Goodnight, My Love - Chapter One
This is just my first draft, and so is certain to contain lots and lots of both spelling and grammatical errors. if I ever get into film directing or script writing, then this is the first piece that I will be floating :)
One
When Anthony Lyndon looked through the gap in his faded cream blinds into the dreary and rainy night, he saw many things, one thing interesting and different to the way the same view looked every night. The spattering of rain still hailed itself at the small window, echoing around the proportionately small room that was his life.
He could still see four street lights that ebbed out a pale glow into the darkness, two rows of houses that went opposite his building, all red brick, ugly and horribly similar to each other, the grey shapes of rain tearing a thousand rips into the artificially lit sky. But this was normal. It always seemed to rain here, no matter what time of year it was. But maybe that was just Anthony's brilliant pessimism. The light of the moon showed Lyndon the body of a man, moving swiftly, using one arm to clutch what was the remains of a blue duffel coat to his chest, and the other to keep his hood up in place as to shield his face from the haze of water. As he drew closer, it was clear to Lyndon that this man was heading towards him. He let go of the blinds, letting them fall gracelessly with a clang back into place, swinging from the force until eventually they stopped swaying gently and were once again still.
Lyndon sat down at his brown office chair. It was a nice chair, leather, the stale yet appeasing smell of age-old tobacco gave the chair and the room a mustiness that he had grown to love over the past twenty something years. He reached for the cigarettes that resided on his desk, polished antique oak and pulled one of the white paper tubes from the cardboard box and put it into his mouth. He spun the cigarettes back onto the table with a smack. He grabbed his matches that were from his coat pocket (he always wore his leather coat, except when sleeping) and sparked one from the strip on the back. Lighting the cigarette, Lyndon took one long inhale, put away his matches, and then let the wisps of grey smoke slows exit his mouth. The ghosts of tobacco danced around each other, rising to the roof not far above, entwined in each other, waiting to escape.
He was seldom half way through his smoke when the door to his room was knocked.
"Enter" was his simple response. He knew it would be the gentleman from the street. Few people came here, except on business. The door was pushed open as the room was opened up to the howling night. Rain fell across the doorway, covering the first meter of the floor with splotches of newly shed water. Not that the in hospitality from the darkness lasted long enough. The man rushed through, closing the door soundly behind him. Before even acknowledging Lyndon, he shook himself so the excess of the storm was no longer soaking his clothes, and he removed his hat to show his face.
He was a fairly attractive man, short brown hair looking well styled and classy. He was wearing, underneath his coat of course, a suit shirt and tie that was sodden through at the top, but retained a degree of dryness below the shoulder. His face was fairly chiseled, yet he had a slightly hooked nose which drew attention away from his other features. He wore black shoes, which he had (much to Lyndon's dismay) refrained from wiping on the doormat, so he had left a slightly damp trail of feet on his lightly browned carpet.
"You can put your things on the pegs if you wish" Lyndon said after briefly examining his guest. The man nodded and walked over to the wall next to the door, there was four coat pegs. He put his darkened blue coat on an empty hook, and then sat heavily down on the chair directly opposite Lyndon.
"So my good sir" Lyndon broke the silence after more analysis of each other by both of them, "what is it can do for you?" it was a simple enough statement, but one that had got Lyndon into a lot of trouble over his career, and had nearly cost him his life on more occasions than he could ever count.
The man did not say anything. Instead, he put his hand to his shirt pocket and took out a picture. He throws it across the table, and Lyndon then picks it up. It is slightly water damaged, but still perfectly legible and understandable. As Lyndon looked down his brain was already going through several explanations. It shows the man before him, holding a smaller woman in his arms. It is a black and white photo, but the woman's features are still well-defined. She is very attractive, with what is blonde hair flowing down to below her shoulder, and her face is pretty. She is smiling, showing nearly perfect looking teeth.
Below the main picture, the words 'Goodnight, my Darling' were written, in a rushed, yet elegant scrawl, with a lipstick impressed kiss at an angle in the bottom right corner.
"I need you to find her for me". This was the first thing that the man had said since entering, and his voice was unexpectedly gruff and unclean for one looking so polished. "Her name is Rosa. Rosa Dimitrivick."
"Dimitrivik? Is that Russian?"
"Polish, but her mother was Russian. She is my wife. Or she was. She has left me now, fled to Europe. We are still married, but she has eloped with a new man. I need you to find her."
Lyndon finished the remainder of his cigarette, pushing the last part of the paper between his worn lips. He enjoyed the last breath of a good smoke. He exhaled, watching as the fumes again danced gracefully to the roof. Looking at the picture, and then at the man, he began to shake his head.
"You know, sir, that this kind of thing is not cheap. I will need a fee and my traveling expenses paid for. Do you know where in east Europe she fled to?" Lyndon never expected him to be able to pay. He rarely left the country, and only for multi millionaires, and as polished as this man was, he was no multi millionaire.
The man reached into his steam pressed trouser pocket and took out a cheque book and a pen. There was silence filling the room, broken only by the gentle scratching as he wrote on the fine paper. He finished, looked down at it, then, satisfied, tore it down the middle and gave it to Lyndon. Lyndon looked down at it. One million pounds. Lyndon tried to hold back his amazement, but it was still difficult to withhold emotion upon receiving a million in any currency. So he had a new job on. He pocketed it and then shook the man's hand.
"Consider her found my good sir... What is your name? For contractual reasons only, of course." He hastily added.
You can call me Smith." He handed over a card with nothing but a phone number on it. It was a mobile phone, so no solid locating details. Almost certainly a false name. He would normally refuse without a home number and address, but he wasn't going to here for loss of a million pounds.
"Base fee, of course?" Smith inquired.
"Naturally" was Lyndon's plain and toneless response.
"I will accept traveling expenses up to half a million, any greater than I cannot accept liability."
"That will be most satisfactory, sir" Lyndon replied, with just the right hint of patronization. They shook hands, but before Lyndon could let go of Smith's firm and faintly damp grasp he pulled him in closer. His voice lowered, not to the point of whisper, but still notably softer.
"I hear you are the best Mr. Lyndon. I came to you this evening as a businessman, but I leave you a broken man, with an equally broken heart. Do what you can, and call me any time on the number." Lyndon tried to break free, but Smith refused to let go as yet. "And to let you know, might I add; that if you fail I want all the money back, including traveling expenses." These remarks lowered the tone in the room considerably. Smith waked to the door, grabbed his coat and left barely pulling it over his body as he dissipated into the still howling night. The door was not properly closed in his haste, so Lyndon walked slowly over to the painted wood and, after taking one last look into the severe black storm, closed it firmly with a slam.
He walked over to his desk, lit another cigarette and picked up his phone receiver. He heard the line- utterly dead, an endless beeping. Putting the cigarette to his mouth and holding it in place with his lips while he dialed the first of what world would be many telephone conversations he would have over the course of the night and morning, his insides gave a huge sigh. This was definitely going to be a long set of months.
When Anthony Lyndon looked through the gap in his faded cream blinds into the dreary and rainy night, he saw many things, one thing interesting and different to the way the same view looked every night. The spattering of rain still hailed itself at the small window, echoing around the proportionately small room that was his life.
He could still see four street lights that ebbed out a pale glow into the darkness, two rows of houses that went opposite his building, all red brick, ugly and horribly similar to each other, the grey shapes of rain tearing a thousand rips into the artificially lit sky. But this was normal. It always seemed to rain here, no matter what time of year it was. But maybe that was just Anthony's brilliant pessimism. The light of the moon showed Lyndon the body of a man, moving swiftly, using one arm to clutch what was the remains of a blue duffel coat to his chest, and the other to keep his hood up in place as to shield his face from the haze of water. As he drew closer, it was clear to Lyndon that this man was heading towards him. He let go of the blinds, letting them fall gracelessly with a clang back into place, swinging from the force until eventually they stopped swaying gently and were once again still.
Lyndon sat down at his brown office chair. It was a nice chair, leather, the stale yet appeasing smell of age-old tobacco gave the chair and the room a mustiness that he had grown to love over the past twenty something years. He reached for the cigarettes that resided on his desk, polished antique oak and pulled one of the white paper tubes from the cardboard box and put it into his mouth. He spun the cigarettes back onto the table with a smack. He grabbed his matches that were from his coat pocket (he always wore his leather coat, except when sleeping) and sparked one from the strip on the back. Lighting the cigarette, Lyndon took one long inhale, put away his matches, and then let the wisps of grey smoke slows exit his mouth. The ghosts of tobacco danced around each other, rising to the roof not far above, entwined in each other, waiting to escape.
He was seldom half way through his smoke when the door to his room was knocked.
"Enter" was his simple response. He knew it would be the gentleman from the street. Few people came here, except on business. The door was pushed open as the room was opened up to the howling night. Rain fell across the doorway, covering the first meter of the floor with splotches of newly shed water. Not that the in hospitality from the darkness lasted long enough. The man rushed through, closing the door soundly behind him. Before even acknowledging Lyndon, he shook himself so the excess of the storm was no longer soaking his clothes, and he removed his hat to show his face.
He was a fairly attractive man, short brown hair looking well styled and classy. He was wearing, underneath his coat of course, a suit shirt and tie that was sodden through at the top, but retained a degree of dryness below the shoulder. His face was fairly chiseled, yet he had a slightly hooked nose which drew attention away from his other features. He wore black shoes, which he had (much to Lyndon's dismay) refrained from wiping on the doormat, so he had left a slightly damp trail of feet on his lightly browned carpet.
"You can put your things on the pegs if you wish" Lyndon said after briefly examining his guest. The man nodded and walked over to the wall next to the door, there was four coat pegs. He put his darkened blue coat on an empty hook, and then sat heavily down on the chair directly opposite Lyndon.
"So my good sir" Lyndon broke the silence after more analysis of each other by both of them, "what is it can do for you?" it was a simple enough statement, but one that had got Lyndon into a lot of trouble over his career, and had nearly cost him his life on more occasions than he could ever count.
The man did not say anything. Instead, he put his hand to his shirt pocket and took out a picture. He throws it across the table, and Lyndon then picks it up. It is slightly water damaged, but still perfectly legible and understandable. As Lyndon looked down his brain was already going through several explanations. It shows the man before him, holding a smaller woman in his arms. It is a black and white photo, but the woman's features are still well-defined. She is very attractive, with what is blonde hair flowing down to below her shoulder, and her face is pretty. She is smiling, showing nearly perfect looking teeth.
Below the main picture, the words 'Goodnight, my Darling' were written, in a rushed, yet elegant scrawl, with a lipstick impressed kiss at an angle in the bottom right corner.
"I need you to find her for me". This was the first thing that the man had said since entering, and his voice was unexpectedly gruff and unclean for one looking so polished. "Her name is Rosa. Rosa Dimitrivick."
"Dimitrivik? Is that Russian?"
"Polish, but her mother was Russian. She is my wife. Or she was. She has left me now, fled to Europe. We are still married, but she has eloped with a new man. I need you to find her."
Lyndon finished the remainder of his cigarette, pushing the last part of the paper between his worn lips. He enjoyed the last breath of a good smoke. He exhaled, watching as the fumes again danced gracefully to the roof. Looking at the picture, and then at the man, he began to shake his head.
"You know, sir, that this kind of thing is not cheap. I will need a fee and my traveling expenses paid for. Do you know where in east Europe she fled to?" Lyndon never expected him to be able to pay. He rarely left the country, and only for multi millionaires, and as polished as this man was, he was no multi millionaire.
The man reached into his steam pressed trouser pocket and took out a cheque book and a pen. There was silence filling the room, broken only by the gentle scratching as he wrote on the fine paper. He finished, looked down at it, then, satisfied, tore it down the middle and gave it to Lyndon. Lyndon looked down at it. One million pounds. Lyndon tried to hold back his amazement, but it was still difficult to withhold emotion upon receiving a million in any currency. So he had a new job on. He pocketed it and then shook the man's hand.
"Consider her found my good sir... What is your name? For contractual reasons only, of course." He hastily added.
You can call me Smith." He handed over a card with nothing but a phone number on it. It was a mobile phone, so no solid locating details. Almost certainly a false name. He would normally refuse without a home number and address, but he wasn't going to here for loss of a million pounds.
"Base fee, of course?" Smith inquired.
"Naturally" was Lyndon's plain and toneless response.
"I will accept traveling expenses up to half a million, any greater than I cannot accept liability."
"That will be most satisfactory, sir" Lyndon replied, with just the right hint of patronization. They shook hands, but before Lyndon could let go of Smith's firm and faintly damp grasp he pulled him in closer. His voice lowered, not to the point of whisper, but still notably softer.
"I hear you are the best Mr. Lyndon. I came to you this evening as a businessman, but I leave you a broken man, with an equally broken heart. Do what you can, and call me any time on the number." Lyndon tried to break free, but Smith refused to let go as yet. "And to let you know, might I add; that if you fail I want all the money back, including traveling expenses." These remarks lowered the tone in the room considerably. Smith waked to the door, grabbed his coat and left barely pulling it over his body as he dissipated into the still howling night. The door was not properly closed in his haste, so Lyndon walked slowly over to the painted wood and, after taking one last look into the severe black storm, closed it firmly with a slam.
He walked over to his desk, lit another cigarette and picked up his phone receiver. He heard the line- utterly dead, an endless beeping. Putting the cigarette to his mouth and holding it in place with his lips while he dialed the first of what world would be many telephone conversations he would have over the course of the night and morning, his insides gave a huge sigh. This was definitely going to be a long set of months.
Post Comment
