This is all wrong. Where am I? What is going on? He was walking down a wide and very long road. A road he did not recognize, nor could he remember seeing another like it. It was paved with large rough stones which showed many years of heavy traffic and wear.

‘This is weird.’ He said slowly and softly to himself. There were people everywhere, lots of people. Hundreds he thought, may be thousands. No one was speaking and all were walking either away from him or coming towards him. All were looking down at the ground and ignoring each other as if they were the only person on the planet.

He looked behind and the scene was the same. The street seemed to stretch out in both directions as far as he could see. He wanted to stop someone and ask them where he was and what was going on. A little voice in the back of his head said it was best not to.

On either side of the road there were tall buildings which all looked the same weather stained dirty, slightly greenish grey of neglected concrete. Some had windows and even fewer had doors. None looked inviting and none encouraged him to look more closely. Certainly he had no desire to try and enter any.

‘This is so strange’. He said aloud as he scanned to his left and right. Continuing to walk down the road he felt the odd, but unmistakable realization that he was going in the right direction. But going where?

Gradually he became aware that everyone looked and dressed the same. Everyone was familiar and yet somehow faceless. They must have faces? He thought. He looked again but they no longer looked like people, he could’t tell male from female and everyone wore the same grey clothing that covered them from head to toe. Nameless, faceless people he knew but didn’t know. People he had seen before, yet no one he recognised. He also had no desire to speak to them or even acknowledge their existence.

He knew this was not right, it’s not supposed to be like this. Then as quickly as these thoughts came into his mind they vanished, melting into nothing but a dull greyness that began to enclose all around him. This didn’t seem to bother him at all. He was quite accepting and comfortable with the fact that the sea of people that inhabited this world appeared to have no identity nor any distinguishing features. He just shrugged his shoulders and continued his journey.

Unaware of time and generally not feeling anything at all he seemed to carry on down the road oblivious of his surroundings and purpose for being here. He didn’t care either, quite happy in ignorance and accepting of what was, must be.

Movement to his right caught his attention. He felt irritated by this distraction, but that feeling too soon passed. A person was spraying some form of chemical on the buildings and on the edges of the road as they walked casually from the opposite direction. Then he noticed that there were more of them. It looked like they were following each other on both sides of the road. As he became more aware of them he noticed they were growing in numbers. More were coming from the direction he was traveling and more coming up from behind him. They were dressed differently from everyone else. He didn’t recognize the clothing and he couldn’t identify the colour. There was no colour? That can’t be, surely? He seemed to be the only one who noticed them. Perhaps the other people on the road saw them but ignored them as they ignored everyone and everything else. He noticed that they sprayed everything. He also became aware that everything only included the people traveling on the road, the road itself and the buildings that were lining the edges of the road. Everything must be more than this? He thought, but there was nothing else he could see. He became curious and wondered what it was exactly they were spraying on everyone and everything. The liquid seemed to evaporate within seconds. He himself was sprayed before he noticed and before he could exclaim indignation he was dry just as quickly. This strange inexplicable action was repeated continuously and uninterrupted as he continued to walk down this increasingly strange road in an equally strange society. His own indifference becoming less bothersome as his journey continued.

A thought began to form out of the nothingness that his mind had become. There was no colour in this place, this world he found himself in. Everything appeared as shades of grey. Every person he encountered on the road was walking either in the same direction or in the opposite direction. No one entered the road, nor could anyone leave the road. No side streets, no drive ways, no vehicles, just the innocuous buildings running uninterrupted parallel to the road. If he were to turn around and go back in the direction he had come, all would be identical to that which was in front of him now. No change, no options, no idea of where, when or how. There was only, there was only what? He couldn’t remember. He had no past, no future and didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. There were no signs, no trees, birds, animals or other objects of any kind. Nothing in the sky. No sun, no moon, no stars. It was neither dark, nor light. He couldn’t tell if it was day or night. He felt neither warm or cold. He felt nothing at all. This was not right. He knew this much. He should have felt something like fear or the need to speak to someone, to talk, to engage with other people. Emotions? He had an idea that he should have felt emotions but didn’t know what emotions were. He should be aware of and should want to find out what was happening to him and where he was. But he didn’t. He could’t even remember his name. Did he have a name? He didn’t know. He didn’t know why he didn’t care. All he knew was that this, what ever this was, was not the way it is supposed to be. What was it was supposed to be like? As this question was beginning to form in his mind and as if someone had flicked a switch, all went black and all conscience thought and feeling left him.

From out of the nothingness he saw his hand reach out towards a large door. He opened the door and stepped inside. The room was large and brightly lit. The decor was tasteful and the coloring very pleasing. This was home. He knew that and he felt it instantly. He knew this place and yet there was a strange sensation that he was stepping inside this house for the first time. As he looked around the room with all its comfort and familiarity he also felt like a stranger and an intruder. He lived here and yet this odd feeling crept all over him as if compelling him to leave. ‘This is nonsense’. He heard himself say aloud. A familiar voice from another room called out ‘What was that, Joe? Did you say something?’

He hesitated for only a second before replying to his wife, ‘Nothing, just saying I am home. Thats all’.

His wife came out of the living room and gave him a strange and questioning look. ‘What are you taking about? You haven’t left the house all day.’

Joe was just about to say that he only just walked in. When his wife cut him off and said. ‘There is a short shopping list on the side board. Can you run across the road and do some shopping for me? The shops will be closed soon.’

As Joe was taking the short walk through the park to the shopping centre he notice how warm it was. How the sun felt good on his bare skin. The grass felt good too. He heard the birds in the trees and stopped and talked to his neighbors, Tom and Barbara as they made their way back home with shopping bags overflowing from the same errand he was now taking. Joe felt hungry and he was looking forward to dinner tonight. It felt like he hand’t eaten for days. Then for a brief moment a memory flashed across his eyes of a strange paved road and just a quickly it was gone. Wishing Tom and Barbara a good evening he made his way to the shops.

On his way back home he thought how lucky he was. He had a very good job and a wonderful home. He was still in love with his wife and he had two children he absolutely adored. Life could not be better. The park was alive with colour and a gentle breeze was just enough to take the heat out of the air and he felt wonderful. As he was leaving the park he stopped at the end of the path and looking across the road to his house. ‘Yes.’ he said aloud to himself. ‘I am a very lucky man’. He looked both ways then stepped of the path and onto the road.

The road seems wide today he mused as he strolled towards his front lawn. He hand’t noticed the bright and beautiful flowers on the edge of the road before. How long have they been there? They are lovely and if he didn’t already have his arms full of shopping bags he would have stopped and picked some for his wife. He saw a strange looking man spraying weeds along the side of the road. He didn’t recognize him, yet he did seem familiar and he wondered what was he doing in his front yard. He was about to say something and then he noticed another man spraying weeds, then another, and another. He was confused and for a few seconds didn’t know what to do and so he kept walking. The flowers were very beautiful he thought. Lots of people were out and about today he noticed. There were more men attending to the flowers now. Quite a lot of them and more than were necessary he would have said. This road is rather long. It never used to be this long, did it? He could’t remember how long it was exactly, but certainly not this long.

Where were all these people coming from? Where did my house go? Have I wandered too far? Didn’t I have some shopping bags with me a while ago?

Something was not quite right. Everything was different somehow. This was not where he lived. The flowers were all gone now. Everything looked washed out as if the all the colour had drained away. This is not how it should be.

This is all wrong. Where am I? What is going on? He was walking down a wide and very long road. A road he did not recognize, nor could he remember seeing another like it. It was paved with large rough stones which showed many years of heavy traffic and wear.

‘This is weird.’ He said slowly and softly to himself. There were people everywhere, lots of people. Hundreds he thought, may be thousands. No one was speaking and all were walking either away from him or coming towards him. All were looking down at the ground and ignoring each other as if they were the only person on the planet.

He looked behind and the scene was the same. The street seemed to stretch out in both directions as far as he could see. He wanted to stop someone and ask them where he was and what was going on. A little voice in the back of his head said it was best not to.

The organisation known as Beyond Blue has suggested that people start the conversation and openly talk about depression and anxiety. On their website they write:

Depression and anxiety can affect anyone at any time. Often people won’t talk about how they’re feeling because they’re worried about what others will think. During Mental Health Week (7-13 October), we’re encouraging everyone – individuals, community groups and workplaces – to talk about depression and anxiety.

Sometimes, the simplest acts have the greatest impact – just talking openly about depression and anxiety can reduce stigma.

For my part in this worthy discussion process I have written the following short story. Not sure if this helps or hinders the process.

Kate,

I know you didn’t expect it to end like this. It must be a shock to you, I am very sorry, but it had to be this way. The amazing thing to me was that you never knew, didn’t even suspect. I would like to think that this was because I was a good actor rather than you not caring. I never spoke to you about it because I knew it would turn into another fit of yelling and shouting, blame and accusations. As you often used to say to me, “I am sick of it.” I have had enough and can’t put up with it anymore. It must end.

I have suffered and fought this for as long as I can remember, well at least from my early teens. I didn’t recognize it myself at the time. One did not speak of such things in those days and if you did everyone thought you were either a no hoper or crazy and tended to ignore you anyway. It was natural to ignore it yourself, after all if no one else cared why should you? After a while you start thinking. Yes I know, thinking and me just don’t seem to go together, but there must be a reason?

At first I blamed my mother for not having an abortion. I knew I was not wanted. I was an “accident.” I was not meant to be. My parents and my brother & sister told me more than once. Of course I knew my mother was not to blame. All blame is mine and mine alone. I never was any good at anything. Small, timid and ugly with no brains. Void of personality. Useless to anyone and “good for nothing.” But you know that already. You too recognized at least those qualities.

Yes, there were good times and periods of happiness, or what I thought was happiness and normality. Normal? Ha, whats that? I never did experience normal. You see, Kate, I could’t talk to you about my feelings and the thoughts eating into my head, not letting go, keeping me awake at night while I listened to you sleeping. You never once asked if I was OK? Not once did you pick up on the tell tale signs did you?

I was scared, Kate. Frightened of what would be discovered, of what I really was. I didn’t want to face up to that.

Remember that time I had the kidney infection and spent 4 days in bed sick as dog before you noticed I was even ill? I had to wait until I was well enough to get to the Doctor. We had a laugh about it later, but it was just a way of putting a blanket over the problem. I have never forgotten about that. I am sure you will not remember it.

About five years ago when I had gone through a bad period of self harm. Yes self harm. You didn’t know about that either. You remember the long periods of not eating, of not taking care of myself. Long hours at work and very little sleep? Do you know what happens when you stop eating and sleeping? No? You should, because you saw the results more than once or twice over the years.

This time I had gone a little too far and I was very sick. I was frighted that you would find out and then the world would know the truth. I had to see Doctor Johnston. He wanted to put me into hospital for a few days, just for some tests. He organized some appointments and wrote the letters. Of course I didn’t turn up.

I was trapped. What could I do? There was no way I was going to keep those appointments. Someone would find out the truth about me and after more than 40 years, his was not going to happen now. I can still hide and keep my shameful secrets. I would never tell you or any one else. I didn’t have any friends, so I was safe from them.

Unfortunately I had to confront Doctor Johnston before he phoned home or called or spoke to you about why I didn’t show up at the Hospital, so I had to tell him. Not all of it of course, just enough so he knew I had been living a lie and I was in fact a dead shit arsehole as you always called me. He was smarter than I though. I should have realized that, but I am a fuck wit after all, so no surprise I was stupid enough to let him dig deeper than I wanted him to. He was clever. In short he referred me to a Psychologist. All I felt was shame and a sense that it is all over. My cover will be blown, I am about to be exposed and shown up as the impostor and fraud that I am. A useless worthless bastard who should never have been given life. I hated myself even more. Yet another failure, so fucking useless that I cant get anything right. How could I live with this? People will find out. They might see me going into the shrink’s rooms? Someone may tell you? I will lose my job. I was in a real state. So I did what I normally do in times like this and withdrew from sight. I went into hiding. I locked myself in my office at work so it would appear I was not there. I didn’t answer the phone. I made sure I stayed away from people. Rather than go home I would park in a supermarket car pack and sit in the car for a couple hours so I would get home late. This would cause an argument, but at least it gave me an excuse not to eat dinner and I could go hide in my room and you would not speak to me again that night. I had to do these things. People would hate me more if they knew I was mentally ill. If they knew at work I had problems I would lose my job. No one would want to be associated with me. I don’t blame them, neither would I. I don’t like me, never have and never will, so I can’t expect others to either. I know you were just hanging around because you could’t afford to move out. We had drifted apart over twenty years ago. It was over between us long ago. We had nothing worth hanging on to. Everything would end and I would be left as if standing naked in the middle of large crowd laughing at the pathetic creature presented before them.

Please don’t think I am blaming you, I am not. I am boasting at how good an actor I was. Honestly, I don’t blame anyone except myself. You know and I know it was all my fault and has always been my fault. There is no dispute and I accept that I have always been an arsehole.

I thought about avoiding the Psychologist appointment even though I did make a time. I wasn’t going to turn up. I was so stressed I could’t sleep with worry. It was going to be the biggest humiliation of my pathetic life. I can’t do it. When I think back I don’t know why I did meet that appointment. I can remember the hours before and the weeks after but very little of that first meeting. I arrived very early and sat in the car a short distance from the Psych’s rooms debating internally whether to stay or leave. I wanted to go somewhere else where no one would find me. I imagined various ways and means of taking my life that day, that hour. I planned it in my head. I started the car and drove away allowing the road to take me wherever it wanted. The plan changed several times, but the result was quite clear. The main problem was how could I dispose of my body if I was dead? This unsolved problem caused me even more anxiety and I was getting really agitated and distressed. They could not find me. If they did people would know. My family would be told and there was too much shame and guilt connected to that thought. I was in tears not knowing what to do. I could’t think straight. The thought of being found out was stronger than the need to disappear. I failed again. I could’t do it again. One more failure to add to the long list of notable non achievements. Such a complete fucking waste of space. How I hate myself like you would not believe.

I did make it back in time to keep the appointment. He was nice and asked lots of questions but I didn’t provide him with very much. It was a pleasant room. He sat opposite me studying my movements, my responses and searching my eyes. I was very conscience of being examined. I felt ashamed to be there, ashamed of the reasons for being there, and disgusted in the person I have grown into. I wished I had never made that meeting and wished I had been stronger and fulfilled my earlier plan. I knew that one day I would succeed, but I didn’t know which day.

As I sat there with my hands clasped together and held tightly between my knees, head bowed, back hunched not wanting to meet his eyes, I wished I was dead. I don’t deserve help. What am I doing here? This guy is smart and will see the impostor of a human being sitting in front of him. I tried to curl up into a ball and wished I could suddenly disappear. I wanted out. I wanted to escape to some dark, quiet corner of nowhere and be alone. I was not worthy of his time. There would be others more deserving of his services than me. Why did Dr Johnston send me to him? I don’t deserve help. I only deserve ridicule and loathing. I should be punished. I am not a nice person, you don’t give help to scum. Why is he trying to help me? Help me how? To keep living in this misery, to keep alive this lie, this facade of a life? I should have killed myself a longtime ago. Everyone would be better off without me, you told me that yourself many times, didn’t you, Kate. You were right. Its true, really true. I am a burden to everyone and should be eradicated and flush away with all the other shit in this world.

I cancelled the next appointment. The receptionist made another date & time which I didn’t intend to keep. I don’t deserve help. I should be ignored and left to rot alone in silence. Maybe I would be forgotten and no one would realise I am no longer around. That would be ideal, to fade away unnoticed. I dreamt of that.

Some weeks later I arrived home from work and there was message on the answer machine form the Psychologist’s rooms reminding me about the appointment for the following day. I went into hyper panic. What if you had arrived home before me? You would know! That really scared me. I deleted the message, got back into the car and drove away. I wanted to keep going until the world ended. Couldn’t think and didn’t know what to do.

Can’t remember if I went home that night or not. You wouldn’t have noticed If was there or not so it didn’t matter. I can’t go on like this for much longer.

I made it to the appointment and got them to make sure all messages went to my mobile, never at home.

Home, whats that? Funny word. Anyway that was five years ago. Yes I have been seeing a Psychologist for five years. Perhaps there was some subconscious cry for help deep inside me which kept me returning for our little chats. Perhaps I wanted help after all but was too ashamed and too frightened to admit it. I don’t know, perhaps I needed to talk to someone. There was no one else to talk to, no one else who would listen or understand how I felt and why I felt this way. I still feel the shame. I still hate myself, perhaps even more than ever.

I have had enough, Kate. I can’t stand it anymore. I am tired, so very tired. I am sick, and sick of being sick. I can’t fight it any longer. I give in. I give up.

Yes, its selfish and I should think of other people for once, think of you, think of what might have been. Far too late now, Kate.

You are reading this because, finally after more than 40 years I have achieved something I have always wanted. I sincerely wish you well, Kate. I really do. I never meant to hurt you. You deserved someone better than me and a life that I could never give you. I am so sorry for what I have done to you. I should never have let it last so long.

James

David clipped in with his right foot and rolled gently down the newly paved driveway and turned right. The air was chilly but the morning held a promise of warmth later. It really was a  beautiful morning for a bike ride.

All to soon the tee junction appeared with its abrupt announcement that Aldgate Valley Road was now at an end. Decision time presented itself and begged the question, which way to go today? Mt Lofty was the logical choice, and then? He would choose when he got there. For now, there were wonders to discover and plenty to enjoy before the day took it all away.

At about the same time that David rolled down his driveway, Tom clipped in with his left foot and hurried along his concrete driveway, losing control of his bike and over shooting the footpath. Cursing the cold and executing an awkward, clumsy left hand turn onto Military Road, simultaneously and unsuccessfully attempting to clip in his right foot. Not bothering to look where he was going and totally unaware that a black four wheel drive failed in its attempt to run him down.

David was in no rush. Deliberately riding slow just because he could. He had only recently discovered slow cycling, a simple pleasure like no other. One that was enjoyed only by the knowing, privileged few who were acutely aware of its addiction.

He was now leaving Aldgate which would transform into Stirling in a blink of the eye. No need for haste today. Monday meant a free day in Daivid’s world. Everything looked wonderful to his eyes this morning, his senses alert and attuned, seeing everything and missing nothing, taking in the details with an unquenchable thirst.

Tom was always late and always in a rush, only half prepared and often leaving his spare tube and food behind on the kitchen table. Today was no exception.

The morning itself seemed to take affront to his presence and dismissive attitude towards its beauty and kindly introduced a head wind as a just reward for his ignorance.

David turned away from Stirling happily rolling on towards Lofty. Taking his time and stopping every now again to soak in the wonders that opened up before him. He sincerely wished the morning would not grow up to become day, breaking the magic spell that had engulfed him.

There always seemed to be a head wind when you rode a bike, thought Tom. Punctures also were par for the course, he always managed two on every ride while everyone else seemed to escape the curse. He could’t work that one out.

He was in a mad rush to get to Outer Harbor in time to catch the fast bunch that met there every Monday morning and hammered all the way to Glenelg. They didn’t stop for anyone, not even traffic lights, gave way to no one and showed no respect for any other road user. Driven by a futile and ill considered notion that this form of ‘effort’ produced ‘results’ and made one a superior athlete. The only product of such activity however, was to produce a real road menace and give every cyclist a bad name. Tom thought it exciting, it made him feel like a real cyclist in his mind, which when translated, meant a fast cyclist.

It was getting warmer, not by much, but noticeable, thought David. A signal that the day would eventually become very warm by mid afternoon. He had the day planned for once. Arrive at the gallery by 11.30, then a long, hot shower, change into the new clothes that Annie had bought him in celebration of a recent large sale. Some small talk catching up on the latest news doing the rounds of the galleries, then lunch at the State Gallery before seeing the recent acquisitions and the exhibition of contemporary Australian craft that Annie had been eagerly waiting for. David was not that interested in ceramics or jewelry, but he did have a curious interest in what Annie found so fascinating about Stephen Bird’s naughty and witty Adam & Eve I & II. Annie was also interested in seeing the work by a group of Adelaide ceramists Gus Clutterbuck, Stephanie James-Manttan and Maria Parmenter.

With no interest in anything other than his own whining, paying no attention to what was going on around him, Tom once again failed to notice a black car approaching him fast down a side street to his left. If both continued on their current course they might well reach the junction of the two roads at the same time.

The car had no intention of stopping, for it too was in a hurry and full of intent. The same black four wheel drive that almost collected Tom when he left his house 45 minutes ago. Tom just caught the car out of the corner of his eye and pulled hard on both brakes, locking up his back wheel and squealing to a very unsteady and awkward stop . It was close again, very close.

‘You fucking moron!’ He screamed at the car. ‘Why don’t you watch where your going, you fuck wit!’ He yelled loudly while gesturing with some vigorous hand and finger waving. The car continued on as if nothing happened. But Tom was very angry. Still swearing loudly as he began to ride faster, adrenalin now pumping through him. Tom noticed that the black four wheel drive had stopped about a kilometer down the road. He smiled to himself and decided to catch up with the driver and let him know just what a real bastard he was.

Mother nature again responded to this unpleasant disruption to the morning by strengthening the head wind.

When Tom reached the car, he was out of breath and out of luck. No driver to be seen anywhere. ‘You bastard!’ He was so furious as he rode off he dragged his house key along the side of the shinny black four wheel drive.

Thirty seconds later the black car moved away from the curb and slowly followed Tom from a discrete distance.

David hadn’t made much progress. Too much to see and absorb for a creative mind. He loved the Adelaide hills and saw masterpieces of art everywhere while he recorded quick sketches in a Moleskine sketchbook.

Tom was still in a hurry with no concern to the world around him nor did he recognized the beauty he rushed past. The black car had kept its distance, waiting patiently for the right moment. Then the car accelerated alarmingly, unnoticed by Tom, or anyone else and was now speeding straight towards the back of the solitary cyclist. It hit him at well over 100 kph and didn’t stop.

Back in the day when I thought this blog was a good idea my cunning plan was to keep a few friends, perhaps two, up to date on how I was traveling with my fantasy novel; Mironmure. It was never intended to be a public access blog. But what is the point? Even today I ask the same question.

The only outcome from the once grand proposal was a name for the blog. As for the book, well its still a work in progress as it has been for about 10 years. Mostly 10 years of rewriting the rewritten and then burning the results and starting again. So far so good as I have nothing to show I therefore have nothing to complain about. Even the map; there is always a map in fantasy novels, right? Even the map has been drawn and redrawn at least 30 times. This is more likely due to the fact that I like to draw maps rather than having a real need to reinvent my fantasy world.

The map is currently in what I have demanded is the final edition. I am at the inking stage and appointing place names, which is one of the most enjoyable bits about writing a fantasy novel. Keeping to the original concept of the blog I will post it when completed. As for the books content I am not sure its a good idea to post bits and pieces, so no posts with spoilers. What I will post about is the struggle, the uncertainty, the frustrations and stuff-ups. Plus the research and the process of writing from a complete novice’s point of view.

At the time of writing this blog post all I have is a vague overall concept of the main plot and a list of characters and place names. No doubt these will change once I get into the writing. Stay turned for something more substantial and interesting on Mironmure although I am not in a rush for this book. I intend to spend some time working on this novel as there is a lot of back ground work that needs to be done before I get too far into the writing.

Now, to the other work in progress which is about half way through chapter 3. No title as yet although I did have one when I started, but as usual I dumped it because it was a little off. It is a crime novel with an artist as the main character rather than a drunken, divorced, middle aged cop who bucks the system. My hero’s a successful abstract artist. His preferred drink is water, he is single and rides a bicycle (he does drive but dislikes cars). He is socially inept and a bit of a recluse. He also has some personal ‘issues’ and a few secrets he wants to keep hidden. That is enough gossip for the moment.

In the meantime I am working on some short stories which is rather strange because I never could get into short stories until I read some. Derrr! Really, all it takes is to read some and I thought, these are cool. I should try some of these, and so I am trying some of them. All crap at the moment so no showing here yet although ‘The Opening’ got through the radar somehow. By the way the Robert in ‘The Opening’ is the same Robert in my novel. Therefore you could think that it is likely that Robert will appear in some more short stories as a way of introducing him. You could think that way and maybe I will think that way. Maybe.

‘What did you think of that?’ Annie said to know one in particular.

‘Very odd indeed, I must say,’ said Peter.

‘What was odd? Alena asked as she helped herself to another slice of pizza.

‘You must have been the only one not to notice. I thought it was heading for a punch-up until Howard intervened.’ Tom said.

‘So did I,’ said Susie. ‘Andy was getting way out of control and the other guy had been as cool as a cucumber right up until he accused Andy of being a thief! That look he gave Andy scared the shit out of me. I thought he was about to kill him.’

‘I missed it all as well,’ Charles interjected as he came in from the store room at the rear of the gallery. ‘All packed up, Annie.’

‘Thanks Charles.’ Annie said with a grateful smile.

‘So, what exactly was going on between those two?’ Sussie asked.

‘I really don’t know,’ Annie said. ‘I really don’t know, but I intend to ask Robert Benson tomorrow.’

‘Robert Benson?’ Charles questioned in disbelief. ‘Here, tonight, in this gallery? And nobody thought to come out the back to tell me.’ He said with incredulity.

‘I was as shocked as anyone when I saw him here tonight,’ Annie said. ‘I had never met the guy before. I would never had thought I would see Robert Benson in my gallery, particularly on the opening night of a Andy Sloane exhibition. Only heard the stories like every one else has, the secret past, his odd, anti social behaviour, et cetera. I new who he was of course, seen lots of pictures of him, but to meet him face to face was something else entirely and not what I expected.

I introduced myself and we spoke for quite some time. Even agreeing to meet again tomorrow. All was going great until Benson sighted Andy. He excused himself and said he wanted to “have a serious word with Andrew Sloane.”

‘We didn’t speak again after that.’

Annie stopped talking long enough to refill her glass. She could not reconcile in her mind how in the world Benson and Sloane knew each other. They were chalk and cheese in every way possible, or so she thought. After a moment she said ‘There is plenty left peoples, don’t let it go to waste.’ She gestured towards the left over wine and food. ‘The more you drink and eat now, the less I have to clean up tonight.’

‘I will stay back and help clean up,’ said Tom.

‘Me too, said Susie, ’provided you tell me how you managed to get a date with Robert Benson.’ She added with cheeky grin.

The Benson and Sloane show had lasted only a few seconds, but almost everyone saw and heard it clearly enough. No one could believe their ears when they heard Benson accuse Sloane of art theft. Benson’s accusations and threatening manner had reduced Andy Sloane to a cowering wreck and he left in a hurried, highly agitated state. Benson calmly followed him out into the hot, still night almost immediately. No one moved or said a word until several guests also followed to see if things would carry over into the car park. They returned a  short time later reporting that neither Sloane nor Benson could seen anywhere.

Annie Brookman and the staff of Brookman Gallery continued eating, drinking, and talking, but mostly drinking, late into the night about the surprise appearance of the infamous Robert Benson and the heated exchange with Andy Sloane. None seemed in a hurry to get home. All eager to glean as much as they could about Benson. So much was unknown about him and so few ever got to talk to the man. What amazed them all was that Annie Brookman had secured a date with Benson within five minutes of meeting him. This mere fact, once leaked to the press, would elevated her standing in the art world to legendary proportions. Annie Brookman and the Brookman Gallery, regardless of the Sloane incident, would now be big news, very big news. The possibilities and consequences of which was not lost on any of them and they wanted to savor and party this night until they dropped.

Annie awoke with a major head ache, make that a major body ache, for every part of her seemed to be screaming all at once inside her head. I will never do that agin, she promised.

She was hoping that Susie and Alena were in better condition because they had to  be at the gallery by 8.30am to open at 10am. Annie shuffled towards the shower and stood there for a long time letting the healing power of the hot water work its magic. It wasn’t enough, she waited until the water ran cold. She still felt seedy and swallowed two aspirin.

‘I’ll skip breakfast this morning, Pablo.’ She said to the little Burmese who sat on her bed watching with concern as she dressed. ‘Its OK, Pablo, I will recover eventually.’

The cat just looked at her and closed its eyes. They both did a little jump as the phone sprang unexpectedly to life. ‘Shut the Fuck up,’ Annie yelled at the phone, then immediately regretted it. ‘Oh, my head, my head, why, why, you idiot.’ She was still calling herself names when she picked up the phone.

‘My head, you idiot.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ The male voice said.

‘Oh, I am sorry. You woke me up and I have had a rough night.’

‘Ms Annie Brookman?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am Inspector Patrick Hall, South Australian Police and wonder if I could ask you some questions about last night?

‘Last night? I don’t understand.’ Annie said, suddenly sobering up quickly and wondering what did happen last night.

‘Could we meet you at the gallery, say, 11am?’

‘Yes, I suppose so, but’

‘Good, thank you Ms Brookman, we will see you shortly.’ He hung up.

‘I don’t know. Too much risk and they are not so stupid as get sucked in, besides, can we really trust this guy?’ Questioned the younger man.

‘Playing a gambit in any opening is always a risk, Steven,’ said Detective Chief Inspector John Fisher.

‘Very funny,’ said the Detective Sargent, ‘trust you to bring chess into it. Just because you two play chess together doesn’t mean he..’

‘Steven,’ the Chief Inspector said sharply cutting in on his partner, ‘I have the utmost respect for the man, he is as honest as you or me and he is undoubtedly the most intelligent and creative mind I have ever met. Besides if it doesn’t work, nothing changes except his own reputation. So relax, sit tight and lets see how the game plays out.’

‘Can’t relax in this heat,’ said Steven.

Annie was puzzled and apprehensive. Nothing happened last night except a bit of an exchange of words between Sloane and Benson. Had she missed something? What the hell do the police want? Annie called the gallery to let Alena and Sussie know she was coming in and that the police were interested in last night. Alena also was taken aback at the news. She also told Annie that she thought someone was watching the gallery.  There was a black car parked on the other side of the road when she arrived to open and a man was watching her. He gave her the creeps. Annie was too hung over and too disinterested in engage in idle chit chat .

‘Your an attractive women and men will notice. You wearing those shorts again?’ Said Annie and she hung up without another thought about it and then called a taxi. She didn’t feel like driving.

The two Detectives left Annie’s office at around midday. Alena and Sussie watched them leave and were disappointed that they didn’t stop to asked them questions. Alena noticed the black car that had been watching the gallery all morning began to follow the detective’s car up the road.

The two women didn’t waste any time getting into Annie’s office.

‘What was that all about?’ Said Alena.

‘It doesn’t make sense to me at all’ Annie said.

Annie went on to explain the strange conversation she had with the two detectives. All sorts of questions about stolen artwork, Benson, Andy, where they lived, phone numbers etc,. They even ask her what was the relationship between Benson and her.

‘Imagine that, they though Benson and I were a couple?’ Annie said with amusement.

‘I wish’ said Alena.

The three had a good laugh and as Annie told them more about the questioning the more it made no sense to them either.

She told the police that she didn’t know Benson personally and had only spoken to him for the first time last night, no more than 10 minutes. Then they wanted to know all about their conversation. They claimed she was protecting Benson and that they feared for Andy’s safety. They needed to contact Andy urgently. She told them that Andy probably went on a drinking binge after the opening and is sleeping it off some place.

Surely the police would be able to get Benson’s address and phone numbers, and why ask about Andy’s address if he reported Benson last night? Wouldn’t they already have taken all his details?

‘It doesn’t add up at all, Susie said. ‘What is this about stolen artwork?’

‘Apparently Benson had two large paintings stolen from his studio three weeks ago. The police have been unable to find anything conclusive, but suspect Andy. Benson has insisted that Andy was responsible!’

‘Bullshit,’ said Susie.

‘Andy is no thief,’ added Alena. ‘He is far too nice to be a crook.’

‘Its the quiet ones you have to watch,’ said Susie.

‘The police believe that Andy did take the paintings and that he did a runner last night after Benson confronted him at the opening. They believe Benson followed Andy to where ever and who knows what he may have done.’ Explained Annie. ‘He was pretty angry last night and in the heat of the moment may have done something stupid? Who knows?’

The two young women refused to believe the story and carried on with their own guesses and suspicions about the night before while Annie was away somewhere in deep thought.

Something smells she thought. I am missing something obvious, what, what is it?

May be, perhaps, unless they weren’t the police at all. Annie was having doubts. The phone call, the way they looked and spoke, their questions. It was all very strange and not how she imagined the police to be at all. She didn’t mention her planned meeting with Benson here at the gallery at two that afternoon. But, she did tell them where. ‘Oh, no!’ Annie whispered so quietly that the other two didn’t hear it.

‘I have been a fool.’ She said aloud to herself. ‘A fucking fool!’

‘What?’ Asked Susie.

‘They left as soon as I told them.’ Annie again said aloud to herself. ‘I have been so stupid.’

“Told them what?’ Alena questioned.

‘Annie, how stupid?’ Susie asked. ‘What have you done?’

‘What did you tell them, Annie?’ Alena now beginning to show concern.

‘I told them that if Andy has gone missing he has probably gone to his secret studio. The one he uses when he doesn’t want to be found.’

‘You what!’

‘You didn’t tell them where it is? Did you?’

‘Tell me you didn’t give them the address.’

‘I am so stupid.’ Annie said.

While Alena tried to comfort and reassure Annie that all would work out fine. Susie made a pot of tea, and the three of them sat on the large sofa in Annie’s office in silence while each thought of what to do next. It was now 2.30pm. Robert Benson was supposed to meet Annie here at 2pm. She didn’t expect him to show up now, or ever. But her thoughts were on Andy. Those two weren’t police at all. Annie didn’t even ask for ID. She just assumed. They only wanted to know where Andy was. That is what it was all about. She had been played a fool. They wanted the paintings that Andy had stolen and she had told them where the paintings would most likely be.  She hoped that Andy would not be there when they arrived.

She imagined Andy dead and the paintings gone for good. She felt so terrible and wanted the whole world to just close in on her and burry her deep, so deep that no one would ever find her and she never had see or speak to anyone ever again.

‘There are people in the gallery,’ Susie said softly, not much caring if anyone was there or not. ‘I will send them away,’ she said as got up from the sofa and went into the gallery.

‘Annie!’ Called Susie in a shaky voice.‘Annie!’

Annie and Alena rushed out into the gallery thinking Susie was in trouble, then, just stood still, not moving, not speaking.

Robert Benson had arrived at the gallery all be it an hour late. He also arrived with Andy Sloane and two men who looked like real detectives.

‘Hello ladies!’ said a very happy Andrew Sloane.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Robert Benson.

‘Can we have word,’ said one the detectives.

‘All of us. In your office Ms Brookman.’ The other detective said with authority.

It was close to five o’clocked when they all left the gallery. Annie still seemed to be in shock, so Sussie and Alena closed up and armed the security system. Benson, Sloane and the two detectives had a short private conversation while Annie just stood there trying to come to terms with her mixed emotions and absorb all that they told her.

‘Are you sure you can’t join us, John?’ Robert asked.

‘Afraid not, we have some details to tidy up. May be next time.’ John promised as he and Detective Sargent Steven Matthews shook hands with Robert and Andy.

‘Next time,’ said Robert. ‘You too, Steven.’

‘Soon, and thanks again.’ The two detectives said as they got into their black car and drove away.

Robert turned back to face the three women.

‘Ladies,‘said Robert, ‘would you be so kind?’ He lifted his elbows and Alena and Sussie were only too happy to take an arm each. Just wait until the others hear about this they thought.

‘Come on Annie,’ said Andy. ‘Lets go to dinner and Robert will tell you how he caught two art thieves and set the whole thing up.’

Starting has been the most difficult aspect of the whole process so far. I am not the sharpest tack in the box and being the complete moron that I am, I made the mistake of reading my own drivel too soon and gaged. It was/is so bad. Embarrassing so to say the least, but the only way to get better is to do. We learn best by doing. Get it out and on paper and move on. Having no expectations of success helps. This novel idea was always going to fail and I knew and accepted that fact before starting, but it didn’t make starting any easier. I know I am wasting my time, but that knowledge hasn’t been enough to stop me, I just have to write the bloody thing.

What this blog is to become and how it will develop is anyone’s guess.