The Third Man

Graham Greene creates an intriguing opening. Harry Lime has been killed before his friend Holly Martins arrives. A British Major wants Holly out of Vienna by the following day but suddenly there are a number of people interested in Holly.
The intrigue is upon us from the very start and I guess that's what makes a good story. Interest needs to be aroused in the first few lines otherwise the writer is lost in the sea of meaningless words.



Here's my short story so far. Are you intrigued enough?

For many this is a chronicle of converted beliefs, bedevilment, lotions ad potions and witchery. For others, myself included and probably you too now, it’s about vanity, insanity and come-uppance. You will decide for yourself; evil forces or Higher Power yielding justice.

My curiosity was aroused the first time the camper van parked up. It struck me as strange, stopping for lunch on our forecourt, on a trading estate, off a roundabout, on a road leading out of Basingstoke. Not even the centre of the town. They were waiting.

I’m not sure if I’ve embellished my memory with my fantasies or whether later speculation fuelled my imagination but the driver had long dreadlocks. The angle they were parked in relation to the position of my desk, and the distance between us, made it impossible to see her full. She was side on, as they talked to each other. What were they saying? She resembled Tia Dalma in the Pirates of the Caribbean: At the Worlds End, the trader of magical charms and pretty damn exciting.  The other one looked like Kim Basinger. If I were making this into a film Kim Basinger would definitely play her part.

And then of all major surprises I was distracted as I noticed weedy Johnny, as the others called him, took off his thick-rimmed glasses and went over to his North Face jacket.  Johnny was so weedy I used to be amused at the way he sort of walked into the jacket and disappeared, as if engulfed by it. A jacket with skinny, little legs dangling from the bottom. You couldn’t even see his head. He just fed the fodder for the lads to take the piss. I did feel sorry for him sometimes but asked for it somehow. I used to have to curb my chuckles. I was the only one he ever spoke to at all. He had to talk to me really to report his movements for the week. They were always the same, “onsite”. He had no sales visits to make, he didn’t nurture any deals with any of the local businesses. I never bothered to listen to his sales technique on the phones; I just assumed it would be pitiful. Mind you he made good sales figures, there was also repeat business. Someone liked him. And it was enough to make it worthwhile to keep him on. I had some crazy, romantic notion that he was selling to some gangster group. Well after all, there were regular buyers and often cash sales. Who buys a BMW for cash after all? He sold a lot of the Sports models too. He just didn’t look the sort if you know what I mean. Then again he didn’t look the sort to be involved with a gang either. He did enough for me to keep him on, that’s all that mattered. His onsite sales were mediocre. He got the odd one, but he’d be so feeble in his approach it was like a sport for the lads to leap in before he could make an approaching utterance to a customer. He’s put his head down quietly and return to his desk and pick up the phone. I thought this was a way of covering his embarrassment. Maybe he phoned his mum to tell her they pipped him to the post again. Who knows?

Anyway this day was different and intriguing. Mr boring, predictable Johnny, who never uttered a word of complaint against all the shenanigans or ever did anything other than arrive on time, eat his lunch at his desk at the same time every day, and left after the others walked out in a cluster of rowdiness. He looked calm enough. I followed him with my eyes. I wondered amused if he’d had enough and this was his way of protesting. He didn’t look up or around him or make a sound. He padded his way out of the door and blow me over with a feather, right over to the campervan. The girls, women, whatever, got out of their seats and headed into to the rear. Weedy Johnny entered via the side door. What the hell? I think he momentarily glanced back towards me but I was so taken aback I put my head down quickly so as not to be noticed I’d seen him.

When I thought he was safely inside, I looked back. With sordid thoughts, that I wanted to feel guilty for but actually thought lucky bastard, I watched for a rocking movement. Maybe it was some kind of sex-mobile. After all they were really sexy chicks. Nothing! It was like a vacuum of information. What were they doing in there? The bloody thing had curtains. I couldn’t even make out any shapes or shadows. He was gone for about 15 or 20 minutes. Then the door opened. I caught his eye and swear there was a bit of a smirk as I quickly averted my focus back to the papers on my desk, as if casually taking a sweeping view of the outside world in business thought

This weedy little bloke, who looked as if he’d got stuck at age 12 physically, gangly 5’ 10” geek, had just pulled it off with two sexy women. Surely not? I mean, he couldn’t even talk to Shy Sue at the Christmas bash when the lads teased her into approaching him. She’s not a beauty by any stretch of the imagination but she’s very nice to everyone. You’d have thought at least he could strike up a bit of a flirt with her. Even she gave up. He just sipped away at a beer, didn’t even watch the dancing and then entered into his jacket world and left.

As he came back into the showroom, I noticed he had a holdall. Did he go in with that? What was in the holdall? What on earth was going? I was in agony with nosiness. I wanted to know what this strange little fella was up to. As he settled back at his desk, I got on with my work and gradually as the weeks went by I returned to normal just as he continued be weedy and geeky. Except there was something different about him, an air or an attitude change I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was my imagination? Maybe that was his first lay? Anyway I let it go.

I did for a while anyway. Until I noticed that weedy Johnny wasn’t quite as weedy. I couldn’t make out whether he was actually physically different or whether he just seemed to be holding himself differently. I think it was the latter. His head wasn’t hanging loose off his shoulders. That was it. He was looking up more, even looking people in the eye. I didn’t like what I saw. A man with hubris. Confidence is one thing, it is attractive even in another man. But this was sort of sickening and quite something else other than confidence. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

 

Comments please ... shall I continue?

 

Bliss

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