Pretty much straight after I put Make a Move out, one of my editing team suggested an idea for the major arc of book two – a multi-level plot involving assassination, betrayal, abuse of power, and media whoring. It sounded just the thing for Make a Move, so I put the idea in my back head and waited for the detail to well up from my subconscious.

And waited.

And waited.

And you know the rest. The book’s dead in the water.

I was watching some great TV last night (The Walking Dead episode two, and the season finale of Dexter season 4, just in case you’re interested) and my mind was wandering on the problem with my book. I don’t know if it was the characterisation I was seeing on the screen (these really are two of the best shows in the last decade) or if I was jolted out of my creative mindset, but I realised what the block was. Although the story idea was great, and very Make a Move, it was a scenario into which I could drop my characters, but it didn’t come from the characters. The question I was asking myself was “what can Freddy do next?” instead of “what is Freddy doing next?”. It’s a subtle distinction, but to my characters, and my way of writing, it’s everything. With that idea locked in and generating no additional ideas of its own, there was no room for my subconscious to work – no creative space into which new ideas could arrive. Asking myself that question – “what is Freddy doing next?” – produced two results:

• Firstly, it produced the answer “not this”, and that act of confirming the fallacy of the manufactured plot finally allowed me to let it go.
• And secondly, it finally gave Freddy – that part of my subconscious that is Freddy – the opportunity to answer for himself.

And I liked what he had to say.

A couple of weeks back, I started wondering if I should start submitting Make a Move to publishers again. It was never my intention to stop; I decided to put the book out myself to have some fun while waiting for responses, but the process has taken so much of my time that the submissions have fallen by the way. Then a couple of people independently asked about my submission status, and that confirmed that I needed to give it more brain time.

The problem is, I like where I am right now. Not in a “indie ’till I die!” kind of way, but I like the creative freedom that I have. I’m not a writer who worships the process; writing has always been hard for me, and I have to force myself in front of the computer most days. What I do love is how the stories and characters make me feel – how they make my readers feel. I love ideas – how they collide and coalesce into something amazing. Books let me capture these experiences and share them, but they’re not the only way.

Right now, I’m working on a script for an indie film – nothing major, just a 10-minute short – that features a band. I’m also writing/playing/recording the music for the soundtrack. Thinking about the roll-call of musicians in the fictional band, I realised that the soundtrack would need to feature the instruments they play (I have a keyboard player, there need to be keys/synths in the music). The reverse is also true; I can’t have characters playing instruments that I (or the multi-talented @theanonwonder and @jooleemarie) can’t play, as we wanted to do the music ourselves, without bringing anyone else in. I love that relationship between the reality of the music and the fiction of the film – it gives me the restrictions I need to produce my best written and musical work. The situation transcends story.

I love working this way. I fires me up. I have the best job in the world. I’m just not getting paid for it…

But would an advance on Make a Move change anything? I’d be contractually compelled to write the second season of the book, instead of being able to rely on the understanding of my readers while I get the film done. And I’d have more money, but not enough to give up my day job, which I like. I’d have print distribution, which would get my books out to more readers, but unless the goal is financial reward, more readers isn’t a goal in itself. Sales of the book are far from stellar, but I know the best way to drive more sales is to get the second book written and published, which I can currently do at my own pace.

I think the main reason I still want a book deal is that I love the publishing industry. Yes, I said it. Even though I find their output largely unreadable, and I’ve often said bad things about the way they operate and the mistakes they’re (in my opinion) still making, I love the concept of the institution of publishing. I guess it’s the same way people still see a need for the royal family; they’re a flawed institution, but they’re important just because they are. And as I love publishing, I feel like I should play my part in the big machine, even if I’m not convinced it’s the best path for my career as a writer, or for Make a Move.

Like I said, I’m conflicted.

The Story

For offline reading, download the pdf here. Please feel free to share the file with your friends.

Friction

by

Steven Gaskin

It starts with a text.

Be there in forty.

Optimistic for a Friday rush hour, but I’m on my way to meet my girl for dinner; maybe Manchester will give me a break.

#

Queuing through the sets of lights at White City. The drive so far has been quick; I got lucky with my lane choices, even luckier with the green lights, but now I’m stuck for a while. I have the blowers on hot and all of the windows down, trying to stop the engine overheating as it idles. The temperature in the car builds as I sit there; it must be twenty-five degrees outside, another five or so inside. No music; this is my time to refuse any information other than the flow of traffic around me. I spent the whole day taking in data, and now it’s time to stop. I loosen my tie another couple of inches. The lights change and I put the car in gear as the drivers on my right race on to the next red light.

#

This isn’t good. Looks like everyone wants to turn onto Mancunian Way; the queue is back past the BMW dealership with the show cars all painted up like the England World Cup squad. The lights turn green and I see a spot open up alongside, so I indicate and thrash the Saab’s tired engine to get us both into it without causing a row. I’m at the roundabout over the motorway about ten minutes sooner than anyone wanting to turn onto it, and I keep going, ignoring the horns and swearing directed at those pushing into the queue on my left.

#

It takes me three light changes to turn right onto Whitworth Street, but that’s cool, as two trains cross the Deansgate bridge while I’m sat underneath it, which always gives me a buzz. I have to wait while a taxi pulls a u-turn back towards Deansgate, the driver raising a finger to me in acknowledgement. Finally time for some music; I’ve been in the car about half an hour now, and I’m getting tired and fed up. I try Radio 1 then Radio 2. Key 103 does nothing to offend me on my third try, so I stick with it while a Paramore track plays out.

Crawling along, I can see the early drinkers enjoying the air along the locks, winding down post-work in their own way. Wish I had that kind of cash.

I move my crappy car along.

#

The junction of Whitworth Street and Oxford Road is heaving. So many people. The queue for the cashpoint at Sainsbury’s is back to the shop door; it’s going to be a big night. The lights change and I pull forward, but the guy driving the van approaching on my right jumps the red light and ploughs into the front of my car, pushing me sideways into a taxi.

I can taste the metal in the air as it screams, the three vehicles pushing for the same space at the same time. Ouch.

The flatbed van’s a rental, and it stops at an angle to the front of my car, the passenger window level with my radiator. The window is wound down and a Staffordshire Terrier has its chestnut face pushed out, looking down at me as my vision settles. The dog’s the least threatening organism in the cab.

I look left and make eye contact with the cabbie, giving him the thumbs up: you okay? He nods. I grab my phone.

‘Emergency services. Which service do you require?’

‘Police, please.’

‘One moment.’

‘Police. How can we assist you?’

‘I’ve been in a crash at the junction of Oxford Road and Whitworth Street.’

‘Okay, we’ll have someone with you soon. Do you need an ambulance?’

The van’s driver is out on the road, heading my way, and his partner is climbing out of the cab after him. The dog stays put.

‘No, but the junction’s completely blocked and the guy who hit me looks mad as hell. You need to get here now.’

‘Like I said, sir, we’re on our way.’

‘Okay, thanks.’ I hang up. The van driver looks at the mashed portion of the two vehicles, and then beckons to me to get out of the car. He’s big – covered in flabby, faded muscles and homemade tattoos. This isn’t going to go well.

I pull my tie off completely and open my door.

#

The van driver is all chest and shoulders, head pushed forward like his dog, trying to intimidate me. I look back across at the taxi driver, but even with his mates arriving from the rank stretching back down Whitworth Street, he wants no part of this aside from the insurance payout. Thanks.

‘You fuckin’ prick,’ the man spits from his contorted face. ‘You fuckin’ donkey. You think I’m paying for this? You’re fuckin’ paying for this. You’re paying my fuckin’ deposit, you fuckin’ prick.’

I name him The Mouth.

Pockets of crowd have formed on all four corners of the junction, and the windows of the Cornerhouse bar are filled with spectators. Above the bar, perched on a frame bolted into the red-brick fascia, is a traffic camera. It’s pointing down at the junction, and it has a clear view of both the accident and the traffic lights. Relief.

I keep my stance square, not backing away or leaning in. I think I can take this guy. He’s big and he’s mean, but his body language betrays his lack of skill. He’s a bully, and he’s used to backing people down. I think I want him to start on me.

His partner from the van – maybe his son – is a little guy, all skinny and his joints too prevalent. He’s scowling like he means it, but I know he’ll fold the second I score a hit on The Mouth. I just need to stop The Mouth scoring on me.

‘You think you can ‘ave me? You think you’re fuckin’ ‘ard?’ This guy loves to talk. I look him straight in the eye.

‘You’re on camera, mate,’ the taxi driver calls over, pointing up at the camera I’ve already spotted. ‘Not telling you what to do, but you might want to think on.’

The Mouth takes a look, sees the truth of it. I can tell how badly he wants to hit me. There must be some sense in there, though, as he turns from me, spitting on the floor, shoving his passenger back towards the van and avoiding meeting the gaze of any onlookers.

The taxi driver gives me a mock-tired smile, shaking his head in relief. Not sure how much danger he thought he was in, but he did me a favour, so I don’t hold a grudge.

My back is stiff. Not cool.

#

Another text.

Going to be late. Call when I can.

I don’t want to share the details of where I am or what I’m doing. I don’t want her to worry.

Things are sorted faster than I expected. Once the police arrive, witnesses are jumping up like it’s my surprise party, and The Mouth is breath tested and arrested. He’s a sliver over the limit, but it’s enough, and he’s gone. His lad looks terrified; he’s no idea what to do or how he should behave. I don’t care.

I call my insurance company and they send a pickup to collect the car while I’m talking to the police. The guy who loads my car onto his truck looks and sounds like Peter Kay, and is the cheeriest person I’ve spoken to in weeks. I grab my jacket and tie, my laptop case and a couple of CDs from the Saab and he hoists it. I know I won’t be seeing it again. He offers to drive me where I need to be.

‘Nah, I’m good thanks.’

‘You sure? You don’t want to get home? Get in the bath with a beer? Hey? Hey?’

‘Thanks, but I’ll get a drink in town. Got somewhere to be.’

‘Don’t say I didn’t offer.’ The hydraulic flatbed drops into position and he’s ready to go. The taxi’s drivable, and with my heap out of the way, there’s nothing stopping him clearing out either.

‘Are you sure you’re okay, sir?’ One of the policemen asks. ‘We can get an ambulance here quick, get you checked out.’

‘I’m sore, but I’m walking.’ I’m not trying to sound brave, just being honest. ‘I reckon they’ll be busy enough tonight. Nothing wrong with me that a beer and a massage won’t fix.’

‘Sounds like a plan, sir. Hope your evening picks up.’

‘Thanks, officer.’

I loop my tie back over my head and pull my jacket on. It’s warm, but it’s too much to carry. I sling my laptop bag over my shoulder, drop the CDs into the front pocket. A nod to the policeman and I’m off.

#

I criss-cross the blocks, heading towards Piccadilly Gardens, cutting through Chinatown. Bus after bus roars by, packed with people heading home, listening to iPods, chatter, thoughts. Arterials are jammed solid, cross streets free-flowing but busy with cars, windows down and music escaping. I can feel the edges of the paving slabs through my shoes, and I’m happy – regardless of the circumstances – to be out of the car and walking.

I cross the canal and enter Chinatown proper. The air is cleaner here – less traffic. The pavements and roads are narrow, but it feels less congested – no one’s rushing to get by me. People sit on benches and talk and smoke. I slow my pace, my mind.

#

A stag party is leaving a strip club, starting early, and one eager beaver steps back into me as I pass.

He’s straight in my face.

‘-where ya fuckin’ goin’!’

I look over my shoulder, see a friendly hand placed on his. This isn’t going to happen unless I provoke it, so I choose not to. I’ve no chance of winning here.

I read somewhere that people can smell fear – a pheromone we pump out when we’re bricking it. Maybe it goes further than that. Maybe they can smell when I just don’t fucking need this.

I hear a bottle smash on the floor behind me, hear his shouts getting quieter. I give him no reason to follow, and turn out of sight.

#

I grab a Coke from a newsagents. I don’t want to arrive at dinner too thirsty; I want to order in my own time and not be waiting on a table or drinks. I drink and walk, feeling the strap of my bag wearing me down, feeling the rumble of tram wheels as two pass me at the same time, the drivers waving to each other.

The drink helps. Gives me a boost and tickles the headache that’s threatening. Sharpens my mind and spirit, helping the grasping memories of aggression lose their hold and fall away. Seventy pence; I’m low maintenance.

#

I cross the bus bays into Piccadilly Gardens, which are heaving. Every bench is taken. Kids run through the fountains as they surge and recede, relatives taking pictures on their phones, the sun bleaching their photographs as it lights the plumes of water, making the jets glow.

Drinkers sit out, coffee and lager and wine, sunglasses on and smiling.

Two mismatched teams play football, keeping it fast and fun, but too often losing the ball and having to apologise to those couples and small groups sharing the patch of grass. Smoke and steam vent from the windows of a noodle bar, carrying the scent of beef, chilli and garlic, and I’m hungry.

Buses and trams orbit the space, but no one here’s in any rush to be any other place. Safe and sun-warmed and surrounded by the city, old and new buildings, rough-patched roofs and multi-story video displays.

I cross the footbridge over the fountain, and I find a clean spot of step on the Victoria monument.

One last text.

I’m here. Usual spot.

I place my bag between my feet and lean back onto my hands. I love this place. One street away, a tide of people hurry to catch their trains home, looking for someone to get in their way, someone they can empty their anger into – anger at still being in this country, this job, this body, this life. I’ve every reason to be angry right now, but I’m not. I’m here, and I’m surrounded by hundreds of people looking for nothing but peace and fun and to not get in my face.

Squinting against the sun, I see her – my girl – approaching.

She drops shopping bags at her feet, looking me over, concerned. I smile, but it’s a weak effort – the pain in my back and shoulders polluting my relief in finally reaching her.

‘I shopped,’ she says.

‘I see.’

‘You’ve been a while.’

‘Someone hit the car.’

Her face changes. Her eyes darken with worry. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Kind of. Going to be stiff for a day or two. The car’s totalled.’

‘That bad?’

‘No, but it’s old and not worth much. They towed it. We’ll get something else.’

She bends forward and cups my cheek in her hand, looking for damage.

‘I’m fine,’ I insist.

‘Really?’

‘Really. Come on’ – I grab my bag and stand up – ‘let’s go to dinner.’

‘No,’ she says, collecting her bags in one hand, resting the other around my waist. ‘Let’s go home.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes. You’ve had a rough day.’

I let her guide me, enjoying the feel of her hand on my back, the sun on my face.

‘No,’ I say, pulling her closer. ‘Today wasn’t so bad.’

The end

I Know Kung Fu

I was about five films into a Jet Li jag when I saw Kiss of the Dragon – a Luc Besson-produced film featuring a lot of people getting kicked in the head on and around famous Parisian landmarks. It was cool, if forgettable, but there was something in it that stuck with me. When Li’s Chinese intelligence operative arrives in Paris, he stays with a sleeper agent – an old man who’s been living in the city for most of his adult life, running a shop that makes and sells prawn crackers to local Chinese restaurants, whose real purpose is to provide a place to stay for agents passing through on Chinese government business. Spoiler Alert! He gets killed, and Jet Li takes his body to the steps of the Sacre Coeur and lights some incense, before running off to kick more people in the head. Nice scene, but it left me wondering who this guy was? What was his story? How many agents has he helped? I thought about a book based on the life of a sleeper agent, his excitement derived from the various operatives that land on his doorstep looking for a meal and a clean bed, but it felt flat. Without his own story, the episodic nature of the other operatives’ adventures would lack a narrative core upon which to hang, and it’d be a mess. I filed the idea away.

Sex Tourists

The first time I went to Paris, I didn’t know about Pigalle, and I ended up walking down the Boulevard de Clichy by accident. Honest. My then-girlfriend (now wife) and I had visited Montmarte, and decided to walk back down the hill toward the centre of the city instead of descending the 200-odd steps into the Abbesses metro station. I figured we’d taken one turn too far when I saw the first adult video stores, but we kept on, and it wasn’t long before we were invited, by a nice lady and her three big men-friends, if we wanted to go and see a live sex show. It probably helped that it was the middle of the day, but the situation just didn’t seem threatening, even when we politely declined the offer and headed on. It’s a strange place: filthy and sordid in all of the oldest ways, but friendly, and open, and very Parisian. I filed the idea away.

Skip To The End…

Spaced was an awesome TV show – original, funny, and intermittently moving. I bought both series on DVD on a bit of a nostalgia trip and watched the whole lot practically back-to-back. When I was done, I wanted more (they only made 14 half-hour episodes) and was feeling inspired, so toyed with the idea of trying to write a sitcom. Thinking through some ideas, though, I realised that Spaced had left me a bit flat – as the format hadn’t allowed me to get to know the characters to any great depth. They were great people, but compared to the depth of character you can mine in a novel, I just didn’t know that much about them.

That was the first time I thought of writing a book in a sit-com format, or rather, writing a sit-com in a book. I played with a number of ideas, one of which was that the setting should be aspirational in some way, which lead me to Paris as a location. That triggered a memory of Kiss of the Dragon, and how I’d wanted to explore the sleeper’s story; this idea of writing a sit-com could solve the problem of the narrative for him being too episodic, as I’d be purposefully embracing the episodic nature of the format. In the film, the sleeper’s shop is in a red-light district, but it was a nasty, cruel place with no room for humour; I ditched that, but other settings I thought about felt too cosy and sterile to produce any real drama. I think the idea of disguising the safe house as an adult cinema started as a joke, but one that had some truth to it. Those memories of Pigalle and it’s cartoony brand of naughtiness were still fresh, and as I dropped my scenario into that place – trying it out – a number of background characters arrived, and they brought friends, and scenarios, and conflicts, and humour, and cake.

Make a Move had found its home.

WARNING!!!

Make a Move contains no sexual swear words, and doesn’t explore violence or adult scenarios to any great depth. It’s suitable for anyone old enough to take an interest in a full-length novel. This story isn’t; it’s scary, sweary and uses words like “liquefying”. I wrote this for me, and you might not get on with it. Consider yourself warned!!!

The Story

For offline (or more-nicely-formatted) reading, download the pdf here. Please feel free to share the file with your horror-fan friends.

DESCENT

‘Is this right, Captain?’ Constable Gottschalk handed his boss a cup of coffee, but received no thanks. ‘I know we follow orders, but this guy’s never said he was anything other than innocent. He has an appeal date.’

‘He should have waited on it,’ Captain Emerson replied. ‘He chose to run.’

‘I know, sir. I’m not disputing that. I just . . .’ Gottschalk looked past the Captain to the armoured black van squeezed onto the pavement at the foot of one of the large, abandoned tenements lining the street, the large, white “K9” identifier visible through the late-day shadows. ‘I’m going to feel bad about this one.’

Captain Emerson looked up at the strip of amber sky between the tall buildings, then at his watch.

‘He’s got fifty minutes. That’s time enough to change his mind.’

#

Trent Morgan rolled the ambulance to a stop outside the emergency entrance of Three Sisters of Sorrow hospital, the sirens silent but the blue strobes running, reflecting from the red-brick fascia of the ageing building and the smog-blackened signs that now hid directions to mothballed departments. He grabbed a high-visibility jacket from behind the driver’s seat, pulling it on over his stab vest, and holstered a sidearm alongside a bloodied nightstick. It was a struggle unloading the stretcher through the rear doors without a partner, but no one was around to see him fumble to extend the trolley’s wheels. He slammed the doors closed and then pushed the trolley, with its black-bagged cargo, to the entrance, swiping a security pass before ramming the heavy door aside.

Inside, the triage nurse looked away from her computer screen for a moment but, seeing the zipped bag on the trolley, returned to her work. Trent pushed through another set of doors.

Away from the public areas of the building, the charitable status of the hospital was more obvious – the lack of funding evident in the flickering lights, patched walls and exposed wiring. The gurney rumbled through potholes in the linoleum. Trent spotted a sign for the haematology unit, unglued, simply propped against the wall. He had no choice but to trust the arrow and keep moving.

The haemo department doors lacked security – no one would enter if they had a choice – and he wheeled inside, drawing his gun. A technician was unloading a refrigerated trolley of blood bags, moving slowly in his hazmat suit; he looked up to see Trent, and Trent’s gun.

‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ the man asked, his voice muffled by the visor of his suit. ‘You want to shoot anything in here, you’d be best shooting yourself. Quicker that way. You hit one of these bags . . .’

‘You’re going to help me,’ Trent said. ‘You’re going to make me not have to shoot you.’ He reached for the head of the body bag, pulling the zip down far enough to reveal the naked man inside, his nose and eyes dark with bruises. ‘You recognise him?’

The technician looked closer and nodded.

‘He’s alive. I just needed his clothes and transport. His partner is in the back of the ambulance out front. I’m not looking to kill anyone.’

The technician replaced the loose blood bags into the trolley and closed the lid before pulling the protective hood from his head. ‘What do you need?’

‘New blood’ – Trent holstered his gun long enough to remove his coat – ‘and you’ve got half an hour to give it to me.’

#

The sky now dark, Captain Emerson returned to his car, stepping over the cables from the mobile floodlights. He sat in the driver’s seat, pulling the door closed.

‘Control from Emerson?’ he asked into his radio. There was a pause, then his reply.

‘Go ahead, Captain.’

‘Do you have Judge Minter on the line?’

‘Connecting you now, sir.’

Another pause, then an older voice spoke.

‘Captain Emerson. Do you have him?’

‘No, Your Honour,’ Emerson replied. Only now, in privacy, did his voice reveal any trace of regret. ‘I have teams across the city, but you know as I do, we didn’t get him early, so our chances now are almost none.’

‘Agreed.’ Judge Minter paused. Emerson could hear him breathing. ‘Then it’s out of our hands. Under article one-seventy-seven of the People’s Charter, I authorise the retrieval of Trent Morgan. Bring him in, Captain.’

‘Understood.’ Emerson looked at the silver crucifix hanging from the car’s shotgun mount, dangling on a thin chain, glowing dully in the floodlights. ‘Emerson out.’ He climbed from the vehicle, striding along the street to where his men were gathered, far from the K9 truck. ‘It’s time,’ he said, his voice clear, carrying along the street ahead of him as he splashed through the puddles. ‘Get set up, and get me the padre.’

#

‘What group are you?’ the technician asked as he dug through blood stock data on the computer.

‘B negative,’ Trent replied.

‘You’re not giving me much help here, Trent.’

‘You know who I am?’ Trent asked, pausing in unbuttoning his shirt. ‘And what do you mean?’

‘Yeah, I recognised you from the trial coverage. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think you did it.’

‘No?’

‘Nah. Guy did that was a fucking animal. I never saw that much evil in you. I don’t now.’

Trent sat on a stool, reaching for his shoes, but he stopped. ‘They were my children,’ he said.

‘I know, man. I know.’ The room was quiet for a moment, the only sound the regular beeping from the refrigerators. ‘But, what I mean is, I don’t carry much blood. It goes into bodies as fast as we can get it out. And B neg is not a common type.’

Trent didn’t interrupt the technician as he tapped at the computer keyboard, searching. ‘No. I’m sorry, Trent. I don’t have any.’

‘Nothing?’

‘No, unless . . .’ The technician crossed to the blood trolley and scrolled through the touch display built into the lid. ‘I’ve got three litres in here, which would be enough to keep you going as long as you took it steady, but it’d take me an hour or so to clean it.’

‘Just give me all of it, then shoot me up with adrenaline’ — Trent continued undressing — ‘I don’t have time to rest.’

‘No, Trent, you don’t understand. This is dirty blood. There are so many viral agents in here . . . It’s not a question of what disease you’ll catch but how many. You will die.’

Trent stopped unlacing his shoes. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Bradley.’

‘Bradley. I’ve been on death row for two months, and you know what’s coming after me. Dying of some disease even a week from now is my best chance. Please help me.’

Bradley stared at Trent for a moment, then pulled his hood back on, sealing it shut. ‘Okay,’ he shouted through the visor. ‘Get that guy off the gurney and drag it over here.’

#

Captain Emerson stood clear of the truck as the handlers lowered the rear ramp. Two of the four men, all dressed in armoured suits, climbed the ramp and unlocked the security door, giving them access to the cages. The men fed long-handled snares into the first cage, working them left and right as they tried to snag the screaming, thrashing form inside. Their colleagues waited at the foot of the ramp, armed with automatic shotguns, which they kept trained on the cage.

‘You ever worked K9, sir?’ Constable Gottschalk asked.

‘No,’ Emerson replied. ‘Pay was never good enough. Never would be.’

‘I don’t know how they sleep. I couldn’t.’

‘You can get used to anything, Gottschalk, given long enough.’

A scream echoed out of the back of the truck, a bestial sound, driven through a dead throat.

Gottschalk looked at the Captain, but Emerson’s face was impassive.

Footsteps approached. ‘Captain Emerson,’ the priest said. He was also dressed in body armour, as thick and restricting as that protecting the K9 squad, but with a light-reflective cross painted onto the breastplate. His voice was distorted, relayed from a microphone in his helmet to small speakers in the fascia.

‘Padre,’ the Captain replied. ‘Do you have the prisoner’s sample?’

The padre held up a small, glass test-tube, encased in a protective metal frame.

‘Over to you then.’

The padre approached the K9 truck and climbed the ramp, escorted by the marksmen. With the snares attached, one of the handlers typed a code into the lock on the cage door, his fat, gloved fingers mashing the oversized keys. The locking bolts boomed as they were pulled down into the floor of the truck, and the door crashed open. The two men holding the creature fought to restrain it, forcing it down onto the floor, spreading its limbs.

The padre took two cautious steps, placing him within the zone marked out by the long handles of the snares. His voice issued clearly from the helmet speakers.

‘Trent Alastair Morgan, according to the will of the people, I sentence you to retrieval. May God have mercy on your soul.’ He twisted the metal frame surrounding the test-tube, breaking the glass inside and dripping the contents onto the ramp, a foot away from the beast, before stepping back.

The reaction was immediate. The low growling that had accompanied the padre’s words now rose to a shriek, and the handlers released the snares, stepping off the sides of the ramp, backing away under cover from their armed colleagues.

The beast pounced on the spilled blood, lapping it from the ramp, its long, dirty hair falling into the glistening pool. Its fingers clawed at the metal of the vehicle as it drank.

Captain Emerson could sense his men backing away further at the sight. They were sensible to fear the creature, but now it had Morgan’s scent, they were safe as long as they didn’t do anything stupid, anything to provoke it.

The K9 truck rocked as the beast leapt from the ramp, locked on its prey. Emerson watched the creature scrabbling for traction, its claws scraping at the asphalt as it worked up to speed. Meeting Gottschalk’s eyes as he turned, he had nothing to say to the young constable, nothing that could ease the guilt.

He climbed into his car and reversed slowly back down the street, ignoring the officer who waved him through the barricade.

#

Trent tried to relax on the gurney as Bradley fed two long needles into the veins of his forearms, working the thick tubes along his vessels before taping them down and moving onto the other arm. It was hard work in the restrictive suit, and he wasn’t gentle.

‘I’m really not happy doing this,’ Bradley said.

‘My heart bleeds,’ Trent replied through gritted teeth. ‘If you can’t do it without hurting me, just do it fast.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Bradley rammed the last pair of needles home and added the tape. He moved around the gurney to the transfusion unit, guiding the rubber tubes up and over Trent’s shoulder, but froze at the sound of a crash and scream from across the building.

‘Fuck,’ Trent spat, sitting up and tearing the needles from his arms. ‘Thanks anyway, Bradley.’

‘Shit, shit,’ Bradley panicked. ‘You’ve got to run, man. C’mon. Fucking run!’

Trent grabbed his shirt and shoes from the stool, and was backing away from the doors when the creature butted them open. Seeing no recognition in its pure-white eyes, Trent had no warning that it was about to leap at him, but his instincts were sharper than his mind, and he dropped his shoes, grabbed one of the diseased blood bags, and hurled it at the beast. The plastic split, showering both the creature and the wall behind it with blood, leaving it running down its face, into its mouth. Licking its lips, it reached for the torn bag where it lay on the floor, bringing the plastic to its face to suck down the remains. Both Trent and Bradley moved slowly away, trying to reach the doors on the other side of the room without distracting the beast from its gluttonous revelry.

Feeling the door behind him, Trent watched the animal closely, trying to gauge the level of its preoccupation with the dirty blood. Looking at its eyes, he saw the whiteness fade in the centre, as if something were rising to the surface of a milky pond. He dismissed it as spots of gore, but the flickering movement now visible in those eyes alerted him. He had to move.

Pushing Bradley aside, out of the creature’s path, he backed quickly out of the door, then ran, his bare feet pounding the floor. He heard the doors crash open behind him but kept running, dropping his shirt as his arms pumped.

Spotting a door to a stairway ahead, he shouldered through it, making no effort to secure the door behind him. Instead he hit the stairs, heading upward. He made it two floors before he heard the door splinter below him, heard the resonant booming of the creature jumping from one handrail to the next, leaping up the central shaft of the stairwell. Knowing he would be brought down in seconds, he pulled open the next door he found and left the stairs, finding a long, unlit corridor ahead of him. He kept running, looking for his next opportunity to escape, but could see nothing ahead.

The door he’d just used didn’t even click closed before it was thrown from its hinges, the beast thundering after him, its claws ripping into the linoleum floor as it tore along. Eighteen months in prison – on remand and on death row – had left Trent lean and pure, but his abilities were pitiful compared to the beast’s.

Seeing his imminent death, and the large, frosted-glass window at the end of the corridor, Trent gave up. Covering his head with his hands, he dived for the glass, feeling it give way before him, tearing at his sides as he breached into the alleyway beyond, falling, bleeding, screaming.

The impact from behind felt like a bus had followed him through the window, knocking the air from his lungs. The tearing claws at his back, arms and legs snagged him tight, but the creature’s momentum pushed them both further across the alley, into the derelict mill building opposite. The windows had all been smashed, the loading bays on each floor boarded up a long time ago, the wood now rotting. The beast twisted as gravity competed with their momentum, steering them toward one of the doors on the first storey, but letting Trent’s body take the full impact as they smashed through, landing on the wooden floor. The creature’s teeth bit into Trent’s shoulder as they rolled, and the pain flashed bright in his head, focussing his fear into coherent thought.

Seeing a chain winch still clinging to the rotting joists of the floor above, Trent grabbed at the chain, bringing it up behind him, around the creature’s neck. Unconcerned, the beast kept moving, dragging the chain with it. As it pulled taut over the pulley, the chain wrenched the winch from the floor where it was moored, the assault shattering the boards around it, allowing it to fall through to the floor below. The beast was hauled, screaming, from Trent’s back, flying up to the rafters as the chain thrashed through the pulleys, only to smash the pulley mounting from the ceiling, adding more mass to the creature’s bonds as it was dragged back to the floor.

The creature came to rest straddling the shattered joists, suspended across the hole in the floor, pinned by the weight of the chains and the lifting mechanism swinging below. Trent lay bleeding, his head turned to watch the beast as it struggled. Only when he was convinced the animal couldn’t escape did he allow himself to black out.

#

Trent woke hours later. The opening into the building, surrounded by the shattered remains of their incursion, revealed grey light as the sun penetrated the alley. The floor creaked as the creature, still bound by the weight of the winch, strained to free itself.

Trent pushed himself upright, pulling his torn, battered legs beneath him. He pressed at his wounds, finding them tacky and firm, beginning to heal. Walking was still a distant hope, but he could crawl, and he approached the beast, dragging himself nearer.

He knew what to expect – had read the disclaimers during his incarceration – but it was still somehow more alien than its biology should dictate. It was a man, thin and wiry, with pallid, grey skin. Its feet and hands were drawn into tight fists, its fingers and toes armed with thick, black talons. Its face was distorted by the mass of teeth pushing from between its lips, the canines thick sabres, overhanging the bottom jaw.

Horrific as the creature was, the details added by its police masters were nauseating. The metal collar had saved it from having its neck crushed by the chain, but even unbound, the controller restricted its movement, tight up beneath its jaw. From the collar, a metal tag dangled, a single word – the creature’s name – engraved upon it: “Penance”. Trent moved closer, close enough to meet the creature’s eyes, which had now cleared, resolving to reveal maroon irises, pierced with pinpricks of black pupils. The eyes swivelled, fixing upon him.

‘Look what they have made of me!’ the creature growled. ‘I am a God, and they render me bestial.’

Trent was surprised by the eloquence of the creature’s speech. Conditioning through starvation not only turned them into singular, tormented hunters, driven through fear and rage to locate and eviscerate their marked prey, it also stole their higher functions, leaving them no more guileful than an animal. No more able to reason, or be reasoned with. The blood Trent had supplied it had been sufficient to restore its mind, though he knew its humanity was forever gone.

‘You’ll find no sympathy here,’ Trent said.

The creature rolled its eyes to the alley. ‘The sun,’ it snarled.

‘Like I said — your problem. I’ve got my own.’

Trent shuffled around, his movements slow and careful as he worked his way from the beast.

‘Please,’ the creature moaned. The sound was pitiful. ‘This was not my choice. This is what they made me. I do not want to die like this.’

Trent paused, already exhausted. ‘You’ll kill me,’ he said.

‘No. I am more than a beast. I am restored. I can converse. I can choose. I can choose to take another.’

‘Why would you?’

‘I have to. It is all I have to offer for my freedom.’

Trent watched the creature, trying to detect either truth or deceit, but it was impossible. There was so little of the human left in the creature’s face, he could no more read its intentions than a lizard. He turned his back and began moving again.

He’d covered half the distance to the stairs when the sun breached the building. The creature moaned, the noise rising to a scream, then a roar as the sunlight moved across its face and body. Smoke filled the large room, spilling across the floor. The crackle of flames was audible over the creature’s screams, the antique wood charring, the creature’s body bubbling, liquefying.

The smell of the smoke was hideous, and Trent coughed hard, trying to clear the greasy suspension from his lungs. Gasping for clean air, the smoke suddenly cleared, rushing away. He looked back, seeing the remaining length of chain disappear through the burning boards, then into the hole in the floor. He heard a metallic crash from below.

Trent tumbled down the stairs to the ground floor, landing at the doorway to the main workfloor. He looked in to check that the beast was dead. The taloned extremities were largely intact, arranged like compass points around a rose of jellied remains, in the middle of which lay the metal collar, blackened by the smoke but otherwise intact. Putting the sight from his mind, Trent dragged himself to the back of the building looking for a way out.

Having found a broken window large enough to fit through, Trent pulled himself up and over the sill, then half-tumbled out, feeling the sharp texture of the derelict ground pressing into his bare flesh. He crawled along behind the building, deep in the shadows. Reaching the end of the mill, peering out into the daylight, Trent felt an uncomfortable prickling in his eyes, as if he might pass out. He sat back against the wall, waiting for the sensation to pass, then leaned around the corner again. The unpleasant sensation returned, forcing Trent back into the shadows. Accepting that he was in no shape to keep moving, he relaxed against the wall, waiting for his strength to return.

He was in no rush; for the first time since his escape, he thought, he could afford to wait a while.

THE END

For the sake of discussion, let’s ignore novellas. They’re a marketing ploy to sell long short stories and short novels.

When I was outlining Make a Move, the ideas I felt drawn to write about weren’t “novel” ideas. They didn’t have the substance to carry a full-length book. Thing is, they weren’t “short-story” ideas either, as they relied on character background to work. I’d been messing with the idea of writing a book formatted as a sit-com (a British sit-com with 6 episodes, rather than the 22-25-episode US variety) for a while, but couldn’t see the point without a good story to justify it, and it was just sat in my back head waiting for a reason to use it. I think I’d just finished rewatching Spaced on DVD and was craving more. So there I was, with a collection of serial, but short, story ideas and an idea for a multi-part framework…

I think most people see the decision to write Make a Move in 6 parts as a gimmick, and I admit it was for a while. I referred to it as a lit-com, but that kind of marketing speak makes me feel dirty, and not in a good way, so I stopped. Once I started to write, though, I realised I’d hit on something that was going to inspire me in new and scary ways. I knew it was working for me when, despite not aiming at a word count, all of the episodes were dropping at 17-18,000 words. Episode 6 ran to 20,000 in the first draft, but I had to rewrite it extensively to make it not suck; the unsucky version is 18,000 words. That was the story (stories) dictating what length it wanted to be.

There was a side-effect to this structure that I became aware of early on, and I exploited it in every way. All of the writing books/websites tell you that characters have to have a reason to exist. They have to advance the plot, and must have detailed, convincing motivations in order to come alive. Fair enough. But what about all of those characters that are just cool, or fun, or scary, or sexy? Should they not exist just because they have no lofty goals? I have lots of characters like that; they turn up, do their thing, and then leave. Many writers would condemn that as frivolous, but my readers don’t, as they know that, due to the episodic nature of the book, there’s more coming, and my core characters will guide them along the way. I read somewhere (I forget where) that in writing a book, a writer establishes a contract with the reader, and they have to satisfy the terms of that contract or the reader will feel cheated. Make a Move comes with a contract too, but it’s not a pro forma deal; I changed the terms. I think my readers know that by the end of page one.

So the point of this post? A call to those writers wrestling with ideas that just won’t fit into the current accepted templates. The concept of the novel is in flux right now – some might say it’s in jeopardy – and it’s the perfect time to experiment. If eBooks get a foothold (a real foothold, not the toe poke the evangelists are currently creaming over) all manufacturing limitations will be removed, and there’ll be a market, and a platform, for stories of all length. I love short books – 100-150 pages – but they don’t cost half as much to print and bind as a 300-page novel, so they’re bad value, and I need to really like an idea before I’ll buy. Maybe it’s time for those diminutive ideas and marginalised characters to emerge. Make a Move and the (cringe) lit-com is just one idea (actually, it’s 15 ideas, but let’s not talk about that headache in this context) and it came to me before the Kindle was first hinted at; now, all boundaries are flexible, and all bets are off.