The Return of Winter

*This is a work of fiction*

The call came through just as Detective Dylan Carter was prepared to call it a night. He was sitting staring blankly at his computer screen, willing it to reveal some clue he was convinced he had missed, when the shrill sound of the phone jolted him back to reality. His partner, pacing the width of his desk opposite him, leapt and grabbed the receiver, jamming it to his ear.

‘Hollis.’

Pause.

‘Huh-huh. Huh-huh.’

Another pause. Carter picked up a pen and started to roll it between his fingers.

‘You’re sure?’ Hollis stopped pacing. ‘Alice, don’t fuck with me.’

Carter heard the woman on the other end laugh and couldn’t stop the grin growing on his own face.

‘Great, thanks Alice,’ Hollis hung up a few moments later and whistled for Carter’s attention.

‘Yo, time to move. Alice said the blood work came through positive. The chief is working on the warrant now.’

Carter threw the pen down on the desk and stood up, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair.

‘You serious? It’s a match?’

‘Near perfect. Your boy Garrett is going away for a long time.’

The two men fell into step together as they left the precinct and headed towards Carter’s SUV, the closest thing to a baby Carter was ever going to have.

‘You got a home address?’ Carter asked. Hollis shook his head.

‘I can do you one better- work.’

Carter’s head snapped round to look at his partner.

‘No fucking way. They just handed that over to you?’

Hollis smiled a shit eating grin.

‘I may have had to use my powers of persuasion.’

Carter didn’t ask any more questions. He really didn’t want to know.

‘Hang on, who’d you persuade? There’s no way the boys down in the Drug Department gave you Garrett’s address-‘

‘I didn’t talk to those assholes. Meredith in trafficking gave it to me. Good and hard,’ Hollis added, making Carter roll his eyes.

‘What does she have-? No…’ he said, grinning.

‘Oh yes. Our boy’s being tracked for human trafficking and prostitution. Seriously, is there any pie this guy doesn’t have his finger stuck in?’

The street lamps had started flickering on, paving the road as they sped toward their destination. A large abandoned warehouse on the South Side. Carter couldn’t help thinking how much of a cliché it all was.

‘Back-up?’

‘ETA in four minutes,’ Hollis replied. They both got out of the car and headed round the back, popping the trunk. Carter grabbed his bulletproof vest before handing another to Hollis. He and his partner may have been known around the precinct as reckless, but they were also well seasoned cops who knew the importance of a vest. They both had the scars to prove it.

‘Looks dead. You sure this is the place?’ Carter asked three minutes later. He was getting restless, finding it hard to stay still. Joe Garrett had been his personal ghost for the past three years, and he really needed to nail this guy.

‘Don’t blame me, blame the source,’ Hollis shrugged.

‘Who, your girlfriend?’

‘Ain’t my girlfriend,’ Hollis threw back.

Carter chuckled, and started to edge forward. He un-holstered his gun and heard Hollis do the same behind him. Together they crept forward, staying close to the side of the building and listening for the sounds of movement coming from nearby. Carter could feel his trigger finger itching, holding the gun tightly as he edged forward.

‘How we gonna celebrate?’ Hollis said softly.

Carter rolled his eyes. ‘Let’s nail this guy first. Then decide what the fuck we’re gonna get drunk on.’

‘I like the sound of that.’

Just at that moment the call came through their earpieces that the backup had arrived and were in position- snipers on the roof of the building opposite, guns trained on the only door visible. Either Garrett was stupid or risky; because Carter knew one door meant one way in and out. It made him calculate the odds in his head- they were either gonna find girls, guns or drugs in this warehouse, and the one door was screaming odds in favour of the first.

‘Hollis. Call for an ambulance.’

‘What?’

‘Got a gut instinct going on.’

‘Ah, shit.’

Carter heard his partner bark a few words into his earpiece before calling emergency services. ‘They’re on their way. What you think we gonna find in there?’

‘I dunno. But I don’t think it’s what we are looking for.’

There was a quick countdown and the two men along with ten others stormed through the door into the building, guns held shoulder height and announcing who they were. Three men guarding the warehouse began firing back, and Carter ducked behind some crates and barrels to the side, ducking his head against the gunfire.

He was getting too old for this shit.

Finally the three men were down and silence prevailed, only one of their men injured. Carter checked on him before heading further into the warehouse, wanting to see what Garrett had been storing. Checking the three dead men, he was disappointed to find none of them were Garrett himself, but rather his lackeys. Fuckin’ A.

‘Yo, Carter- where you headed?’

‘There’s a room back here, wanna see what Garrett’s got cooking.’

‘Need backup?’

‘Nah, I got this.’

The door opened into a narrow corridor, numerous doors on either side. Doors with very big locks on them. The doors were old, but the locks looked brand spanking new, causing Carter’s wariness to soar. He kept his gun un-holstered and by his side, eyes darting around for any sudden movement. He came to the first door and decided to risk it, using the butt of his gun to smash against the lock until it broke. He pulled the pieces away and gave the door a shove, stumbling slightly when the door gave way easily. Carter had to wait a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before looking around.

Suddenly, there was movement.

The girl was lying on the bed, scantily clad. Everything that needed to be was covered, Carter thanked God, but the rest left little to the imagination.

Carter strode over to her, putting his gun back in the holster.

‘Hey, you OK?’

The girl looked at him incredulously.

‘I’ve been better.’

Carter reached out a hand for her to take. The girl stared at it for a moment before returning to his gaze.

‘Now you’re offering a hand?’

Carter frowned.

‘What?’

The girl smiled. It was a humourless smile. It looked ugly on her young face.

‘It’s been a while, Dylan. You got old.’

He should be offended, but he was too busy trying to rack his brain, trying to remember this girl. She was all long limbed and delicate features, hair that was dark brown on the top and slowly lightened to blonde at the end. Carter knew that was the fashion these days, but fuck if he understood it.

‘You know me?’

‘Biblically? No.’

He let out a silent breath. Not a scorned lover then. But who-?

‘Holy fuck.’ Now he knew. It had been years, seven to be precise, but he could see it now. The same hazel eyes, same pointed chin. ‘Effie?’

Carter grabbed her arm and pulled her up from the bed, snatching the blanket one of the paramedics had brought and wrapping it round her, both for modesty and warmth.

‘Effie Winter? What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Oh, you know. Just catching a movie. You?’

Carter didn’t respond. Instead, he just stared. Of all the places in the world, this was the last of them he would have expected to see his best friend’s daughter.

‘Come with me,’ he said, holding on firmly to her arm, noting how skinny it was. He led her out of the warehouse and over to one of the ambulances, demanding that a paramedic check her out. He ignored her sounds of protests and promised to rip the paramedic limb from limb if he didn’t take good care of her before heading back over to his SUV where Hollis was waiting.

‘Found one you like?’ Hollis said, nodding back over to Effie.

‘Don’t.’

Hollis clearly noticed the look on Carter’s face because he stopped joking and fell serious.

‘Dude, you OK?’

‘That’s Andy Winter’s kid.’

Hollis looked repeatedly between Carter and where Effie was standing.

‘Are you fucking around?’

Carter shook his head. Hollis let out a low whistle.

‘You seen her since the accident?’

Carter stiffened, the subject still sore.

‘Damn, what happened to her?’

‘No clue. But I plan to find out.’

 

 

 

My Younger Self

*This is a work of fiction*

I want to write to my younger self, to tell her some of the things I have learned in the years between the person I was and the person I now am. 

I would tell her to be braver. There are never more things missed than because she was not brave enough to take them. 

I would tell her to take the job- it doesn’t matter if it’s far away or will take you from the people you love. Sometimes, that’s a good thing- no matter how much you think it isn’t. It might have saved a lot of heartbreak for both of us.

I would tell her that above everyone else, she needs to be happy. Stop saying the things you think people want to hear, stop trying to be a person that you just aren’t. Or, try to be that person for real rather than simply acting. You’ll be happier for it, I’m sure. The truth is, I haven’t quite yet mastered that one. 

I would tell her to keep writing, and to DO something with it. Those plays and novels you’ve started and yet just sit there collecting dust aren’t going to do anything for you. We could be bestsellers by now, you know. 

Do more things on your own, is something I would tell my younger self. It’s OK to be on your own, regardless of how you feel. Whether its something big or something small, just go for it. You’ll never know how dependent on your independence you will have to be. 

I would tell her to let go. Of the guy, of the friendships, of the things that are unobtainable. We’re dreamers- girl, I know that, but some things are just not meant to be. It doesn’t matter how he makes you feel, or that you want to be included. It’s a harsh reality, but you needed to learn it then rather than me learning it now. 

I would also tell her to hold on. There are friends you let pass you by because you couldn’t muster the strength or energy to keep it going. That’s not OK, and your life might be richer with them in it. Find the energy, muster the courage and keep that friendship alive. They may depend on you as much as you depend on them. 

I would tell her to have an open mind, to try things. You don’t know who you are yet, you need experiences for that. So go out, and get some. But, don’t get your fringe cut- you always think it will work, and it never does. We’re just not fringe people, my dear. 

I would tell her to be patient. The diet isn’t going to happen overnight, and nor is the life you’re dreaming of. I know all about it- I remember it so clearly. I hate to break it to you, but we’re not quite there yet. But you have to work for it, and there is a difference between patience and procrastination. That dream life isn’t going to happen if you wait forever, so learn the difference. 

I would tell her to stand up for herself. Don’t let the words you’re so desperate to say get stuck at the back of your throat. Don’t sit there in silence with wide eyes and nothing to say. Speak out, because respect is worth more than acceptance. If they don’t respect you, they won’t accept you. And one lasts longer than the other. Staying silent won’t help, and will allow people to take control. Take control of your own life, little one. Don’t let anyone else think you’re OK when you’re not. It’s unhealthy, trust me. 

I would tell her to trust her instincts. Learn that not everyone is to be trusted, and to not wear your emotions on your sleeve. You have to be tougher than that if you want to get better- because otherwise you are going to go through some rough times. And they might say it makes you stronger, but trust me- it doesn’t. It just hurts like hell. Protect yourself, my darling younger self. 

I suppose it would be a letter of regrets, but also of hope. Hope that I could be a better person that I have been. Hope that if I knew then what I know now, the mistakes made wouldn’t be in vain, that they wouldn’t be so pointless. I want this letter to make a stronger and braver version of myself- one who isn’t afraid to take chances or step a little out of line. 

I want to make a happier version of me. A person who isn’t going to look back on her life and wonder ‘what if’? Two words that are completely harmless on their own but when put together have the ability to change a person’s life forever. 

So my big ‘what if’ today would be…what if I really could send this letter to myself? Would it change anything? 

 

He Cries

*This is a work of fiction.*

After my mother died, I changed. I don’t remember doing so; I was barely two years old at the time. But my life was changed.

            I think about what my life could have been like, if she had lived. Would I have cut my hair in that particular style? Would I weigh as much as I currently do?

            Would I be happier?

            Would I even still be here?

             I go to a dark place with these thoughts. I fight a lot. I get in trouble, all the goddamn time. Mainly for my profanity. My dad would be called into the office, the head-teacher would lecture us both and then when we got into the car he would cry. He cries a lot, I don’t know why. Then I start to question what he used to be like, before Mum died. Did he smile more, and act more easy-going? Would he have a beard or be a chain smoker if she was still here? I’ll never know. But I see him, or at least see through his shell to the emptiness within. He’ll do anything for an easy life, and when it gets tough- he cries.

We rarely talk, not just about Mum but about anything anymore. Not that we ever did before, but now that I’ve hit teenage years he’s drawn back even further, almost as if he is afraid of me. Maybe I remind him of Mum, and that’s why he keeps his distance. The way I tilt my head when I’m confused or only eat apples at the weekend, all just painful reminders of a women he once loved and lost. Or the reasons why he cries.

He took me for coffee the first time I got called into the head masters lair. I had just said ‘fuck’ for the first time at Susie Dickens because she stole my thought about Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and acted like it had been her own. Not only did the teacher commend her, but he didn’t believe me. Hence ‘fuck’, followed by a ‘you’.

That time my father didn’t cry, he just seemed disappointed. That is worse, because then you feel like shit and there is nothing to do. When someone cries you can get a tissue, or make tea. Tea fixes everything.

            ‘What’s going on?’ that’s was his opening line.

            ‘What do you mean?’ I parry back.

            ‘This isn’t like you,’ he said. I swiped a lick of foam onto my finger and suck on it.

            ‘How do you know? It could be me, just not the ‘me’ right now.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘There could be a thousand ‘me’s’, all out there struggling to be dominant. You’re a mechanic, think of this as a test drive.’

            ‘Well, I think this model is faulty.’ We both get our sarcasm from the same place, his father. Unfortunately it never skips a generation. I would have laughed, but the mood seemed to suggest not to. 

            ‘I could just be getting on the road.’ That’s when the disappointment showed. I think he wanted me to be remorseful, sorry for what I had done. He wanted me to be the perfect new model. But when a tragedy strikes, it travels through time. Time can heal wounds but also makes new ones. I made decisions I wouldn’t have if Mum was here. If she had been, I may not have said ‘fuck’ at all. And if she had been here Dad and I would have a relationship opposite to what we do now. I’d be a whole different me.

After I explained Dad didn’t say anything, but that night was the first time I saw him cry.

Skinny Love

*This is a work of fiction.*

  I was told it would burn. Looking at him would burn. That I would hear my favourite song play every time I saw him smile. I would fall in love and remember the moment.

            Sometimes I flick through the dictionary that belonged to my grandfather and stop on a random page, picking a word out. Other times I choose two and see if they have any meaning when placed together.

Skinny Love: two people who love each other but are too shy to admit it.

            I occasionally wonder if we have just one great love in our lives, and all the others are merely shadows. I think about all the times I stared at the random boy on the bus, waiting for him to make a move and watching as he pushed the button, got off at his stop, and didn’t look back.

            I thought I knew who my great love was; I’d hear John Waite playing in my head every time he collapsed into his chair during fourth period French class. ‘I ain’t missing you at all’, a personal joke how I could lie to myself but really I just wanted him to see me.

            He did once, at a party. Around us glow in the dark paint got stamped into carpets and saloon style doors were ripped off their hinges, but I didn’t notice. School was over; university loomed in the autumn. It was the summer I wanted to remember, but after I wanted to forget. Typical drinking games turned into a chaste kiss he regretted and I cherished, the line ‘stop this heartbreak overload’ screeching in my ears as he hightailed out the room, leaving me behind like a mistake.

            I aimlessly question to myself whether he ever heard a song when he looked at me. I used to think it would be Foreigner’s ’Waiting for a Girl like you,’ but after that night, I felt Sinatra’s ‘The Lady is a Tramp’ was more suitable. 

            My favourite place in the world was the beach. I would catch the bus over with my dictionary clutched between my hands, hair knotted away from my face so it didn’t tangle in the wind. I’d sit there for hours, curled up watching the tide wash in and out, picking words from my book and spelling them out in pebbles around me.

            He was there one day, like he knew. The opening drumbeat started playing, and for the first time I wanted it to go away. He only said sorry, but his eyes said more. ‘I spend my time thinking about you’ ran through my head. Then he was gone. I never found out what song played when he saw me, but I’m starting to wonder if he ever really heard anything at all.

I fell in love with him at Christmas. I remember sitting on Eddie’s couch in his conservatory. He had sat down beside me and his leg brushed mine. He had joined our school in September, and I had foolishly never given him much thought.

But now I noticed. How blue his eyes were; flecked with tiny shards of green and gold. Framed with the type of long curly lashes boys didn’t deserve. His dark hair, messy in the way that wasn’t stylishly unkempt, but just how it happen to fall. He didn’t have to try, and I guess that should have been a warning.

He didn’t have to try and get me to fall in love with him; I did that all on my own. I would drift towards him whenever we were together.

            Just like I did the night everything went wrong.

It was the last party. Everyone had gathered together, celebrating the end of our school career. I had been in love with Daniel for just over five months. Five months and a million chance encounters, a thousand romantic gestures, hundreds of stolen glances and even a few sweeping statements.

The problem was they were all in my head.

I was sitting on the front steps drinking a beer. I had never done it before, but I quite liked it. It felt frivolous and carefree. I could hear the music in the background, the sound of laughter and a few snippets of conversations.

I took another sip of beer. I wasn’t a fan of the taste, but I was courting my rebellious nature and underage drinking appeared to be ticking all the right boxes.

He wasn’t there.

He, who was never far from my mind. It wasn’t even a thought but a constant whisper I wasn’t aware of most of the time. With him I wasn’t even sure what was fictional and what belonged in reality anymore.

‘Hey.’

I glanced up. A face so familiar as my own peered back at me. Eddie, who had been my best friend for more years than I could remember, sat down beside me. He took the bottle from my hand and took a sip. He liked the taste more than me because he took another one straight after.

‘Hi.’

‘He’ll be here later,’ Eddie said, as though I had asked. That was the thing about Eddie; he always knew what to say. Why couldn’t I love him instead?

Because you don’t hear a song, the mean little voice in my head said.

‘He’s seeing Grace first.’

‘Right.’ Grace. Whilst Daniel had been the sun for five months, she was the cloud he hid behind.

‘Don’t do anything stupid, OK?’

I didn’t answer, stealing my beer back in response.

‘I want you to come to Australia with me.’

‘You’ve said that already.’

And he had. Since Christmas in fact. Eddie was leaving after summer to travel and he wanted me to come with him. He said I needed to clear my head, to take a deep breath and realize I couldn’t have what I wanted.

I turned to look at my best friend and suddenly…everything changed. I heard the song. It wasn’t as loud as John Waite, but a murmur threatening to get louder if I didn’t pay attention.

‘I’ve got to take a little time, a little time to think things over. I better read between the lines, in case I need it when I’m older.’

I hadn’t given Eddie’s idea any real thought before now. It seemed too fantastical, a possibility that was meant for someone else. And Daniel. I couldn’t leave him, not with the way I felt. Maybe one day he would feel it too, hear the song, and come find me.

But now Foreigner was playing, and my heart was hurting again.

He kissed me on the dance floor later that night. Daniel kissed me. We were five tequila shots in, but he kissed me nevertheless.

            Of course, when he pulled away with a horrified ‘no’ slipping out I was less than thrilled. I was left on the dance floor alone with just John Waite shouting so loud in my head I wanted to cover my ears, a few people on the edges of the room watching with whispers behind raised hands as though I couldn’t see them.

            I suddenly felt like that girl at the end of a movie, left behind when the male lead realised I was not the one he was supposed to be with. And whilst the audience watched the happily ever after unfold, I was left standing in the shadows.

            And so the summer began. Whispers spread about what had happened. It was my fault, they said, I had loved him and led him on. So I became alone, the movie moving further and further away from my life. Eddie stayed with me, but his days were numbered as well. I could almost hear the plane’s engines in my mind, speeding up and taking my best friend away from me.

            The holidays became a blur, each day the same as the next. All but one.

I sat alone, the last evening of August with the bitter wind coming in off the sea. I lit a cigarette and took a deep breath, feeling the toxins clogging my lungs.

Summer was nearly over.

The pebbles crunched underfoot as he walked towards me.   

I pulled my knees and wrapped my arms around them. The cigarette hung from my fingertips. The opening drumbeat started to play and I closed my eyes, suppressing a groan.

‘You’ve really screwed things up, haven’t you?’ he said as an opening.

I didn’t look at him.

He sat down, a wide berth between us.

The music played, but the illusion had long since shattered.

But he was still beautiful.

‘It takes one to know one,’ I responded bitterly. I took another drag on my cigarette, thankful to have something in my hands.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. I didn’t know why he was there, or how he knew where to come.

‘I guess. I think she knows,’ he said after a pause. I thought about her blonde hair and her brightly coloured clothes. They were always the first things that came to mind when I thought about her. Then I always felt bad. Grace was more than that and more importantly, he belonged to her. She had laid her claim and I had broken the rules.

‘She doesn’t. There’s nothing to know about,’ I answered. ‘If she knows anything, it’s only that I’m infatuated with you.’

He looked at me then, blue eyes questioning.

‘She knows what everyone else does,’ I shrugged. He didn’t look surprised, and suddenly my worst fears, fears I didn’t even know I had, were confirmed.

He had known all along how I felt, and had done nothing about it. We had no Skinny Love. We didn’t have any kind of love. He didn’t care. And suddenly, neither did I.

With nothing to lose, I leant across and pressed my lips to his. I wanted to feel it again, to hear the rising crescendo and John Waite’s crooning voice. Just one last time.

I pulled back and handed him the cigarette. He took a drag and held onto it, staring out at the ocean. I didn’t want him to say anything, to break the moment. The song hadn’t finished and I just wanted a little more time.

Daniel had sad eyes when he turned to me, flicking the cigarette stub away.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘I know. Me too.’

I didn’t watch as he stood up and left, planting a kiss on my forehead before he went.

It felt final. I didn’t want it to, but it couldn’t keep going like this. I couldn’t hope for something to happen for the rest of my life, that ‘what if’ hanging over my head.

If we weren’t done now, we never would be.

I spelt out the word ‘FINALLY’ in the pebbles, needing to see it before me for it to be real.

It didn’t work and I pushed them around, frustrated. I knew I wouldn’t let it go. I had loved him too long.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialled.

He picked up on the second ring, just the voice I wanted to hear.

I want to know what love is; I know you can show me.

‘I’m in,’ I said. Eddie whooped in response. Maybe going halfway around the world would help cure my heart. And even as I thought it, John Waite snuck into my mind and I turned to watch his retreating figure.

‘It’s my heart that’s breaking, down this long distance line tonight.’

Or maybe not. And even though the wind whipping around me was ice cold, all I could do was burn.