corner, and the feathers settled …

What was the pizza boy thinking … did he hate his job? What was his secret? Thoughts were so unreachable.

Pip often found herself wishing to scrape away at peoples’ skulls, to peel back the layers and reveal the thoughts beneath. Perhaps that was why she enjoyed journalism. And hated unsolved mysteries.



Joe Black, news editor and a mate of Pip’s was always good for a commission when she really needed it.

‘But we’ve done economic rationalist stories on little outback towns! You’ll have to find a new angle.’

‘Joe baby, have faith. I thought a human-interest interview with that family whose son died. You know — the kid injured at football. The hospital closed down. No doctor. What’s better for the paper’s circulation than a kid dying an unnecessary death?’

‘Orright. Christ I’m soft. But you’ll have to get it into context. Talk to others to get their slant on it.’

Joe’s deep blue eyes softened: ‘How are you doin mate? I’ve missed you … give me a ring some time?’

Pip placed her hand on his arm, there among the rows of deadline driven sub editors. ‘Thanks Joe, maybe I will call ... some time.’

Pip Holmes grinned all the way to the newsroom lift … that took care of her expenses.



At home she flipped the top from a stubby of beer and flopped onto her favourite easy chair. Joe was right of course. It was a pretty weak excuse for a story, and he was really doing her a good turn entertaining the idea at all. She felt lousy using Joe. She couldn’t help thinking he was still vulnerable, even though they’d called it a day with their relationship all of six months before. Anyway, they were still friends, and what were friends for?

What was she thinking of anyway, heading off on a wild goose chase. Was she letting her feelings about her mother’s death screw her into an irrational heap?

Pip groaned out of the chair and tossed the empty bottle into the kitchen recycling bin. Selene’s face was staring at her from a photograph on the bench top. It was her mother’s melancholy, dreamy expression – the one that hinted of her secret. Pip moved closer to the frame and traced the beloved image with a gentle touch.

Not long afterwards she hit the light switch and grabbed her suitcase from the back of the wardrobe. Mad hunch or not, she needed to do this.


Part Four
The town is as sad as a dog without a tail to wag. Potholes pit the strip of tar that does for the main street and peeling paint is everywhere. Door and windows are boarded up on the only bank, and spiders’ webs are a shroud for many of the other buildings.

Involuntarily, Pip fears this place.

The pub is doing all right though … Friday night and there is a gaggle of utes outside and the din of raucous laughter within. The building needs a paint job too and several tiles are missing from a mural advertising KB Lager near the front door, but it’s not in bad nick otherwise.

A blue cattle dog snarls at Pip as she walks too close to one of the trucks. She skips sideways and up the single step into the bar.

‘Fosters light please. Got a room for the night?’

‘Yeah’ the barman wheezes, ‘I’ll fix yous up as soon as the rush dies down a bit.’

The large room is crowded with country men and women pleased to see the back of another working week. Some stare at Pip above the rims of their schooners, and others watch an intense darts match going on in the far corner.

Pip downs her first beer quickly. It had been a long and dusty trip … She orders another, and grabs a handful of free peanuts from the dish on the bar. Then she saunters over to an empty stool near the dart board. There’s room for her glass on the adjacent sticky tabletop.

Pretty typical Australian country pub. Garish red and gold carpet, tall chairs with black iron legs that get in the way, bar towels stinking of stale beer, tin trays on the floor overflowing deceased cigarette butts. The air almost solid with swirling smoke.

The match is in full swing, but without warning the man with the darts freezes in mid throw. Patrons around him stand suddenly rigid, drinks halfway to their mouths, looking in her direction. Pip knows there is someone behind her.

‘Get off that seat ya fuckin’ cunt.’

The giant of a man is standing immediately behind, well within her personal space. Pip senses the warmth of his body, sees the coarse hairs clustered just inside his bulging nose, feels the stare of his small eyes. His bad breath is suffocating.

Pip’s face is bright red.

‘What did you say?’

‘You heard. Get off me seat.’

‘Your seat! This is a public bar. What right have you …’

The man’s big meaty hand is around her arm, squeezing. Time has slowed remarkably and Pip is thinking clearly despite the pain. She notices the faded tattoo of a crescent moon nested in the tangle of hair above his wrist. She looks up and sees that his eyes are connected by a bushy brow line that stretches, uninterrupted, across most of the upper half of his face.

Then Pip feels rising panic. Who is this monster? What has she done to deserve this?

With an effort she stills the tide inside her and when Pip speaks again her words come slowly: relentless.

‘Remove your hand.’

‘You uppity bitch.’

‘Move it!’ Only the flow of red coursing her face gives away Pip’s anger.

Another voice, one of authority, brings the giant to book: ‘Crawl back into your hole Gazza. That’s no way to treat a lady.’

The voice is measured and strangely familiar. The odious one takes a step backwards, releasing Pip’s arm, and twists to face the newcomer, jaw gaping.

‘Crissakes! It’s Pippin!’ the new voice hoots.

Only one man had ever called her that …

‘Come on mate, give this slug the heave ho and come and have a drink with me.’

Gazza the giant sinks onto the now empty seat and reaches for his schooner ...


Log in soon for the next episode in which Pip embarks on a quest to find her mother's secret. Is Pip a character whose story you want to follow? Are you on the edge of your chair? Or do you feel sleepy right now, and disinterested? Is the town familiar? Please tell me in a comment.



The foregoing is excerpted from Paternity by June Saville. All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be used or reproduced without written permission from the author.

GO TO EPISODE THREE

23 comments:

  1. June, I want to know who the man is that knew her in the bar??? I never get sleepy when reading your stuff and always want more. Just when I think I have you figured out, you throw me for a loop! That town is very familiar to me.
    Reminds me of a place where I used to live. Could the man be the reason her mother was going to that town in the first place???

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  2. ‘Aunty!
    I’ve wanted to talk …
    To ask …
    Now she’s gone it seems
    So important
    Somehow …
    I want to know
    About my Dad!’


    This really hit home with me. I don't really know my Dad well at all and every attempt I've made to get to know him better has ended in failure. It's hurtful that he doesn't reciprocates communication, but I should instead feel grateful that he's still around. I think I'll keep trying.

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  3. All will be revealed Judy ...
    So you enjoyed the character of Frank? I did know a journalist quite similar eons ago. He was a fascinating person - frustrating, kind, troubled.
    So you have towns like that in Kentucky? I've probably seen some of them in those old movies.
    Thanks for giving Paternity a chance. I do hope you continue to enjoy it ...

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  4. Hi Jeannie
    I'm sorry about your sad story. I'd also feel I'd like to have another go ...
    Sometimes a person's hesitation towards communication has nothing to do with others, but has everything to do with themselves. That blockage may clear.

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  5. Judy again
    Just realised we really haven't got to a description of Frank as yet! We learn about him in Episode Three.
    I do like Frank as a character and grabbed him as a way of giving Pip a friend in the otherwise very unfriendly town.

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  6. Hello June. I love your style of stacatto approach to events in the story as it unfolds. Keep up the good work. I am a close friend of ponderings From The pond:)

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  7. Thank you Anonymous. I appreciate your visit and welcome any friend of I Ponder who is a mean writer! Do you write yourself?
    I felt the direct voice I'm using suits Pip. And it keeps things moving?
    I'll post some more of 'Paternity' very soon ...

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  8. YES it's a story I want to follow! I feel like I just landed a great new novel for my bedside.
    You've got me hooked.

    I've not been to Australia, but town and the people you've described reminds me very much of places in the deep South here in the U.S. Look forward to your next chapter.
    Vikki

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  9. Great Vikki
    Yes, most nations have places that are rough around the edges - especially when they're knocked around a bit for the sake of creative licence!
    We writers (and artists) all target the universal - when we're on the ball.
    Next episode coming up very soon.

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  10. I see I have some reading to do to catch up...:))

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  11. O yes please June ! I've just read this the whole way thru :D I absolutely enjoyed Part 2, almost poetry in form and kept me reading each word out loud. I'm looking forward to more of Pip, Cheryl

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  12. Hi Confused - pleased you visited from your truck in Canada! I hope you enjoy our outback story softened (hopefully) by a poetic line or two ...
    June

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  13. Thanks Cheryl - good to have you on the ride!
    Welcome to another Canadian ...
    They're kind words indeed from one who is a mean poet herself.
    June

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  14. hey! you have some lovely stuff here!!! i'm glad i popped in. got some catch-up reading to do. but it's the weekend, so that is fine. carry on writing!

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  15. Hi Shadow - I look forward to your opinions. Enjoy the week-end's read!

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  16. Hi June,
    In the beginning of this episode, It was Selene having the same nightmares, right? And not Pip?

    I love Pip's poem. Very unique way to describe your heroine's physical appearance. When she said she's round, did she mean round everywhere, including her face? I wonder if bad breath is her father.

    I'm off to the next episode.

    Tasha

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  17. TASHABUD
    You've stuck with it I see ...
    Yes the story is a bit post modern at this point. Selene had the nightmare.
    Then came Part Two and the switch to Pip.
    Again 'round' can mean just what you, the reader, wishes ...
    Bad breath - Gazza? - I wonder?
    Cheers
    June

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  18. I'm impressed by how quickly you moved into the middle of things, and how little you needed to provide for back story to create a context. Your journalism background maybe helped with that - finding the bones needed to provide the story? Yet the two parts I've read so far don't read like journalism - the poetry, the imagery in the nightmare, the vivid details of the lager sign, the description of Gazza... ...they're literary.

    I've never been to Australia - many things in the story give me a strong feeling of place, a foreign place. Different from here in the Southeastern U.S.

    This is not my usual type of story - I'm not much for mysteries, usually, and violence against women twists my insides. So I will have to take this slowly, just a part or two at a time, I think. I do want to find out what happens to Pip, and the answers to her questions.

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  19. Hi STEVE
    I feel as though I have you engaged, yet worried about the emotional implications. I think most of the deeply moving sections are behind us now, and we move into another world again for a little relief.

    I could see that the rape scene would be a bit raw and it needed to be, but I tried to do it indirectly ...I wanted imagery instead of stark reality.

    I'm not into mysteries as a rule either, but this one is a bit hard to fit in a genre sense - mystery is the closest I can get I think.

    Come along with me - at your pace - and see what you feel in the end.

    The town is some parts of Australia writ large. Many of my fellow Aussies recognise the feeling of the place, and that's what I wanted. It's not fair to say that we have a typical Oz town here.

    Journalism versus literary ...
    I had always done commercial writing until I went to university for the first time in my life at age 60 to find out what creative writing was about. This is my first real full length effort. Many short stories behind this though.

    I agree that my journalism has allowed me to 'cut to the chase'.

    Cheers and good to have you along for the ride Steve
    June

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  20. About the town - typical or not - so we're clear. I realize the elements might be familiar, and can be found in towns here and there in Australia. That's how fiction about the Southeast U.S. is often set, as well - towns that have elements that are all plausible separately, but perhaps not likely all together. The author selects the elements that will best set her story. Like my choices of background color in a painting - choices that have less to do with the real colors of things than with setting the subject the way I want. I have to make things recognizable, but I can push the limits a long way and my audience will still follow me. You've done that here, I imagine, creating the strongest background image for the story.

    So I'm not going to get the idea that this is a "typical" bush town. Actually I hear it's more likely that a stranger will meet with warmth and openness nearly anywhere in Oz.

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  21. Thanks for your thoughts Steve - I value them.
    I didn't mean you were being 'unfair' - I really wondered if I had been - unfair to some of our towns.
    I think that you have nailed it - we creators use bits and pieces to make a new whole.
    Like all towns everywhere there are physical, material aspects and there are the personalities (and bits of personalities)which may attract a writer (and artists?).
    There are also points in time.Even 30-40 years ago Australian country towns had sharper edges than most do now.
    In many ways here we're dealing to a great extent with the 'bad apples', writ large.
    I agree that the good is generally easier to find than the bad - anywhere.

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  22. Good pace and it doesn't slow down. I'm hooked. That in itself is good -- when I first retired ten years ago, I was so at a loss, I had loved my job and went at full speed day after day and then suddenly there was nothing and I crawled into the first mystery I could find and for the next several years I read at least three to four books a week. Then about three years ago I realized I was so burned out, I couldn't read another page. Then it was blogging and still is and I haven't been able to get into a book in a long, long time. So, this is fun! Part of it is because it's by someone I know, but mostly because it is well written and sets and keeps a good pace. We have very different styles of writing and that's another reason that it's a fun read!

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  23. Life can often be measured by the number of books we are reading SYLVIA. I reach for a book when I want to get away from life and I also when I feel at peace. In between I tend to be too taken up with other things.

    Yes, 'Paternity' is told at a fast pace - but I think Pip's character and the story need that.

    I'n really pleased you are enjoying it. I'n getting on with your book 'Chasing Ashes'. As you say, it's very different.

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Thanks for leaving a comment. Its good to know who's having a peek! I'll certainly send a comment in reply.

To move directly to all other stories. Go to INDEX at
http://journeysincreativewriting.blogspot.com.au/search?updated-max=2012-02-12T15:35:00%2B10:00&max-results=1

Also, you may like to have a look at my other blog 70 Plus and Still Kicking. http://www.70plusandstillkicking.blogspot.com

Cheers June