Jackson Brodie Comes To TV

A few days ago, I tweeted about the new BBC detective series Case Histories.  After ten minutes of viewing, I'd made my judgement: while the atmospheric drama might have satisfied novice viewers, it was unlikely to measure up to the fantastic novels by Kate Atkinson, on which the show is based.  What the show does have going for it, however, is casting.  Troubled sisters Julia and Amelia, one an extrovert actress, the other an introvert academic, perfectly match their on-page characterisations.  Phil Davis similarly impresses as a bereaved father.

But the show's crowning glory is Jason Isaacs as grizzled, wounded detective Jackson Brodie.  Not only does he physically fit the part, equal parts masculine and pensive, but he also brings Jackson's quiet pain to life.  This is, after all, a man who seeks to find lost girls after his own sister was murdered years before.  The flashbacks to his childhood in the Seventies allow a lengthy glimpse beneath his stoic exterior, explored at once in slightly more detail than they were at first in the novels. 

Case Histories has its flaws, of course: DI Louise Monroe is introduced from the outset as a former colleague, as opposed to her rather different role in the books, which grated on me a little as it seemed unnecessary.  The action is limited largely to Edinburgh, which I suppose makes sense for a serial drama - it gives the audience an immediate grounding, instead of following Jackson's inner monologue as he travels up and down Great Britain.

All in all, I would advise newcomers to read the books first.  You'll get a deeper understanding of the characters and of how all the mysteries connect.

Another Look At 5 Fictional Bad Guys

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.  Following my first Top 5 Villains post, here are another five fictional antagonists - from misguided youths who think they are in the right, to hardened crooks who are rotten to the core.

5. Count Dracula
(Dracula by Bram Stoker)
First encountered by Jonathan Harker in his Carpathian castle, the Count is introduced to us as an elderly European aristocrat.  One doomed voyage of the Demeter later, he re-emerges in Victorian England as a seductive killer.  Written against the backdrop of the fin-de-siecle, a period known for body horror, numerous diseases and a fear of invasion from the East, the figure of Dracula becomes an embodiment of these concerns: an alien, rapacious force which seeks to corrupt and transform from within.

4. Edward Hyde
(Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson)
The aggressive, bestial alter ego of Dr Henry Jekyll, Hyde thinks nothing of trampling children and generally wreaking havoc on an unsuspecting city.  This tale is a moral one, of course - much like Frankenstein's monster, Edward Hyde's persona was unlocked through Jekyll's well-meaning research into human nature.  What makes Mr Hyde so genuinely threatening is the novel's assertion that a version of him resides in each and every one of us.

3. Tom Ripley
(The Ripley novels by Patricia Highsmith)
As the protagonist and puppeteer of numerous twisted escapades, Tom Ripley is at heart a chameleon.  Ingenious when it comes to attaining his goals and literally getting away with murder, he is both terrifying in his ruthlessness and inspiring in his intelligence.

2. Alec D'Urberville
(Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy)
From the very first moment we meet Alec, we are yelling at Tess to get the hell away from him.  His arrogantly handsome face and obscenely red lips foreshadow a seduction - or, in this case, a rape.  Not only does Alec destroy poor Tess's virtue, but he also has the gall to reappear later in her life, a "changed man".  Already a pariah, Tess has no choice but to become Alec's companion.  It is the cruel fate doled out in Hardy's universe that the raped woman is executed for finally taking control of her own life - although I am sure every reader feels a grim satisfaction when Alec finally meets his end.

1. It's A Tie!
Amir & Briony
(The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini & Atonement by Ian McEwan)
These impressive and moving literary novels would have you believe that Amir and Briony are the protagonists of their respective stories, when in fact they are the catalyst for almost every bad thing that happens.  Amir is too much of a coward to come to the aid of his friend during their childhood, the after-effects of which are devestating.  Similarly, Briony's colourful imagination taints her perception when she sees the growing attraction between her sister Cecilia and Robbie, leading her to tell a destructive lie.  In their defense, Amir and Briony spend the rest of their lives trying to make up for their actions, but one can't help but get the feeling that all would have ended well if they'd just done the right thing to start with.  In an alternate fictional universe, I can see these two hitting it off.

Flash Fiction #14: Mab

Bad dreams become something you live with.  Like insomnia, they are a sickness that invade your waking life, fraying the edges of everything around you.  They make colours duller or too bright, noises become so high that you wince and flinch at the slightest sound.  Shadows seem to move of their own accord in the corner of your eye.  Christie could pretty much write the book on the subject.

She's not always been this way.  Up until a few months ago, she'd slept like a baby most nights.  The nightmares began gradually; at first she put it down to stress.  Then they became more and more frequent.  Christie would wake every night drenched in sweat, her chest tight with terror.  Specific details evaded her - what little memory she had was of a pair of eyes always watching her.  Hazel eyes that should have been beautiful, but weren't.

This last week, it's got worse.  Christie has woken sobbing.  Angry red marks on her arms and legs show that she has been scratching herself in her sleep.  No amount of makeup can counter her deathly pallor or the shadowy bags under her eyes.

She dreads coming home each day.  The house itself has become a part of the disease; her unmade bed is like an albatross in the back of her mind, waiting for her to lie down and close her eyes each night so it can torment her until sunrise.  And always, they are there - the eyes that should be beautiful, but aren't.

Tonight, Christie takes more sleeping pills than the bottle advises.  Not enough to harm herself, she's no idiot, but hopefully enough to take her down deep enough, below the night terrors.  Darkness and silence, for just a few hours, are all Christie wants.  Sick of all the herbal teas that have failed to work, she washes the pills down with a glass of whiskey.  There.  A deep, restful sleep should be no problem now.

When she collapses onto the bed, still in her clothes, the mattress feels more comfortable than it has in months.  The sheets are softer, more inviting, than ever before.  Christie allows herself a smile as the ceiling fades above her.  Her eyes drift closed.  The beams and floorboards which occasionally creak in this old house are silent tonight.  Christie exhales quietly, feeling weeks of tension and anxiety leave her body.

She feels something cold against her cheek.  Her eyes snap open.  Another woman kneels over her on the bed, leant so far forward that her face is level with Christie's.  When she sees Christie's eyes open, she claps her hands silently.

Black hair.  Hazel eyes.  Thin lips, so pale they are almost white.  What Christie had felt on her cheek were long, slick-looking fingernails, painted black.  Christie thinks of the scratches on her arms and legs.  This creature, this woman - she was responsible.  They were never dreams.

She is unable to cry for help; the breath freezes in her throat.  All she can whisper is: "Who are you?"

"Mab," the woman says, stretching her thin white lips into a smile.  It is the unkindest thing Christie has ever seen.  "I'm your faery godmother."

"I don't believe in faeries," Christie rasps.

"Oh, you beautiful thing," the faery laughs quietly.  "You beautiful, wretched thing.  What difference does that make?"

Christie tries to move, but it is as if she is paralysed.  Sitting atop her, Mab weighs nothing at all; but beneath her she is powerless.

"I'm scared," she says.

"I know," answers the faery.  "They always are.  But I'm going to make your wish come true."

Terrified before, now Christie is puzzled.

"My wish?"

"Darkness and silence," Mab whispers in her ear.  Her ice cold breath makes Christie shiver.  Then; "Wish granted."  She smiles, and kisses Christie's cheek as gently, as lightly, as if she were made of gossamer.  "I'll take you down, sweetie.  Deep, deep down."

Christie opens her mouth to scream, but Mab's white lips are on hers.  The room around her vanishes into blackness.  The bed seems to drop from beneath her until she is falling, or floating, no shapes or sounds around her - just the cold impression left by Mab's kiss.

~

Rude Awakening: An Adonis Jones Mystery (Part Two)

In Part One, readers were introduced to Adonis Jones - detective, hedonist and hero of this story.  Now follow our intrepid team of crime solvers (loyal companion Willy, housekeeper Tatiana and police inspector Roderick) into a seedy underworld of murder and seduction...

~

     Rod reluctantly “allowed” us to accompany him to The Cooch Club; this was after all, he informed us, an official police investigation. I've learned over the years that a good dose of gumption and a dash of violence get you a lot further than following procedure, but I wasn't about to tell him that; I suspected his patience was wearing thin. And beneath that slightly sleazy but gorgeous Errol Flynn moustache of his was a man with quite the fiery temper. I'd only ever cross Roderick Sexton if I was in the mood to be tied up and punished.

The Cooch Club was nothing like I expected; I'd imagined a run-down, backstreet Coyote Ugly affair. In reality it had the appearance of an exclusive establishment, albeit one with a bloody awful name. I was familiar with the concept of “cooch”: a sideshow striptease performed at Twenties speakeasies and carnivals. A nasty little dance done on the cheap for some extra cash; I felt glad that Tatiana was above this now. A little degradation is good for us all, and Lord knows I’ve enjoyed my fair share, but I found it unsavoury to think of a horde of sleazy men leering at my Russian doll. 

Again, I was taken by surprise; the interior of the club appeared just as respectable as the exterior. White marble pillars, Grecian murals on the walls; my godly namesake would have felt right at home. But Tatiana assured me this was still the club's exterior; the real party lay beneath. Underground.

Roderick flashed his police badge to anyone who'd look until we finally caught the attention of someone who appeared to be the proprietor; a swarthy, bearded medallion man by the name of Helios.

“We're here about Carl Van Der Wood,” Rod told him. Before he could say any more, Helios erupted in denials. 

“Never heard of him,” he began, followed by; “he's not been here,” and finally; “he was fine last time I saw him.”

“Of course...” Rod stepped closer to Helios, and I could hardly believe how he towered over the stout Greek; such presence! He didn't even have to say anything else, Helios dissolved into a panicky confession. I couldn't make much sense of it, but when Rod turned back to us, I knew he had the answer.

“The culprit is downstairs,” he told us. “There's a member's area, Helios is going to take us there now – isn't that right, Helios?”

“Y-yes,” he stammered in response. Anything for leniency at this point, I supposed.

And so Helios led us into the underworld of cooch; and I have never been so horrified and aroused in such equal measure.

It was a Caligulan orgy; bodies writhed and intertwined seamlessly, the only incongruity among the waves of flesh being the occasional strap of leather or glint of steel. 

Willy's cheeks flushed, and it came back to me how green he was to this world. Tatiana's only response was a single raised eyebrow, but what can one expect? She said she'd worked here, no doubt she'd seen revelry of this kind before.

Roderick stood on the shore of this sea of sex, and turned to Helios.

“The killer?” He asked, and I'll be damned if the club owner didn't almost bow in deference to this copper!

“Lucius,” he called out into the writhing throng, and added to us; “nobody here uses their real name.”

“Shocker,” I said.

A head of dark hair arose from the mass of bodies, and “Lucius” made his way towards us. I couldn't help but be impressed and a little distracted by his roughly hewn jaw, taut muscles and tumescent cock. Believe me, I do not have a one-track mind, but this man looked like an unfinished statue, something raw and hot to the touch. 

It was only when he flicked his dark curls out of his eyes that I recognised him. 

“Dominic Eyre.” I uttered his name as I would a curse. 

“Hello, Adonis.” He smiled at me, a hateful but, shame me, beautiful thing to see.

“Who is this?” Roderick asked, a question that I could see on the lips of both Willy and Tatiana as well.

“This is the man who killed three people before I found him and handed him over to the law.” Dominic almost seemed proud of that fact as I voiced his sins to my friends and the roomful of rutting strangers.

“I wouldn't call him a serial killer,” I continued, “just a deranged deviant who went too far. Three young men ended up in the morgue after spending the night with him. How on earth did you get out of prison?”

“Never went,” Dominic said, smiling again. “Although the prospect of a castle full of men does sound appealing, I prefer the discipline to be on my terms. I had a very good lawyer.”

Ha! The system. I felt like spitting (something I neither practise nor preach).

“I should have known it was you as soon as I saw the bruises on Van Der Wood's neck,” Roderick said. “But why leave the card with the body, if you wished to frame Adonis?”

“Who said anything about framing? I just wanted to make sure he knew I was on the market. Did you like my gift, Adonis? I know you have a soft, or should I say hard spot for the wide-eyed, youthful type.” He fixed Willy with a perverse look, and my latent lust turned to anger.

“You're crazy,” I said, “and at the risk of putting words in my friend's mouth, you're also under arrest.”

“Damn fucking right he is,” Rod said, laying his handcuffs on the bastard. “And this time, the Van Der Woods will make sure you go to prison for a long, long time.”

“It's your turn to be the bitch,” Willy offered, and I put my arm around him proudly. 

“Good,” Dominic leered. “I told you, I like discipline. On my terms. My work wasn’t finished. Van Der Wood was my cherry on the cake.”

“I hope it was worth it,” Roderick grunted into his ear as he man-handled him towards the stairs. “I doubt even a deviant like you will enjoy sleeping on prison issue sheets.”

Roderick dragged Dominic upstairs into the club and out to his car, none too gently either. Tatiana gravitated back up to the bar, leaving Willy and I alone together at the edge of the orgy that had continued regardless throughout the entire exchange. 

“Asphyxiation,” Willy said thoughtfully, poor young Carl’s demise still clearly on his mind. “What a daft way to go.”

“Oh I don't know...” I pulled him closer. “If I could pick any way to die, I wouldn't turn down the chance to be suffocated between your legs.”

Willy raised an eyebrow, mimicking Tatiana perfectly, and nodded towards the orgy.

“Shall we?” He asked.

“Why the heck not,” I said. “We've just caught a killer, I think we should celebrate!”

~

The End

Rude Awakening: An Adonis Jones Mystery (Part One)

Don't you just hate it when you wake up with a nose-full of last night's blow? I prefer a glass of fresh orange juice and an espresso before my first bump of the day, thank you very much. But we don't always get what we want, I suppose. And as I was soon to learn on that glorious September morning, a much bigger mystery than how I slept with all that snow up my snout was about to come lunging my way. Crawling out of my four poster bed, I necked the glass of water on the nightstand and fished a spare aspirin from the tasty crevice of my navel. Willy was still sleeping off last night's ravishing, and I decided to leave him to it; he deserved a lie-in after everything I did to him!

It took me a while to stumble down from the bedroom to the kitchen, partially on account of the rather mansion-esque size of my home and also because of my hung-over zigzagging. It was only when I eventually reached the kitchen doorway that I came to realise two things:

Firstly, that the rather distracting thwick-thwack I'd heard all the way down the stairs originated from the fact that I'd forgotten to throw on my morning thong and kimono. Secondly, that there was what appeared to be a dead body sprawled rather decadently over my marble counter, legs akimbo, rigor mortis evident in every extremity. And I mean every extremity; much like Virginia Woolf's young Orlando at the debut of his adventures, there could be no mistake as to his sex. Sex... that reminded me of something.

“Willy,” I called out in what has been described by many as a handsome baritone, “come and look at this.” Willy Wolfe, my partner in crime solving and most-time lover, appeared presently in the doorway beside me.

“Cripes,” he said, and whistled. “What did we get up to last night?”

“Sodomy, for the most part,” I replied, “but I don't recall any stiffs other than our own.”

“Neither do I,” Willy's right hand instinctively went to my groin for comfort. “Well what do you suppose we do?” He asked after a moment's gentle squeezing.

“Get the coffee on,” I suggested, “and then I imagine we'd best call the police.”
Willy nodded his agreement and filled the coffee pot with three scoops of breakfast blend. After a hot, stimulating cup, and some more furtive fumbling on the part of Willy, I felt up to making the call. While we waited for the law to arrive, my housekeeper Tatiana let herself in the back door and jumped straight into a bout of hysterics at the sight of the poor bugger straddling the toaster. I knew though, that her distress came not from being in the same room as a dead body (she was from the deadliest of Russian gangster stock, after all), but from the prospect of cleaning up after one.

I calmed her down with a sound slap and a hot cup of coffee, and shortly after she was her usual self, swearing in her mother tongue and smoking like a chimney. I don't doubt the shot of vodka I slipped in her coffee helped somewhat.

No sooner had we finished our beverages than the doorbell rang; Beethoven's V for Victory. Not today, old boy, I said to myself as Tatiana rushed to let the police officers in. And who should she lead back into the crime scene? None other than Roderick Sexton, my old rival from the days when I was in the force, not to mention my former bum-chum.

“Long time no see, Don,” he grunted, casting a critical cop eye over the corpse on the counter, and an even darker glare over Willy's flawless, uncovered torso. “Obviously you've kept yourself busy.”

“I'll say,” I shot back, wrapping a muscular arm around Willy's broad shoulders. “But the dead guy's nothing to do with me. He was there when I woke up.”

“A likely story,” Roderick scribbled something in his knob-jockey notebook, then glanced at Tatiana. “I take it she's legal?”

“Of age and she has a passport, if that's what you mean,” I said, tired of this already.

“I can make you come and break your legs at same time.” Tatiana smiled sweetly. God bless her, she probably thought she was helping. Roderick evidently didn't know what to make of this exquisite creature, so he turned his attention to the corpse.

“Do you know who this is?” He exclaimed after seconds of inspection. Willy, Tatiana and myself all shook our heads in unison.

“It's Carl Van Der Wood,” Roderick said, as if it meant something. “Of the London Van Der Woods!”

“That means nothing to me,” I told Roderick, to which Willy whispered “Vienna” and the two of us giggled. I'm sure Tats would have joined us in a good old chortle at the copper's expense but the pun in all probability went over her head, bouncing off the Iron Curtain.

“You don't seem to understand how serious this is,” Roderick fixed me with his stony eyes and my cock twitched at the memories. “The Van Der Woods are an incredibly wealthy, powerful family. If this is murder, and I'm going to go out on a limb and say it bloody well is, then somebody stands to gain a lot of money from his death.”

“Cripes,” Willy uttered again.

“Cripes indeed,” Roderick echoed, then turned to me. “It appears that whoever killed young Carl here had a view to framing you, Don. Someone with a heck of a grudge. And I wouldn't even like to start compiling a list of your enemies. Just your disgruntled ex-lovers take up half the Yellow Pages.” I smiled and nodded; a slight exaggeration, perhaps, but largely true.

“Am I to be grateful,” I asked, “to not be a suspect, then?” 

“You're not ruled out quite yet, but I doubt even you would be arrogant enough to kill the male Paris Hilton and expect to get away with it, let alone stupid enough to leave the body on your kitchen counter.”

Possibly the closest I'll ever get to a compliment from Roderick Sexton; it was almost enough to make me blush. Even back during the time when I was in him nightly, we'd never been on what you might call cordial terms.

“Do we know how he died?” Willy asked, a pertinent question that brought my mind back from its erotic reverie to the situation at hand.

“No blood or guts to speak of,” Roderick murmured, leaning in closer to examine the naked Van Der Wood. “Bruises on the throat, though, so strangulation at a guess.” He let out a low whistle at the sight of Carl's now defunct wedding tackle, and I silently agreed with him; such a pity, such a waste. 

“Wait a minute,” Rod said after another moment, “what's this?” He slipped one hand into one of those rubber gloves (that took me back!) and extracted something from just underneath Carl Van Der Wood's bottom. A business card.

“The Cooch Club,” he read aloud. “Never heard of it, have you?”

“I danced there for while,” Tatiana said. “It is bad, bad place.”

“I bet it is,” I turned to Willy. “Time to get dressed, Willy; we have work to do.”

This was definitely a case for Adonis Jones & Co.

~

To Be Continued...