Nanowrimo 2009

And so it begins…

And the pic below this may or may not be a functioning word-count widget. I can’t test it yet as the Nanowrimo website has turned all creaky as it always does on Day 1. Should show how well (or how terribly) I’ve done on any given day. Green is good, red is bad. Simple enough.

If it doesn’t show, it could be because the Nanowrimo widget server has fallen over. It does that occasionally.

(Edit 28/11/09 – and here is proof of me having finished and won:

Very celebratory pic this year! /Edit)

This year, I’m writing on my pc at home and also using a document-editing program from SavySoda called Documents on my iPhone, for writing on breaks at work, or on the bus/DART whatever. Looks pretty nifty and even allows uploading and editing to google docs – which is my standard place to save my nano-stuff to every year. It’s dirt-cheap and if it does what it says on the tin, I’ll even pay the extra 50c for the newfangled version, called D2.

The story will follow a woman called Faith, and then her daughter Joy, through over a half-century of craziness, from Faith’s college days in Dublin in the early ’90s, before the celtic tiger hit, to Utah in the late 2060’s where Joy presides over a cleverly disguised (and very profitable) criminal empire. What happens from start to finish is anybody’s guess. Personally, at this stage. I have no clue.

Below there will be my usual posting of the opening chapter or two, first draft, unedited, un-proofread. Fresh from brain to keyboard. Probably dire.

Caveat lector.

Needs Must

Joy – Notebook 1 (11/2035)

My mother always used to say that she was the epitome of mad, bad and dangerous to know. Depending on who she was talking to, there would either be a twinkle of mischief in her eye or a flat, hard-edged tone to her voice. She knew how to do scary, she knew how to do tough, all of which was acting. Except for when she was off her meds, but I never got to see much of that. She made a lot of money, a lot of enemies, and was was shot on four separate occasions in her life. Predictably enough, the last shooting was the one that did her in. A few months after she died, my Dad showed up at my door with a box of notebooks. He said it was about time I really got to know my mother, handed me the box and left. Dad was never one for chit-chat. I think she liked that about him.

I made some coffee, dumped the box out on the floor, and started flicking through the little books. They were all pocket-sized, filled with a mix of notes, sketches, lists and pages of text writted in her crabbed handwriting. The sheer volume of the things was overwhelming. I was tempted to just put them away and forget about them, but what Dad had said was nagging at me. He never wasted a word, and he’d said it was time to “really get to know” my mum. I thought I had known her, and wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to be proved wrong. I was also curious, but more than that, I missed her terribly and these notebooks had, after all, been hers. Just seeing her handwriting made me want to cry. There didn’t seem to be any order to the notebooks, but I knew there had to be, my mother was nothing if not methodical. Each notebook had a date written on the inside of the back cover, which I took to be the date she finished it on. It took me a while but I finally got them organised in the order they had been written. I picked up the first one, a cheap, battered looking thing and settled down to read it. The end date on it was August 21st 1993. The last notebook, one of the battered soft-back Moleskine notebooks she always seemed to have in her back pocket, had no end date. It took me two solid days of reading to get to that one, and the blank pages in it broke my heart. Turns out, I hadn’t really known her, and now that I did, I wasn’t sure what to think. Sure, I loved her, there was nothing in the notebooks that could change that. She loved me too, I’d never doubted that, the notebooks just made it even clearer. And she loved my dad, which was no surprise either. The thing that left me pacing around my sitting room at 4am was the fact that everything else I thought I’d known about her, and Dad too, was bull-pucky. I’d always thought she was some sort of high-powered businesswoman. She had an office, employees, all that stuff. I thought my Dad was a systems analyst. I don’t think either of them ever actually lied to me, just let me make my own assumptions and didn’t correct them.

Now everything looked different. My mother was a (just thinking it made me wince) gangster, and my dad was part of her gang, or as she called them her “troupe”, as if they were all actors or something. The name the media knew her by wasn’t her real name, and no-one ever seemed able (even at the end) to connect the dots between her, Faith Murphy, and the infamous Queen Vic (the nickname had really annoyed her, according to one of the notebooks it made her think of a soap opera from England where everyone was full of doom and gloom, she said it made her feel miserable every time she heard it). I didn’t want to call Dad to talk to him about any of this until I got it straight in my own head.

That’s what this notebook is for. I’ll start where she started and try to make a coherent timeline out of it all.

Faith, Notebook One (1993).

Shannon was playing a gig in the Rock Garden that night and had uncharacteristically told me about it, I was looking forward to going, as was Ruairí, who had been kept out of the musical loop too. So imagine how pleased I was when Davo rang me on my  swanky-but-clunky mobile phone and told me there was a job on, short notice, big money. I was to meet some lads at a location to be confirmed, hand over a briefcase and collect a bag in return. I didn’t really like the sound of that, assuming it was some sort of drug deal, and reminded Davo that I wasn’t into the whole drug mule thing. He just laughed, and told me that the bag would be heavy, meaning guns, not drugs. That made me feel a bit better. I don’t know why, but I’ve never liked the idea of greasing the wheels for the smack dealers of the city whereas I’ve never had scruples about making sure that the bad boys have the hardware necessary to commit crimes. Call me a hypocrite but I always thought that smack fucked people up worse than bullets ever could. Anyway, I was to go out to the “office” in Sandyford, collect the money (I presumed), and get the location for the meet. Apparently these were people Davo trusted because he was sending me alone, no beefy minder, no firepower (not that I would ever carry a gun) with a couple of grand, at very short notice to a meeting place we’d never been to before. Davo explained that these lads never liked to deal in the same place twice, the short notice was to ensure that we had no way of setting up anything in the location, so we couldn’t scam them. Davo wasn’t into scamming. He liked keeping his deals sweet, but these guys never let up on the paranoia. So I’m sitting there in the draughty garage in Sandyford industrial estate drinking crappy instant Maxwell House from a Styrofoam cup and wishing they’d ring Davo with the location so I could get the thing over with and maybe catch at least some of Shannon’s band’s set. The phone rang and they gave the location, finalised some smaller points and Davo sent me off into the night, laughing my arse off, because the meet was to be held in the hall I used to go to Brownies in when I was little. I knew the place well. Learned to brush my teeth properly there, and never earned any handicrafts badges. They told me I wasn’t cut out for further progress, not enough homemaker in me to make a Girl Guide or some such crap.

The ride in from Sandyford went fine, the briefcase stowed under my seat. I’d watched Davo fill it with cash, so I knew our side of the deal was kosher. I was pretty confident that all would go smoothly, and I’d be in and out in a few minutes. I think I’ve now learned never to be cocky about anything. I parked the moped, hefted the briefcase and ambled over to the door, belted out four sharp knocks and waited.  The door opened after a few minutes, the room was dark except for a lamp in the corner, with some heavy standing beside it looking bored. I couldn’t see the guns anywhere, but there was a bulky sack behind the heavy, and I presumed they were in it. I took a few steps into the room and saw something rush at me through the dark, then everything went black. Some bastard had pistol whipped me between the eyes. I came to tied to a chair with the lamp shining in my eyes, feeling like I had landed in a bad TV movie. The heavy swam into sight in the corner, barely visible, counting the cash.  Someone was talking at me, but my ears were still ringing from being hit so hard, and I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I coughed and wriggled a bit trying to loosen the ropes before croaking in his general direction; “What the fuck? I brought the money, it’s all there. Why’d ya have to hit me? Why am I tied up?”

He sounded amused, “They send little girls to do their dirty work now? Stupid little girls on pissy little bikes. Some people would be insulted by such a cavalier attitude to doing business.”

I managed to roll my eyes, and mask the pain the action caused me; “I’m good at what I do. Davo and the others trust me. The money is all there, no-one is following me, and this deal was to have been sweet and simple. You’re the ones fucking it up.”

He sighed, “They don’t tell you anything do they?”

That puzzled me. I never asked questions about the work, beyond making sure there was little chance of me getting hurt or nabbed by the Gardaí.  Truth be told, I really didn’t want to know much about the jobs I was given. Meant I could play dumb for real if I ever got myself in trouble. In this case however, it was starting to look like I’d be better off if I had some info, something to bargain with. The faceless man behind the light didn’t seem pleased by the prospect of me being a simple courier. Seemed to me like he’d been expecting Davo himself or one of the higher-ups. Now he just had me and he was pissed off about it. I couldn’t think of a useful response so I said nothing.

Bad idea. He kicked the chair and my head screamed. I think I babbled something about not knowing anything useful, that they could keep the money and the guns. That made him laugh. “You think I give a shit about any of that? There was a vital part to this deal that your boss seems to have ignored, and that’s why you’re all trussed up with a bad head. You must have really pissed him off for him to send you in like that. You been skimming to feed a habit?” He pushed up my sleeve looking for track marks and I finally got a look at him. He was blurry, but I got the general idea. Short arse with acne scars and bad breath. Standard-issue bad-boy crew-cut. Ugly as hell. A man with issues.

He seemed disappointed that I wasn’t a junkie. Something wasn’t adding up. He looked over at the heavy in the corner and asked him if there was anything in the case besides the money. He got a headshake in response. My stomach clenched. Davo had fucked me over. If I couldn’t give these guys what they wanted they’d fillet me and toss me into the canal. Since I knew sod-all about ops in general, I couldn’t even guess at what they were looking for, so I had to find some other way out. I could pull the old girlie trick of trading sex for freedom, but that held no appeal. I could offer to switch sides and work for them, but since I didn’t even have any information now I would hardly be in a position to become a useful mole. Or I could think back to my days in this hall learning how to tie knots and figure out how to undo the ones they had me bound with. The ropes were pretty loose, they obviously figured I was a push-over. So wrong, boys. Adrenalin had kicked in, and as Acne-man went over to huddle with his Neanderthal friend in the corner, I was discreetly fiddling with the knots they had thoughtfully tied directly below my wrists. Simple knots, they had obviously expected me to piss myself in terror and pass out when I realised I was in danger. I kept my eyes on the corner, listening out to make sure there was no-one else in the room. They were having some sort of whispered argument. With a few minutes work my hands were free, but I couldn’t do anything about my legs without drawing attention to myself. I kept my hands behind my back, hoping they wouldn’t notice anything amiss. Eventually Neanderthal man gestured at Acne-man’s pistol and handed him some bullets, he loaded it and walked back over to me, a cocky look-at-me-I’m-so-tough-I’ve-got-a-gun strut. Sad bastard.

It would seem that Neanderthal man reckoned I was holding out on them, so they decided to up the intimidation a notch or twenty to see if I would spill my guts. Or they’d spill them for me. Acne-man had the gun levelled at my stomach and was urging me to think hard and make sure there wasn’t anything I was meant to do tonight that I had forgotten about. I shrugged, “There was a gig I was meant to go to. I came here instead because I needed the money. I’d forgotten that.”

He poked me in the ribs with the gun, “Now is not the time to be a smart-arse.  Did Connolly give you anything other than the bag?”

“No. Look lads, I don’t know what you’re after, but it’s pretty clear that I don’t have it. So either shoot me or let me go.”

That gave Acne-man pause for some reason. He looked over towards Neanderthal man for an instant and I lunged for the gun, getting a grip on the barrel and pointing it away from me before he realised what was going on. I’d forgotten about my legs still being tied to the legs of the chair though, and it didn’t take much effort on his part to jerk his arm and send me off-balance, I crashed to the floor and felt a fresh rush of pain as my face hit the wood floor. A popping sound told me my nose had broken, and my mouth was full of blood. So much for Nancy Drew escape techniques. I pushed myself up slightly so I could spit out the blood and breathe through my mouth. Acne-man was well pissed off now.  He roared something at Neanderthal man who rushed over and flipped the chair over, leaving me flat on my back, staring up at the two of them, and the gun, which was now aimed at my head. Stupid little girl indeed.

A noise from outside made Neanderthal man run towards the door, but Acne-man held the gun steady, sneer firmly entrenched on his ugly face. Neanderthal started to shout something over to him, but was cut off as the door burst open and three armed men in balaclavas stormed into the room. Great. I lay there helpless and hurting, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Rival faction? Rescue mission? Special Branch? Whichever, no-one seemed particularly interested in me anymore. Acne-man looked momentarily stunned, then spun round aiming his gun at each of the intruders in turn. Neanderthal man had run to the sack in the corner and pulled out a sawn-off, but two of the masked men had him in their sights, and they had semis, so he was pretty much outgunned, as well as outclassed. Acne-man was being covered by the third guy, his oh so threatening pistol now looking pretty puny. They stood there for what seemed like an eternity until Neanderthal took the suicidal step of blasting at one of the men in front of him. He hit all right, blew a hole in one of the intruders, but got his brain splattered on the wall for his trouble. Now two of them faced down Acne-man who wasn’t holding his gun quite as steadily anymore. No-one paid any attention to me, so I got to work on the knots around my ankles, hoping to be able to creep out discreetly while the men settled whatever the hell was going on. I managed to get free, but took ages to clamber to my feet. My legs were asleep, my head was killing me, and my balance was totally gone. The three men still stood in the centre of the room, guns pointed at one-another. I was in way over my head. Two people were dead, I hadn’t a clue what was going on, and I wasn’t out of the woods yet. One of the masked men noticed me and cocked his head at the sack in the corner beside Neanderthal man’s body; “Finish your job Faith.”  Davo. The bastard. So he had been holding out on me, sending me in short on a deal to give himself time to figure out a way to get the guns and keep the money. Wiping the two goons out seemed to be part of the plan.

Right then I knew I needed to find a new job, but I wasn’t about to quit until I was out of there, away from the guns and safe. I staggered to the corner, stomach churning as I stepped in a pool of blood, and pulled the sack along the floor towards the door. Acne-man suddenly took an interest and took a shot at me. He hit me in the stomach, a searing pain tore through my guts and I fell to my knees, vaguely aware of more gunshots as Davo and the other guy mowed Acne-man down. The two of them pulled me up off the ground and hustled me out the door, making sure they got the guns and cash too. Davo lifted me into the back of a van and his accomplice drove us back towards Sandyford.

I must have blacked out for a while because the next thing I knew I was being examined by a nervous-looking doctor in the dingy garage. He gave me some sort of shot, removed the bullet, stitched me up, reset my nose (agh, the agony!) and cleaned up my face a bit before scurrying off with a fistful of cash tossed at him by Davo. The other guy looked on, impassive. Some part of me was grateful that they hadn’t just left me there with the two corpses and let me fend for myself, but I was royally pissed at having been duped into being bait for them at the same time. I had never seen the other guy before, and I’d be happy never to see him again. He’s nearly impossible to describe in words, but there’s just something about him that is incredibly cold. He looks normal enough, but when he’s in a room the temperature drops, and when he talks your guts twist involuntarily. A truly bad man. No posturing, no attitude, just pure cold-blooded evil seeping out through his pores. I’d call him reptilian if I didn’t know that I’d be doing reptiles a disservice in doing so.  Davo was really subdued around him so I knew he had to be one of the uber-bosses. I knew better than to ask any questions about the night’s events while he was around, I just wanted to go home, curl up in bed and forget it all. Not that the pain in my stomach and my head would let me. He and Davo had a muted discussion about retrieving my scooter from Adelaide Road before the Gardaí twigged that any bad shit had gone down there. Eventually it was decided that he’d take the van back for it and drop it off at my place before coming back out and handing the van over to Davo to bring me home.

When he left Davo seemed to relax a bit. He came over to the couch and handed me a bottle of pills; “For the pain.”

I managed a growl, “Fuck you very much Davo. Oh, and thank you for nearly getting me killed.”

He sighed, “Sorry Faith. I didn’t want to use you for the job, but the lads ask too many questions, and the boss-man wanted to be sure whoever we sent wouldn’t panic and talk shite that could affect operations.”

“And I couldn’t talk because I don’t know anything, which makes me disposable, right?” It hurt to talk but I was so angry I didn’t care.

“No, that’s not it. You wouldn’t talk, even if you did know anything. And now you do know things.  You know a lot. You’ve seen the boss-man. You can implicate him in two murders. No-one wanted you to get hurt. Those two seemed to have grown some balls since our last deal. You know we only got the location of the deal at the last minute. Took some time to organise coming in after you. I’m sorry.”

“And now I know things, and so I’m trapped into working for you, and him, until I stop being useful, right? I get beaten and shot, and fucked into the bargain.”

“You get promoted. No more shitty jobs, more money, more respect. He liked the way you handled yourself back there. I’ve been talking you up to him for ages, and now you’ve proved yourself.” He shrugged, “There are worse things in this world than being in the boss-man’s good books.”

That was the worst threat I’d been subjected to all evening. I looked at Davo who was picking at a hangnail, trying not to look at me. He thought he had been doing me a favour, thought I’d be well chuffed at being promoted. He thought wrong, but that was because he was a bloke, and thought like a bloke, and expected me to think like one too. I couldn’t really blame him for that. I’d done nothing to dissuade him from it in the past. I needed to get home, to figure out a way to get out of this mess without endangering myself any further, and find a way for him to save face with his bosses too. He had always been good to me, but now his misguided efforts on my behalf were getting dangerous. Until I got my head around all of it, I’d have to play for time. “I hope you’re going to give me some time off to get better.”

“Of course. All the time you need. Faith, I really am sorry. I thought they might rough you up a bit, but I never expected this. We’ll get you home soon and you can rest up for a few weeks. You’ll have to come up with some story for your friends and stuff…” he trailed off.

I smiled, “Yeah, I’m good at stories. Don’t worry about it.”