David pulled into a rest stop on the far side of Lyon and saw another car pull up nearby.  A pale grey Fiat – insignificant and plain – with darkened windows.  For some reason he noticed it. He went to the coffee machine before setting off again after drinking a quick expresso before he spotted the same car behind him for a while.  Then it disappeared only to reappear again thirty minutes later.  He picked up speed. The other car did the same.

Finally he came off the road at Beaune and watched the other car flash past.  He had booked a night at the Gentilhommerie on the outskirts.  He liked the food, he liked the wine.  He rang his wife from the panelled bedroom only to get an answer machine.  She was supposed to be with Ella as she settled into school.  Perhaps she had not got back as yet?

The meal was delicious, especially the snails and it ended with a superb cheese board from the trolley which displayed a vast selection. He mused on where to take Carlotta for a holiday.  Perhaps try the lake palaces at Udaipur.  They had never been to India.

He was driving now from Saint Quentin where he’d stopped to listen to the ancient Carillion chime in the square. What was it about these towns of ancient France - the atmosphere - the laid-back charm?  He'd just set off on the next stretch of autoroute when he saw the car again. The pale grey Fiat. Or was it?  Surely it was his imagination?  He tried coming off at the next turn, then waited five minutes and set off on the next.  And there it was again. In the rear-view mirror.  Could he get the number?  It was too far way. The same car was in his sights all the way to Calais.  It unnerved him.  Why was it there?

Gerry watched her go and, as soon as she’d closed the door on him, the brave face he’d worn whilst they were chatting quickly disappeared. The headache, which had been there as soon as he got up, increasingly hammered in his head. Nervous knots of tension began running up his neck, and he thought about his expensive, trophy wife. She had no idea how much it cost to keep her in the manner she had become accustomed to. On top of that, there was the financial mess he’d landed himself in to sort out.

He thought back on last week’s meeting at the Bank.

‘You’re seriously overdrawn, Mr Carson-Dyer. You told us you would have the Portland premises money in the bank by now. I know you introduced the money from your insurance claim, but it really doesn’t cover things,’ The Director had shuffled through a pile of papers. ‘Furthermore, the Lady Carla line of clothes remains a toxic debt. Before we consider further borrowing, we need to see some progress.’

The Director had paused and clicked his pen, in a manner Gerry found most irritating, before continuing: ‘You have four weeks to show some signs of progress. For now, all considerations for your Harrison project have to be on hold. The bank has to consider recent activity and, frankly, we're not happy.’

Extract from Far from the Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy

Chosen as in this, comparisons may be made between the character of Gabriel Oak and that of David Brown in “Drip”;  first book in the Craven Chronicles thriller series.  He too has lost everything but comes out of this with wisdom.

Gabriel was paler now. His eyes were more meditative, and his expression was more sad. He had passed through an ordeal of wretchedness which had given him more than it had taken away. He had sunk from his modest elevation as pastoral king into the very slime-pits of Siddim; but there was left to him a dignified calm he had never before known, and that indifference to fate which, though it often makes a villain of a man, is the basis of his sublimity when it does not. And thus the abasement had been exaltation, and the loss gain.

The promised mist arrived for next day’s shoot. Andy was ecstatic. He already had a name as a famous fashion photographer, but this lovely woman as his star and the scenery to match were icing on the cake. He went into overdrive, creating a frenzy of excitement, encouraging her in various poses. 

His artistic juices flowed.  He had her stand on the stone slabs that formed the balustrade of the curve before the entrance to the house.  Two crew members had to lift her up onto the top and hold her until she got her balance.  All the cars had been cleared away, and he was able to film her swathed in different shades of chiffon. A slight breeze they’d produced from fans created ripples in the fabric but left the morning mist intact. In her hand, she held a purple rose – a hybrid they had got from some specialist, then wearing exotic ball gowns of Thai silk which stood out against the misty background and made the whole thing look like some fairy tale with the house as background.  She didn’t realise they were making history, that he was bringing out her very best, that this set of fashion shots would become the thing of legends.

The Scribe, a man of phenomenal intelligence, was already in a mood.  He’d woken up with it. And he had a headache.  Someone was going to get the brunt of his suppressed feelings – probably his cellmate. As he doodled on a pad, the very habit that had led to his nickname, he considered that events were conspiring daily to set his nerves on edge. If he wasn’t so super bright, he might actually consider he was being paranoid. 

He was into year nine of a twenty-year sentence, his second prison term.  The first had been for only two years, but they hadn’t been so lenient with him the second time around.  This wouldn’t have felt so bad if he’d got even when he did it. But he’d failed … both times.  And as such, he was constantly on edge with pent-up rage.  It never went away, and all because of his ex-wife. When he got out, she would pay, just like he’d planned before.   He’d kill her and then get even with her brother, too. It was he who deserved the worst of it.  Years and years of anger boiled inside over what had happened to the woman, who he thought of as his mother, and to him.

A few minutes later, they emerged at some lights.  Ronald looked up to see if there was any sign of movement, when he noticed a car pull up next to his window.  He casually glanced at the occupant in the car and what he saw there, made him gasp.  The woman through the glass had turned to look at him and for a second their eyes met, then she looked away.  But in that moment, Ronald felt long-forgotten memories flood his brain.  It was her. Or was it?  His mind was playing tricks on him as it had done many times before.  He had a sudden impulse to leap from the car and bang on the window, begging her to stay and speak to him.  But how could it be her?  Impossible!  It was only wishful thinking.  Perhaps it had been her mouth, the shape of it, that triggered it.  He remembered something he had read – that mouths don’t change. Nor do teeth unless you have them straightened or removed.  She’d had a diastema, a tiny gap between the two front teeth.  This woman, who’d smiled at him through the glass before she looked away, had had one too.  But what did that matter?  The woman from his past had been a blonde.  This one was a blonde as well, but was she a natural, or did she dye it? 

He drew his hand across his forehead as if to rub the memory out, but still it returned.  Flashbacks came like photographs snapping through his mind;  of pubic hair, a sandy beach, a sudden smell of sea air, brown skin, sun oil, a woman’s skirt of brightly coloured cotton stripes, a straw hat tied with pink ribbons blowing in the wind, some freckles on a long forgotten skin, strawberry jam, linseed oil, a door of faded wood, varnished planks upon a floor.  Would it never fade? Then he remembered she was dead.  Why was he being so stupid.

It was the middle of the month when the sale began.  Two days of viewing came before the auction.  Carlotta looked at her new face in the mirror.  At first, she had found it frightening.  It made her consider what she’d look like when she got old.  She frowned. She didn’t like what she saw.  Once her looks had gone, what would the future hold for her?  She sat staring at her face and went deep inside herself.  She felt her eyes well up with tears.

‘You’re not crying, are you Carlotta?  You’ll never look like this. It’s only make-believe.’  Lindy, her make-up artist, consoled her.

‘It’s not just that. It’s a wakeup call for me.  How much does it really matter … all this obsession with our looks?’

For Carlotta, her new and aged face had come as a complete revelation.  Her very own Damascene moment.  She continued looking at the elderly woman who stared back her from the mirror. Her hair was no longer black, it was streaked with grey and underlaid with brown, her eyebrows had become thin and wispy, and her face was full of lines.  The eyes – such vivid violet had been changed to grey, thanks to contact lenses. Lindy had even aged her hands, that now looked lined and wrinkled.

Lindy found a tweed suit for her to wear and a three- quarter wool coat from a style at least three decades out of date.  She had on thick stockings and flat leather shoes, and a walking stick.  With it, a woven shopping bag and a purse that had seen better days, which had within it the credit card she’d need to buy an item of her choice.  She wore an old pair of spectacles with plain lenses, and Lindy had put some sort of colourant on her teeth.  Lines radiated outwards from her lips.

As a test, they decided to ask Luke to come to the office.  He knocked on Charles Sheridan’s door.

‘Come in, Luke, this is Miss Gardener, who is going to help my secretary with some files.’

‘I thought I’d have a free makeup consultation too,’ Carlotta was saying to Charles, in a quiet, mousy voice. She turned to Luke and said hello.

Luke smiled, ‘I hope you enjoy working here, Miss Gardener, my fiancé likes it here.’

‘And who is she?’  asked Carlotta.

‘You may have seen her as The Eye,’ Luke said.

‘I don’t think I have.  Now I must go. It’s been nice to meet you, Mr. Sheridan, and you too, young man.  Shall I come on Monday?’

‘Please. At 9 a.m.  Now I wonder if Luke could take you to the door and call a cab.’

‘With pleasure,’ Luke said, offering her an arm.

They stood on the street whilst Luke looked for a passing taxi.  She stood there, passively waiting, wondering if he’d guess. Then she saw him suddenly turn to look and peered closely at her.  She saw his pupils dilate with shock.

‘My God, is that you, Carlotta?’  he gasped.

‘We thought if you couldn’t tell it was me, then neither would anyone else. How could you tell?’

‘Your perfume gave the game away.’

‘Your mother seems to feature in a lot of things you say.  You don’t mention your father. Your birth father, not your new stepfather. Shall we talk about him now? What is he like?  What does he mean to you?’

He paused. ‘I don’t talk about him.  Ever!’

For the first time Daphne saw a hostile look. She noticed his hands clenched on the arm of the chair.  His knuckles white.

‘Your father? You must have something to say about him?’

‘Let her down. Failed her. Left.’

‘And if you saw your father, how do you think you would react to him?’

‘I’d make sure he never walked again…. the useless piece of shit.’

Daphne saw the stress in his face.  His guard had dropped and the swearing was as if he’d become a different person.

‘Let’s talk about your mother.’

Daphne watched a change come over Reagan. His face looked almost dreamy.  His body lost the tension, and he started to examine his nails instead.

She was praising him.  Her voice ran around his head like little scuttling things. He felt her nails digging in his skull. He was used to feeling it.  Without her there, he felt disconnected - like a lightbulb that had failed …  or like he’d gone out without his jacket on. He needed her.  For one brief moment he wondered if he really did … until the nails came back.  If she left, he would be lonely – and besides, he was addicted to the pain she caused. She hadn’t liked the way Tye looked after him. Her anger frightened Leigh … 

‘Those people were no good for you.  I am strong and they were weak,’ Mother told him.  ‘You belong to me.  Together we are invincible,’ 

He saw the ants, crawling on his trouser legs and bent down to brush them off.

‘What are you doing mate?’ asked Robbie.

‘Damn ants!  We told you to get rid of them. This place is crawling. Did you get that spray?’

Robbie gave him a puzzled look and went back to washing pots. 

Leigh frowned. Once he was done in this filthy house, Robbie would have to be disposed of

In the end, the interview went well.

So much so that dinner followed, and that night, Frank leant a lot about what it was like to be an undertaker. She undertook him totally and he took advantage to undertake every inch of her as well.  Afterwards, he considered he wouldn’t have another date with her.  Death had put him off.  He smiled as he considered the quote from Shawshank “get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’” and guessed he’d choose the former.

Next morning, he considered the paperwork.  The coffin had not been collected from the morgue, as would have been expected.  It was collected at Heathrow airport all the way from Perth. But why?  What was the body doing in Australia and how long had it been there?

The man tossed his long hair back and pulled it through a rubber band into a ponytail. ‘I like the gore,’ he whispered, ‘real life is so much better than a horror movie. And just think of all the pain. I get a thrill from just the thought.’

‘Perry likes to indulge in Picquerism, but we don't have any books like that here.’ Harald explained.

‘I don’t know what that is. Please explain it if you will,’ she said.

‘I suppose I’m described as odd,’ Perry nodded, looking at Daphne sideways. ‘You'd probably say I'm a pervert, but what is odd exactly? Aren't all we humans just a little strange? I’ve got a lovely design on my chest they did for me last week, but it's stopped being real painful, so it'll have to be redone soon.' He undid his shirt, to show a butterfly made with needles attached to his skin:' I think that's beautiful, but from your expression, which you're trying hard to hide, you don't agree with me.’  

'It's not my cup of tea, but interesting, I suppose,' Daphne said. She covered up her embarrassment and took a drink of water, then added,' It takes all sorts.'