ANOTHER INTERLUDE – My Response


Below is a Link to Pete Davison’s site I’M NOT DR WHO in which he blogs daily from Game Reviews to Creative Writing, with general social commentaries in between.  He is currently writing his third fictional story for NaNoWriMo – check out his others as well – based on his personal experiences as a teacher.  Below that is my response to today’s blog – a time-out – in which he kindly mentions me.

http://angryjedi.wordpress.com/2013/11/14/1396-another-interlude/

I can understand the courage and therefore effort required to write like this – I was going to write about my past, but after my initial comments to you which precipitated thinking about it, I found that the demons that had been well and truly dealt with, shoved into the past as negative rubbish while I took the positive forward – always my strong-held belief for coping with crap – raised their ugly heads, penetrated my thoughts at unexpected moments, took over my dreaming mind (both day and night dreaming) and generally made me back-peddle furiously.
What a coward I am. There are some things that were done to me in the name of experimental medicine that should see the light of day. There were other things done in my childhood and teens that carved my pathway even more. But I shudder to put pen to paper – well fingers to keyboard I should say these days. The mind is a traitor. It holds the info locked in cabinets in the basement guarded by crocodiles, as Douglas Adams said, refusing to give it to you when you want it, only to release it in torrents when you haven’t asked. At the merest suggestion that you might open the file it cascades the documents over your head till you are wading in it. How rude!!
Anyway, Pete, I applaud you. When I have controlled my errant demons I might try to get them into some order. Meanwhile I will watch your creative efforts with admiration, not to mention anticipation – I am already hooked on this new story of yours – as I have been by your past ones. Anyone coming across this site should not hesitate to check out your other stories – they will be bowled over. You handle the delicate issues with care, kid gloves, yet without shying away from the truth you are disclosing. Keep going – take respite days off as you are doing – then attack it again. I am sure I’m not the only one watching and waiting and supporting you. 

Jud House  15/11/2013

* * * * *

Pete Davison – WIZARD WITH WORDS


This November, once again Pete Davison has begun writing an unofficial NaNoWriMo work of fiction.  Last year he wrote WASTELAND DIARIES which you will find on his site, http://angryjedi.wordpress.com/ in the side bar.  It was gripping, addictive – each day I’d read his blog before anything else as soon as my computer was on.

His work this year is as acceptional.  As-Yet Untitled Month-Long Work of Fiction, is now up to Chapter 19.  Here is the Link to the first Chapter.

http://angryjedi.wordpress.com/2012/11/01/1018-as-yet-untitled-month-long-work-of-fiction-chapter-1/

Below are some of my comments to Pete on his blog.  You may get an idea of his writing skills from them.  I hope they give you the nudge to click on the above Link and read his work for yourselves.  The first comment was in response to one of his Game Reviews, but leads in nicely to the Novel Comments.  You can see all the comments in his ‘Recent Comments’ and RSS Comments in the sidebar of his blog site.

OMG Pete (am I allowed to say that?) you are a Wizard With Words – in other words
WWW –                         I read your game-play avidly, then laughed aloud before reading the rest of the blog. The writing skills in both are so great – fluent, descriptive, complex yet ‘user friendly’ (I hate that expression but now it is in use I find it hard to think of another way of saying it because it intrudes into my mind and takes over!) Poodoo! Where was I?
Oh yes I was waxing lyrical about your hugely entertaining writing.  (About a different blog.)

A great start Pete. Drawn me in already. A question – is the current ageof your protagonist 18? Or is he now older, experiencing this with memories of 18, the time of the accident? I ask because his ‘voice’ is older, more mature than an 18 yr old, who for example would say “… my dead sister ” rather than “deceased sister”. I guess this could become clearer to us both as you write more. I know that a story unfolds, and you don’t really know where or how this will be till your hand has written the words on the page. It’s the thing I love about writing.
Love it already. Can’t wait till tomorrow!
Also, now I really have to have a go at it. Where oh where will I find the time??!! Paintings to do, blogs to do for 2 sites, games to test, books to read, life to live . . . How the hell do you fit it all in, I ask, baffled?!!

Okay Pete. I’ve started mine too – you’ve nudged me into doing so. Ta mate! https://judsjottings.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=756&action=edit&message=6&postpost=v2
I think that should link you to its page. Or just  judsjottings.wordpress.com  should do so as well. I’d like to know what you think. It might not be worth going on with it. I’m a little unsure. I mean what if the opening is boring? Unlike yours which of course grabs your reader straight away. Mine usually do, but I’m not sure about this. I modified it as I transferred some 3am scribblings into coherence. Hope I didn’t lose the impact of the original. Si g h . . . Why am I doing this? Don’t I have enough on my plate?? Sheeeeeesh! At least, like you, I haven’t officially joined NaNoWriMo this time.

OMG Pete.. You dealt with that tiny age/language issue really well. So impressive. And of course I only know you from what your write, how you write, your apparent nuances and connotations. I don’t know what language level you and your mates used when at Uni. I only know what the young students were like from my mature age position while at my Uni over here. For all I know your language use in casual chatting may have been way more mature and sophisticated than the students I had contact with. Of course in Tutorials was a different thing altogether. And internal monologues are different again, I know.

Anyway, you dealt with it professionally, subtly, smoothly – integrated it as part of the natural narrative. And as it passed me by I didn’t stop to check it over, just rolled on through, as I should, following the text, the dialogue, on and on. It has been worth the wait – a whole long year of waiting – till you started your new unofficial NaNoWriMo. Actually – I need to correct that a little – is it just me, or does it feel like it’s been only about 6 months of waiting? I can’t believe that It’s nearly New Year – if I survive Xmas first of course.

No pressure mate . . . but I want more, more, more!

OMG!!! Sorry Pete, but your writing is so powerful that I can’t help saying it. I will probably want to start any comment to you this month with OMG!
I was almost not breathing when I was reading some of that. Gripping is the word. And I can hear you through it – your voice is so open, psychological, emotional, and delving, deep, deep into the characters.
It’s how I wish I were brave enough to write – it’s all there waiting for me to release it, but I hold back so I don’t shock or embarrass family. What a wuss I am.
I have already had 3 hits on my SINGAPORE SLASHER, so I suppose I had better get on with whatever is coming next in the story. I wonder what that will be??
Is it tomorrow yet? I want to read the next chapter of your work. Stuff mine. :!

I don’t want to keep bothering you, but hitting LIKE doesn’t seem enough somehow.
This is remarkable writing, especially considering it is ‘on the fly’. It leaves me breathless. I could see where it was going just before it went there, but that doesn’t lessen its impact! I wish I could say “Stuff all the other things you are doing in order to make a living, just get on with the f’n story because I can’t wait till tomorrow – and after all “It’s all about meeee.” S i g h . . . Abject apologies for losing control there. Deep breaths. Calm. Patience.
Is it tomorrow yet? Are we there yet?

Am writing a disclaimer for my SINGAPORE SLASHER to the effect that I need to do a lot more research before it is an accurate story set in Singapore. That way I can just let the story unfold and fix all the stuff-ups later. Otherwise I will have to write a different story completely and shelve this one till I can approach it with research in hand.

See you tomorrow Pete.

“Argh, dammit WordPress, don’t close my comment window before I’ve posted it! Ahem. Let me try again and try to remember what I just typed and promptly lost.

Re: the perspective thing, yes, it’s a challenge, but it can work. As a matter of fact, some of the “visual novel” games I’ve been playing recently handle this exceptionally well. One called Deus Machina Demonbane is the example that sticks most prominently in my head — that has a first-person “player protagonist” whom the majority of the story unfolds from the perspective of, but occasionally switches to a third-person omniscient narrator for things that are happening elsewhere without the awareness of the protagonist.

Demonbane never explicitly says “we’re switching perspectives now” though. It makes it immediately clear to the player/reader through the contrasting “voices” of the narrators. Kurou the protagonist is informal, “human” and somewhat world-weary. He often addresses the player/reader directly, and the things he describes are tinged with his own feelings rather than cold detachment. By contrast, the rather Lovecraftian third-person narrator uses rather overblown language and descriptions to make everything sound rather “grand” and spectacular. It’s an effective technique that can be used well in traditional novels too, though you have to take real care to get that “voice” right.

For this, though, I think I’ll be sticking with the single perspective. I did the multiple perspectives thing last year. I could probably work it in to this, but it’ll be a good experiment to try and stick with a single one this time around. We shall see. ” Pete Davison

 Your handling of the First Person narrative is masterful. You stay with your character all the time, and are not tempted to shift into third person to inform us of the actions of the other characters. This is a trap I fall into. I think I need to fill in the gaps for the readers, but you just refer to where they are going and leave it at that – and stay with your first person character – your protagonist. It’s wonderful stuff, and keeps the reader focussed and involved. I will give it a try next time to see how liberating it might feel.

That was neatly done Pete. The section in the middle I mean. It gave me a feeling of deja vu, to the point where I went back through your previous chapters from the first one forward to see which one you had lifted it from. I stopped at about no 6 as I didn’t think it was beyond that. I was thinking what a cool idea that was continuity-wise to repeat a section as a flash-back. But you hadn’t. It was the stuff about the being chased nightmare, and then the clock radio digits which you did use from the beginning that gave this impression.
But the fact that you hadn’t, meant that it was the totally believable familiarity of that section that created the impression – a going back over known territory – a great device.
Don’t think I am reading this in an analytical mind-set – I am gripped by the story, speed through it avidly, pick on the emotive nuances and subtleties, comprehend where the story is going as it happens, and as I finish each chapter sit back with a smile on my face in total satisfaction, and admiration for your ability to write this well ‘on the fly’. In fact I find as I’m reading it that I speak to the characters, telling them what the obvious answer is to their questions, and saying “Of course it’s that” when they get there. I am an outside observer though, caught up in their tale, while they are embroiled in the confusion and emotions of the events.
I’ve tried not to comment for a few days, so you don’t feel bombarded, nor overseen by me – if you get that? But I am waving the flags, tooting the horns, and generally cheering from the sidelines for you. Like in a rock concert, I want to yell “More! More! More!”
PS: By the timeyou finish this novel, I will have an essay on it from all my comments!!

Wow!  Dynamic!  Dynamite!

SINGAPORE SLASHERS – Part 4


This is my NaNoWriMo entry Part 4.

(While all locations are real, by necessity and for authenticity, the events and characters are entirely fictitious.  Please read this as a Draft.  I am writing this from memory.  Please excuse inaccuracies.  I will amend these as I get the chance to peruse my old diary entries and copious brochures and pamphlets I acquired while living there.  A murder mystery requires research, but in order to try to keep up with the spontaneity of NaNoWriMo projects, I will get on with the narrative, and tidy up the errors in the Second Draft stage.)

Singapore Slasher – Part 4

Next morning the team arrived at Orange Grove Road for a more thorough search, while as predicted a snarl of traffic snaked along the road, squeezing through the narrowed section with inches to spare.  But nothing was found.  No sign of the weapon.  No traces in the undergrowth, behind the gate, behind the wall, in the gutter other than soggy leaves washed there by the early morning drizzle, or on the pavement.  Apart from the already-swabbed, coagulated blood on the steps, and a ‘clean patch’ on the darker aged pavement at the base of the steps, there was nothing.  The team had also swabbed this area the night before to determine if detergents had been used there.  These samples were in the CSI laboratories awaiting testing.

Watching the writhing traffic from her living room window vantage point, Lara Castle cradled her coffee mug against her chest, and turned down the corners of her mouth.

“Troy’s not gonna be happy about this, then.  He’s gonna blame me.  Bugga.”

She turned away, replenished her coffee, and turned on the TV.  The news was full of the story of the murder.  A rare occurrence in Singapore, it warranted the major news time-slot, with ‘On The Scene’ footage.  There on the screen was the crime scene, a close-up of the blood on the steps, pulling back past the fluttering Police Tape, and the searching minions in their eerie jumpsuits, to a generic reporter in her make-up, sleek hair, and fitting suit, speaking at a higher pitch and, due to the traffic, higher volume.  The fact that the TV crew and their vans were adding to the congestion didn’t seem to faze her at all.  It just increased the horn honking.  Suddenly Troy moved into the shot.  Lara gasped.

“Here is Mr Troy Castle, whose wife discovered the body last night.”  She shoved a hand-held microphone into his face.  “Tell me, Mr Castle, what happened?”

“My wife was coming home from work late last night, when she found the body sprawled on the steps over there.”  He pointed behind him to the steps in the background, leaving no doubts as to the exact location of the crime.  This ensured that all the ghouls and thrill seekers would know exactly which steps to have their photos taken in front of, as soon as the crime scene tape was gone.

“Why was she late?”  The mike was thrust towards him again, then retracted as she added, “And why was she walking alone in the dark at such a time?”

Disconcerted at the twist to his first statement, Troy’s eyebrows snapped together into a scowl.  The reported smirked.  “She always walks home late at night. She teaches at a language school and the classes are always after hours.”

It was the reporter’s turn to look a little disappointed – she’d expected a bigger bite, an angrier response than that.  She tried again.  “Well, can you tell me what happened?”  She smiled encouragingly.

“She, my wife, was walking home, came round that bend (pointing), and there it was.  Sprawled on the steps.  With its head back and its throat cut.”

Delighted by these salacious details – a real bonus – she rewarded Troy with a wonderful smile.  Mollified, and smoothing his already slick hair, he grinned back at her.  She edged a little closer to him.  “How do you know these details, Mr Castle?”

“Because I saw the body too.  I came down with her to wait for the Cops – the Police.  And there it was.  Well, there she was.  It was a pretty Singapore girl.  Lovely hair, and tiny feet.  But dead.  Quite dead.”

The reporter took a step back from him.  This was a little more than she had expected, and though it was much more than she’d hoped for, and could only boost her career chances, there was something rather unsettling about the way he had responded.

“Well, that’s all for now,” she began, but Troy interrupted her.

“It’s a damn nuisance though.”

Startled she said, “What?!” a thing she tried to never to say – well not like that.

“Well.  Look at all this bloody traffic.  How am I supposed to get to work on time now?”  Troy waved his arms around indicating the very obvious traffic, totally oblivious to the fact that he had just cursed on Singaporean television.

Watching the screen, mouth open in shock at Troy’s revelations, but not at his attitude, Lara hoped there would be no repercussions.  Shaking her head at his folly, she moved to the bathroom.  She needed to shower and dress, then catch a taxi to the police complex to make her statement.

* * *

In his office earlier than normal – the investigation of murder wasn’t the norm – DI Lim watched the screen in disgust.  How could that Expat be so indiscreet?  Now he would have to go into immediate damage control.  And he’d probably get dressed down by his Superior.  He shook his head, lips in a tight line.  What a way to start an important investigation.

The door crashed open as DS Lee burst into the room.

“Sir.  Sir.  Did you see that on TV?”  He registered, the news footage on the TV screen behind his boss’s shoulder, then the angry expression on his boss’s face.  “Oh.  You did.”

Other than compressing his lips till the line became white, Lim didn’t respond, but turned to move behind his desk.  “I will deal with that man when he comes in to make his statement after work.  I should go down and haul him out of work, when he gets there, but as we didn’t take down those details last night we can’t do so.  Well we could go back to the apartment and get them from his wife, but I think we’ll just hit him with it when he gets here.  He won’t expect it.”

Lee nodded, afraid to comment.

Realising that he should have stopped speaking after the first sentence, Lim sighed, shuffled some papers on his desk, and asked, “Has the post mortem report come in yet?”

“Just a preliminary one so far, Sir.  Throat cut by a right-handed person.  And it looks like someone washed her feet carefully, and creamed them.  And her hands as well.”

“Like she had a pedicure, and manicure?”

“Yes, Sir.  Same, same.”  As Lim frowned, he added, “It looks like that, Sir.”

“A right-handed person doesn’t help us much – that’s the majority of the population.”  He tapped his pen on the desk.  “Nothing else?  Had she been interfered with?  There was semen in her hair.  Was it anywhere else?”

“Yes, Sir.  It was in her hair.  And some on her neck.  And her knickers, her panties were missing, Sir.”  Lim’s eyebrows shot up.  “They had been removed.  We didn’t notice before, because her knees were together.”  Lim nodded, as an image of the girl, sprawled up the steps, knees together and feet placed carefully on the pavement, flashed into his mind.

“What about ID?  Did they find any purse or handbag?  Any ID cards?”

Lee shook his head.  “Nothing, Sir.”

“Did they look in the gardens of the Shangri-La?”

Lee nodded.  “Yes, Sir.  Nothing there, Sir.”

“Widen the search area.  Look in all the garbage bins, and dumpsters, and skips, at all the buildings along Orange Grove Road, and Stevens Road.  Maybe they’ve been thrown in a bin nearby.”

“I’ll arrange it now, Sir.”  Lee moved towards the door.

“Then come back here.  We need to go to the Shangri-La and look for witnesses.  And I think we’ll go and talk to Mrs Castle on her own.”

“She is coming in this morning, Sir.  To give her written statement and sign it.  Will we wait for her?  Or go to the Shangri-La first.”

“Yes.  Yes, she is.  Bother.  I wanted to talk with her first.”  He paced up and down a few times while trying to mentally sort out his priorities.  “I think we’ll head over to the Shangri-La first.  We don’t want to alienate the Manager.  If Mrs Castle arrives while before we return, she can give her statement to DC Yeo.  And then wait for us.  Then we can add to it after we chat with her.  See to it.”

Lee nodded, then hurried out.

* * *

In a Salon on the third floor of Lucky Plaza on Orchard Road, a pretty Singaporean girl reclined into the relaxation of the special massage/pedicare chair, and wriggling her toes presented her feet for attention.  She smiled into the face of her attendant.

(C) Jud House  15/11/2012

* * * * *

SINGAPORE SLASHERS – Part 3


This is my NaNoWriMo entry Part 3.

(While all locations are real, by necessity and for authenticity, the events and characters are entirely fictitious.  Please read this as a Draft.  I am writing this from memory.  Please excuse inaccuracies.  I will amend these as I get the chance to peruse my old diary entries and copious brochures and pamphlets I acquired while living there.  A murder mystery requires research, but in order to try to keep up with the spontaneity of NaNoWriMo projects, I will get on with the narrative, and tidy up the errors in the Second Draft stage.)

Singapore Slasher – Part 3

Back in the apartment a silence had set in.  Troy shoved their now cold dinner into the microwave to reheat, then plonked the hot plates down on the table mats and flung himself into his chair.  He began to eat, cutting the food with sharp movements, stabbing the meat with his fork, chewing aggressively.

“Why do you always have to get involved in things?  In other people’s business.” He scowled at her lowered face.

She raised her head and looked him straight in the eyes.  “It’s funny, isn’t it?  That’s just what I was expecting you to say.  Not ‘what an awful night you’ve had’.  Not ‘what a dreadful thing to find’.  But that somehow, by walking home from work, I had brought this on myself.  Somehow caused this murder to happen so I could find it and get involved.”

With shaking hands she placed her cutlery as neatly as she could on the plate, folded her napkin, pushed her chair back, and left the table.  She picked up her handbag, and her keys, and left the apartment.  He didn’t speak.  He didn’t make a move to follow her.  He just sat there fuming.

Outside, the humidity smothered her as it always did when she left any air-conditioned environment.  She made her way to the lift, rode it down to the ground floor, then walked through the collonade of bourgainvillea to the pool.  Hitching up her good work skirt, she sat on the edge, dangling her legs in the water.  The breeze was cool by Singapore standards – her standards now as she had acclimatized some time ago – and ruffled her hair and clammy face and neck.

Not for the first time, she asked herself why she stayed with him.  She knew he had this side to him.  This need to control – to be the boss – to blame her for anything that went wrong.  If there was ever an accident it was “Why did you do that?”  Not “Are you hurt?  Are you okay?” Nor even, “How did it happen?”.  He had so many nice characteristics – he could be kind, though not often; he was clever and not boastful, though he never seemed to recognise that she was clever too; he was diligent at work – a workaholic in fact – and stuck to what he believed, even when proved wrong.  Stubborn.  Controlling with money, yet generous to others.  They shared humour – when they saw things that amused them together – but not verbally.  You had to converse to do that.  And they didn’t do that much, because he was ‘all talked out’ by the time he got home.  That’s why she had taken this teaching job – to be with people and have conversations.

Yet if any of these things were pointed out to him, he just denied them flat.  He did not recognise that he was like this.  He was Mr Wonderfullo.  He’d do a little dance to make her laugh – and she couldn’t help herself – she had to laugh.  He could be such a clown.  It was like the cloud of repression that surrounded him would lift and he’d behave without inhibitions, a free spirit.  But only briefly.  Then the restraints would descend and he’d resume his usual negativity.

She realised, sitting there with her legs licked by the almost tepid water, that that was why she stayed with him.  Every time she saw this breaking free, this exposure of the clown, the closest he came to a sense of ridiculousness that she had as part of her humour, she felt that there was hope for him – and for them.  She sighed, withdrawing her legs from the pool.  Sloughing off the water from her legs with her hands, she slipped her sandals back on, and headed back to the apartment.

* * *

Down in the street, the Police Tape was up, ribbons of authority defining the crime scene, the ‘no go area’.  By the morning, the traffic that  used Orange Grove Road as a short-cut between the northerly Stevens Road and the junction with the south-westerly Tanglin Road and the south-easterly Orchard Road, would be snarling through the now restricted winding undulating hazardous street, causing jams at either end and along the three tributaries.  People from the adjoining apartments would be trying to exit their driveways into the unyielding stream of vehicles, cursing in the saunas that their car interiors would become.  Taxis, shuttle buses, and delivery vans would be trying to enter the driveways of these apartments and hotels, holding up the jammed line behind them, and succeeding only in allowing a tenant to pull swiftly out to be replaced by the next in line.  Chaos and noise would ensue.  But no-one would remove the Police tape, or brashly just drive through it.  This was extremely law-abiding Singapore.  Besides they would also be curious as to what the tape was doing there – it was rarely seen by the general public.

In the cool of the night, the tape fluttered, reflecting in the glistening road, now damp from the misting air.  In the gutter a tiny trickle of water moved past the Shangri-La,  around the sharp curve dropping towards the bottom of the S-bend in front of the RELC Building, then the apartment complex driveway, then vanishing from sight as it rounded the next bend.  Orange Grove Road embraced this complex, bringing the heavy peak traffic twice a day, a steady flow during the day, and a quiet swish of the occasional car at night.

The gardens that jostled for space, created a false oasis, an apparent peace, a liquid green tranquillity that was shot with flashes of daffodil yellow as small birds flitted amongst the dank lush foliage.  Tropical flowers thrived – Helaconia, Frangipani, Orchids, Bougainvillea – their colours splashing the flashy architecture at every glance.  It was an exotic, lush, glorious heady mixture.

But on the steps, the colour was not from petals.  The bright red had already changed to dark ruby as it coagulated.  In this mist, the likelihood of it drying was minimal.  Until the entire area had been thoroughly searched, both the blood and the police tape would remain.  The young Constable, looking as many Singaporians look, at least ten years younger, stood on the pavement  near the steps.  Not too near in case there was still evidence they hadn’t found in the dim streetlighting supplemented by torchlight.  His was a boring yet onerous task, and it was important that he be alert, as the DI had made quite clear to him.  There was always a slim chance that the culprit might return.

A visible shudder shook his slender body, and he glanced around anxiously.  He fiddled with his cigarette packet in his pocket, wishing he could indulge but knowing that would be ‘out of bounds’.  He could not contaminate the crime scene with his ash or butts.  At the thought of the DI finding one of his damp squashed cigarette butts, he shuddered again, his face momentarily distorted by sudden dread.  His hands dropped to his sides and he stood to attention.

Finally home, his wife, Wan, called out to the DI from their bed “That you , Jun lah.”

“Yes.  Sorry I am so late.  There has been a murder in Orange Grove Road.”

“Was it bad this killing?”  She stood by the bedroom door, her silk dragon gown folding round her slight frame.  As he always did, on seeing her Lim felt a rush of warmth, of enveloping good luck that she was still his.

“Yes.”  He passed her wearily, touching her face fleetingly with his fingertips as he made his way to the bathroom.  The hot water washed away the clinging miasma of death that always resulted from contact with these violent crimes.  He stood there lathering and rinsing until he felt his shoulders relax.  Then he turned off the water, clambered out of the bath, over which the shower hung, and dried himself vigorously.  He cleaned his teeth, quickly shaved – better to do it now in case he gets called out again during what was left of the night – and joined his wife in the comforting dark of their bedroom.  The thick shantung drapes had blockout linings, and tulle behind them for daylight hours.  This ensured a dark sleeping chanber no matter what hour of the day or night he lay down.

“You want to talk about it yet?”  Wan was curious, but also was his sounding board.  he often talked to her about his cases, as it helped clarify his thoughts, arrange his perspectives, and often provided sudden solutions.  She was highly educated, held a respectable, and respected, position in one of the Ex-Pat apartment/shopping complexes near Orchard Road, and so was a capable listener.  It was necessary for her work to be adept at listening to others in order to solve their problems.  She had many satisfied clients.

“Not really.  I need to sleep.  We have to examine the scene at first light in case we missed something.  The sooner we can release the road from ‘out of bounds’ the better.  The traffic will be awful.  I’ll tell you about it tomorrow when I get home.”  He sighed.  She put her hand on his chest, leaned forward and brushed his cheek with her lips.  He smiled.

“Sleep well.”  Wan  turned over into her customary position facing the outside of the bed, snuggled into her pillow a little, then drifted back to sleep.

Lim gazed into the dark, then slowly lowered his eyelids.

(C) Jud House  10/11/2012

* * * * *

SINGAPORE SLASHER – Disclaimer


While all locations are real, by necessity and for authenticity, the events and characters are entirely fictitious.

Due to the fact that Crime novels are not exactly compatible with the NaNoWriMo writing method – that of pushing out 1800 words a day, writing on the run, free-wheeling, or whatever other cliche suits you – I feel compelled to inform you that if I am to do just that, then it’s imperative that you read the story as a Draft.

Normally I would take the time to do research regarding the judiciary system, police procedures, language nuances etc, prior to commencement.  It is about 10 years since I lived in Singapore, for 8 months, but it seems that that has made my memory of dialogic quirks fade making me unsure of the authenticity of the work for the reader, and squashing the spontaneity.  Also having had no contact with the police, I am unsure how they would address each other – formally or informally.

Having said that I will proceed with the story ‘on the fly’, let it unfold, and take me and you where it will, and return when all is done to fix the glaringly obvious after some research – which, with a bit of luck, might entail another trip to Singapore!

Jud House  9/11/2012

* * * * *

SINGAPORE SLASHER – Part 2


This is my NaNoWriMo entry Part 2.

(While all locations are real, by necessity and for authenticity, the events and characters are entirely fictitious.  Please read this as a Draft.  I am writing this from memory.  Please excuse inaccuracies.  I will amend these as I get the chance to peruse my old diary entries and copious brochures and pamphlets I acquired while living there.  A murder mystery requires research, but in order to try to keep up with the spontaneity of NaNoWriMo projects, I will get on with the narrative, and tidy up the errors in the Second Draft stage.)

Singapore Slasher – Part 2

Detective Inspector Lim JiaJun looked down at the sprawled body, then sadly shook his head and sighed.

“Poor girl,” he said softly, to himself.  Turning, he waved the SOCO team to go ahead, then moved over to where the Australians stood, half turned away from the coming indignities that the dead girl would go through, yet not wishing to leave in case it were the wrong thing to do.

“You are Lara Castle?  I believe you called the crime in to the SPF?”  Still he spoke quietly, but there was no doubt as to his authority.  A quiet authority.  Impressive.

“Yes.”  Lara nodded.  Then shivered.  The night was clammy and a little cool now.  “I ran – well staggered actually – up to our apartment complex over there,” pointing towards it, “as soon as I saw she was dead.  I didn’t touch her.  I could see the gash on her throat.”  Drawing a ragged breath, as she relived the moment, she continued.  “I called from the lobby.  Well – the Concierge called for me, then I spoke to someone and told them.  About the body.  And where it was.  They said to wait by the body till you came.”

DI Lim nodded.  “What time did you find her?  And how long before you returned?”

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t look at the time.  All I could think of was to call you, the police, as quick as I could.  To get you here.  But the Concierge may know.  And the phone record will tell you.”  She paused, then added, “I’m sorry.  I didn’t come straight back here.  I went to our flat and told Troy what had happened and that I had to go back, come back down here.  I wanted him to come with me.  I didn’t want to stand here alone waiting in the dark.  I didn’t feel her skin so I didn’t know if the killer was still here watching, or if he had long gone.”

DI Lim had been listening and watching her closely.  She was obviously someone who believed in accuracy – she had corrected little details as she spoke – so was probably honest and truthful.  Her husband had said nothing so far.   He turned to him.

“Can you verify that?  And do you know what time it was?”

“Yep.  I reckon it was about twenty past nine when she came in.  Roughly.”

“I knock off at the school where I teach English at eight thirty.  It’s in a side street off the Raffles end of Orchard Road.  It takes me about half an hour or a bit more, to walk home, depending on whether I have to wait for traffic lights, or if there’s things I stop to look at.”

DI Lim suppressed a smile.  Not the right time to be smiling.  But he liked this woman.  “And was there anything to look at tonight?”

“Not really.  And I got mostly green lights, though I had to wait by the old Art Deco theatre.  You know, the one they are remodelling, or renovating into apartments.  I love that building.  I wish it would stay as a theatre.”  She smiled unconsciously.

“Lara.”  Troy spoke sharply, startling her.  “He doesn’t want to hear that rubbish.”

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to waste your time.”  She swallowed convulsively, then looked Lim in the eyes and proceeded.  “No.  I had a good walk home, till I got to the bend and the steps, and the – body.”  Another shiver.  “Poor girl.  I wonder who she is.  And why  she ended up like that.  No-one deserves that!”  Her suddenly angry voice echoed along the street, shattering the silence that had descended once the police sirens were turned off.

DI Lim took a step back, Troy put his hand on her shoulder and gave a little shake, the SOCO team all lifted their heads, looked at her, then returned to their tasks.  Camera flashes flickered intermittently.  In the trees a night bird called and was answered from a distance.

“Sorry.”  Another apology.  Why would this woman need to keep apologising.  Insecure?  Looks like her self-esteem takes a bit of a pounding from her husband.

“It’s not a problem.  You have been very clear with your statement.  It is appreciated.”  Formality over, he felt oddly compelled to add,  “Your concern is natural.  We all feel it.  We always do.”  Then returning to formal mode, “We will need your statement written and signed.  Can you come tomorrow to the Police Cantonment Complex?  It’s 391 New Bridge Road, Block C.”

“Yes. of course. Taxi drivers would know where it is, wouldn’t they?  What time should I come?”

“In the morning would be good, so we have it at the start of the investigation.”

Troy scowled.  “What about me?  Do I have to come too?  I have to be at the shipyards at seven.”

“No.  But if you could come in on your way home to add a small statement from when your wife arrived home till we arrived that would be appreciated.”

“So you really mean ‘Yes.'” Troy grinned suddenly, unexpectedly.  “No problems.  I’ll come after work.  Thanks.”  As Lim nodded then turned away, Troy asked, “Can we go now?  I think my wife needs some dinner.”

“Yes.  You can go.  Thank you.”

Dismissed, the couple hurried away to begin their climb up their steep driveway.

“What have you found?” Lim asked his Detective Sergeant, Lee Ong, who was squatting over the body, now that the SOCO team had moved away to pack up their equipment.

As Lim joined him beside the girl, Lee said, “Not a lot, Sir.  There’s no ID on her, no purse, no jewellery.  It could have been a robbery, Sir.  Maybe she resisted too much.”  He shook his head.  “But I don’t really think so.  Her clothes have been disturbed.  SOCO found semen, Sir.  In her hair.”

They looked down sadly at what had been a pretty girl – glossy black hair cut in a long bob just below shoulder-length.  Her full lips were parted in a grimace, her eyes wide open, still staring.  Her once lithe body flung like a discarded ragdoll, with legs spread but turned in at the knees, and her arms out and away from her sides, her delicate wrists kinked, her palms up, with lotus-petal nails.  Her feet were bare.  And clean.  And seemed to be placed exactly neatly on the pavement beneath the bottom step.  Lim raised his eyebrows.

“Did SOCO get a snap of that,” he asked, pointing at the feet.

“Yes, Sir.  We all noticed that.  It’s like it’s the only tidy thing about her.”   He reached down and lifted her foot gently in his palm.  Beneath it, the pavement was also clean and dry.  Lim widened his eyes, then looked into Lee’s expectant face.  “I know, Sir.”

“Well done, Lee.  Call the photographer back to take some snaps of that also, please.”  He straightened up.  “They can take her away now.  Did the search of the steps, walls, street, undergrowth and gateway find anything?  We’ll need to get that checked in the daylight, thoroughly.  And maybe into the grounds of the Shangri-La.  I’ll have to talk to the management so that they know what is happening.”

They stood together watching as the body of the pretty girl was loaded into the mortuary van and quietly driven away up the hill towards Orange Grove Road/Orchard Road/Tanglin Road corner.

(C) Jud House  5/11/2012

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SINGAPORE SLASHER – Part 1.


This is my NaNoWriMo entry Part 1.

(While all locations are real, by necessity and for authenticity, the events and characters are entirely fictitious.  Please read this as a Draft.  I am writing this from memory.  Please excuse inaccuracies.  I will amend these as I get the chance to peruse my old diary entries and copious brochures and pamphlets I acquired while living there.  A murder mystery requires research, but in order to try to keep up with the spontaneity of NaNoWriMo projects, I will get on with the narrative, and tidy up the errors in the Second Draft stage.)

Singapore Slasher – Part 1.

The thing about Singapore is its air of ‘Safety’.  Although a fair size city of multi-cultural enclaves housing millions of people, there is very little apparent crime.  True – you could see unobtrusively-guarded orange-overalled gangs picking up litter and cleaning the street gardens at times during the day, but their crime was Littering.  It was the cleanest city she had seen.  Mind you some of the rules were a tad over the top, yet the resulting benefit was evident – for example the No Chewing/Bubble Gum Law.  It was great to not see jaws continually grinding and rotating, no bubbles being blown at inappropriate times and places, and for that matter no spitting either.  Manners prevailed – mostly – despite the diversity of cultures.  Amazing really.

She couldn’t quite adjust to the fact that she could walk home from teaching English at the language school late at night, the full length of the well-lit Orchard Road, then down along the less-lit Orange Grove Road with no sense of danger, no feeling of anxiety, no looking over her shoulder ‘just in case’.  It was very odd.  Back home in Australia she couldn’t do that.  Not even in the outer suburb of Perth by the ocean where she lived.  She would not feel safe.

Yet here she was, strolling along, alone, late at night, unaccosted, past the pick-up-bars busy plying their trade, past the boy-girls sitting on the pavement walls, smoking, chatting and calling to passers-by, in complete confidence.  It was amazing.  As if she was a different person – unafraid and carefree.

The first time, her husband had met her at the school and they’d strolled home together.  The city was much quieter at this time of night, peaceful, very little traffic and relatively few people on the street.  Those that were, were clustered around the supermarkets and food halls that were still open, though preparing to close down.  The air was cool and moist – it was always moist in this city.  The aroma of Singapore noodles wafted out of the food halls as they passed.  Their footsteps echoed on the pavement.

It was a chance to look at the city without the obstructive noisy pushing jostling crowds that needed your full attention to navigate safely.  Odd word to use, but a different kind of safety.  One of reaching your destination in the neat unfrazzled state in which you set out.  Of not getting crowded off the pavement and into the road.  Of not having people step out of doorways without looking right in your path, stepping on you if necessary.  Of not being accosted by tailors trying to sell you a suit – “Do I look like I want a suit?!”  Orchard Road is quite a long road, with many Hotels, commercial premises of all types, restaurants, government buildings with wonderful gardens, then shops, shops, shops, majestic Emporiums, underground malls interconnecting with shop-lined tunnels, cinema complexes, food halls galore, and bars.  During the day it is constantly busy.  On weekends there is easily a hundred thousand people moving along it.  She learned to avoid it at the weekends.

But at night it was peaceful, serene, mystical, enchanting.  At night she had time to look at the city, to drink in its atmosphere, her surroundings, and admire the buildings.  The architecture was wonderful, colourful, stylish, a real mixture of designs, making it stimulating to live amongst.  And fun.  There was even a building decorated as a Mondrian painting.  Fantastic.  She loved the Singapore architecture.  And the city seemed to change from week to week – certainly month to month.  How could they build so fast?!

Sometimes, when her husband met her, they’d have a bite to eat at a food hall, or grab some groceries from a market store, as they passed, to cook for a very late meal when they got home.  But other times, if it was very late, she would walk home alone, then have the meal he’d cooked when she arrived.  It was a different pace of life there – a different pattern of living.  They went out for casual meals frequently – food was so cheap in the food halls and cafes.  They spent their weekends visiting places – Botancial Gardens, the Zoos, both day, and night zoos, Sentosa Island, exploring the various computer-mart complexes, riding the MRT out to the suburbs to visit the Chinese Gardens, the Boat Quay and Clarke Quay, Raffles Hotel, the CBD, and on and on.  She loved it.  She felt like she really ‘had a life’.

Mind you the humidity was hard to take at times.  Thank goodness their apartment complex had a pool and spa in which she could cool down.  They had a poolside barbeque once a month for all the tenants which was socially bonding.  There were many people living there on a permanent basis, others semi-permanent like she and her husband – just there for the duration of a contract, while others were more like hotel guests.  But it made it feel more like home, as people became familiar faces, then friends.

So it was so shocking when she turned into Orange Grove Road, passed the Shangri La Hotel, and found the body propped against the steps to the rear gate at the corner of their wall.  It was obvious that it was dead.  It was not curled up in a peaceful sleeping position.  It was sitting on the bottom step with legs extended, draped back up the steps, head back on the top step, eyes staring into the jungle that dangled down the walls, sides and over the top of the gate-arch.  Across the exposed throat was a dark gash, visible even in the dim light and shadows cast from the nearby street light.

She took a step closer, peered, then backed away and ran down to the steep driveway of her apartment complex.  Reaching the Security Box just inside the gate, she discovered that the nightwatchman wasn’t there.  So she struggled up the slippery, steep, always-difficult drive to the lobby, where she staggered in, gasping.  Calling out, she banged her hand, rapid fire, onto the lobby counter bell.

“There’s been a murder.  Call the Police!  Are you there?  Can you hear me?  Call the Police!”

A startled Concierge emerged from the back room.

“Call the Police.  Let me speak to them.  Quickly.”

Luckily for her, the Concierge knew her well, enjoyed chats with her daily, understood her character as intelligent, humorous, practical, so realised that this was serious and not just hysteria or a prank.  While she regained her breath, and regained her composure, the Concierge dialled the counter phone, spoke, then handed it over.

After identifying herself, she explained what she had found and exactly where – calmly, precisely.  Handing it back to the Concierge, she thanked her, then turned to walk through the walkway by the pool, to the lifts.  At her apartment she told her disbelieving husband.

“There’s been a murder.  I have to go back down there and wait by the body till the police come.”

“No.  Stay here.  They’ll come to you when they are ready.”

“No. I have to go down and wait by the body.  So nothing gets touched.  They said so.  Please come down with me.  I don’t want to stand there alone, in the dark street.”

Dubiously, he shook his head.  Then, seeing her determination to do the right thing despite her vulnerability, agreed.  They returned down the treachorous drive, around the bend, to wait at the bottom of the steps.  After a glance to see that the body was still there, and in the same position as before, assumably untouched, they stood with their backs to it looking anxiously up and down the street.

Now it didn’t feel safe any more, even with her husband beside her.  Her heightened senses saw movements in the foliage, heard the creaking, twitching and scraping of leaves on leaves, the branches on walls, night creatures scurrying, fossicking in the overgrowth.  Singapore was continually overgrown – constantly being trimmed, cut back, pruned, brought under control.  Then it would rampantly break out again – usually in colourful abundance, which was a delight to see.   Except down the alleys where the mould also broke out and festered in the humidity, turning the walls to slime.

The arrival of the Police shattered the peace, shocking the neighbourhood.

(C) Jud House  4/11/2012

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