The ‘Lost Bits’ of a Novel.

I write in much the same way as I deal with just about every aspect of life. Chaotically! There’s rarely a plan involved. I deal with life on a day-to-day basis, in the main, and my writing mirrors this ‘system.’ A wretchedly inadequate ‘system.’

For every line that makes it to publication I write three. At least. With a completed novel being in the region of 125,000 words in length, that’s a lot of writing to discard. I’m in the early stages of a new novel at present and have posted a few snippets from it on here already. Other writing, thought viable at the time, has now been ruled out. Here’s a section I won’t use. It’s self-indulgent descriptive passages, back-story, or simply not necessary. It seemed to have value at the time of writing, yet now it’s gone for ever. Well, not for ever as here it is. Unwanted, unappreciated and doomed to disappear, eventually.

Crowds thronged the streets; people crammed together, clutching parcels, hurrying along. He was amongst them, yet separate. They were inferior in every way.

He despised them. He felt only contempt for those who do not question life; demand more. Those who accept the status quo. Life is what it is.

He knows better. Life can be whatever you want it to be. All it takes is a willingness to question. Decide what you want and go out and get it. It’s what he’s always done. Other people call it ambition and equate ambition with money.

It wasn’t just about money.

He hasn’t got everything he wants. Not yet. He’ll need to kill a few more people first. He’s okay with that. Whatever it takes.

Money. Some had it. Some earned it while others had it handed to them. Most people wanted it. He already had a great deal of money. Once, he’d possessed even more. A lot more. Money meant nothing to him. Nothing he wanted could be bought with money. Houses, cars, women; he’d had all that. They meant nothing.

Now, he wanted what was his. What had been taken from him. The money was secondary.

Scudding clouds careened across the sky, driven by the wind whose ubiquitous presence had dominated the past two days and he ducked his head as he moved away from the main shopping street into a quieter road where the crush of passersby was no longer in evidence.

Restless dreams had tormented him through the night, but the new day had brought a fresh start. He’d dreamed of prison last night. The smell of confined men. The constant noise. The cameras and the triple strands of razor wire, the  iron  bars covering the tiny windows with thick mesh as extra protection for the glass itself.

His last day in prison had been dramatic. He’d strangled a fellow inmate in the showers. The man was a stranger. He’d seen him in passing, but they’d never spoken. It could have been anyone. After he’d killed the man, he lay on the tiled floor, alongside the body, and slept. When the screws came and dragged him away, he’d seen their expressions and knew his instincts were correct. The word went out from the Governor’s office and he was removed to a secure hospital for further ‘evaluation’ within the hour.

He remembered the room in which he’d waited for the arrival of the van to take him away. Shackled to a prison officer, barefoot and wearing only a tee-shirt and shorts. Cracked vinyl ties covered the floor and paint had blistered and peeled from the harsh sterile walls. A functional room without a hint of compromise, it fulfilled a specific purpose with no concessions to artistic expression. A hard, brutal room designed expressly with hard brutal individuals in mind. The hospital complex that was to be his destination had rooms where soft pastel shades and comfortable furniture helped to sooth a tormented nature. He’d liked it there. Would have stayed there if he didn’t still have the dreams. The dreams where he came alive once more. Returned to regain the position that had been taken from him.

Now, the dreams were reality. That which he craved more than anything was within his grasp. Once, he’d been the man at the top of the pyramid and thought himself untouchable. Like every single one of his predecessors, but total domination was subject to different pressures in the modern age. The Roman Empire endured for hundreds of years, ruling with absolute power over most of the known world. The British Empire, at its peak, did much the same for a century. The Soviet Union lasted for less than a single lifetime. A drug-lord had absolute power, unbelievable wealth, yet very few endured for even a decade. That fat bastard, Rafferty, the man who’d controlled the bulk of the narcotic trade in the city had been considered untouchable for many years; protected by many layers of expendable subordinates.

Yet, fuelled by that relentless ambition, he’d taken over and made his position impregnable by the simple strategy of selectively killing all who’d stood in his way. He had no fear of arrest, even if unlimited resources had been available to the forces of law and order. In reality, those resources were very limited indeed. The drug squad had their tried and tested methods. Engineering a weakness in the sub-layers had worked well in the past; destabilising the workforce on which the business was constructed. Bringing about a dissatisfaction with the status quo and causing friction. That strategy was widely known and he’d taken steps to forestall it.

Despite all the planning, his downfall had been sudden and unexpected. Betrayal by a subordinate, the only man he trusted, had been devastating. He’d ben snatched when meeting a Serbian supplier. The Serb’s betrayal could have been contained, and avenged, but his most trusted confidant had also been party to the betrayal. Three dead officers amongst the arresting team meant there would be no way out. The man who’d betrayed him was the Big Man now.

He glanced both ways, studied the reflections in a shop window, and when satisfied, entered the simple unmarked doorway set back slightly from the road. The room leading off the corridor was in virtual darkness. The man he’d come to see rose from a chair and moved across the room.

The rusty metal shutters on the windows creaked, protesting loudly as they edged upwards with the reluctance of a drunkard’s eyelids on waking on the morning after the bender to end all benders. The light seeped in, revealing the shabby surroundings of a small office and the earnest features of a man  he’d not seen for many years. The man had been part of his predecessor’s inner circle. His name was Guideon and for many years he’d been Rafferty’s enforcer. The man who collected unpaid debts, in cash or in kind, and settled scores with any of those rash enough to show disrespect to the Big Man.

‘I heard you were around,’ Gideon said, softly. ‘Bit of a surprise though. I’d have thought you’d be looking elsewhere.’

‘I am. Call this a social call, if you like.

Gideon’s features registered mild surprise, but he said nothing.

‘What was between us is long gone. Keep hold of the gun though, if it makes you feel better.

Gideon uttered a harsh bark of laughter and removed the stubby handgun from his lap, sliding open a drawer in the desk and dropping the weapon inside.

‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Unless you’ve lost your touch, it wouldn’t have helped. If you wanted me dead, it would have happened long ago.’