Stories that fly under a dark banner.

Part 1: Letter from Alan

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Dear Izzy,

I am not a brave person. I don’t have the stomach for daring deeds and heroic acts. I have never saved a child from the path of a speeding car, chased a burglar with a stick or demonstrated against something I thought was wrong. I lock my car doors at junctions when the squidgy people try to clean them, not because I disagree with them being able to make money but because I don’t feel safe. Oh no, bravery is not a word you would use when you are describing me. Smart perhaps. Tall. Organised. Upwardly Mobile.

I haven’t got the time to be brave. My life is taken up with other concerns.

I worry about everything. I worry that there won’t be any milk for breakfast at 11pm at night and that my shirt will drop off the hanger in the room while I sleep. I have devoted my entire life to worrying and it has kept me completely occupied and content. My mind has been permanently kept a couple of steps into the future which has generally impressed my employers, kept my promotion prospects at their peak and made life generally run on smooth, gliding rails. My life is my comfort zone and I have made it my purpose to keep myself within its parameters.

My life is, or rather was perfect. Until I met you Isabel. You and those green eyes like my mothers. You were much shorter than me but those eyes were just so piercing, I couldn’t keep away from you. I was supposed to be preparing for a viewing in Barcelona the next day but Instead i ended up having dinner with you. You talked all night about Egypt, Coptic art and god know what else. I didn’t hear a bloody word of it. It was always the eyes Isabel. Always the eyes.

I have tried so hard to forget those eyes. Starting to listen to your conversations helped with that, nothing but shoes and artifacts. I’ve never heard such a ridiculous psychobabble before. Meeting Ginny helped of course but your little revenge has brought you back into the front of my mind.

Then there is the journal, your deepest and most intimate thoughts. I’ve shown them to the police, and the accompanying letter, (they found that part most interesting and would really like to speak to you about it.) As if stealing all my money wan;t enough, you get your half-baked friend out in Croydon to drive up here and deliver your most intimate thoughts on how much of a bastard I am. She didn’t stop very long. She said tow things to me before slapping me around the face. Firstly she looked me in the eyes and said, “Tell no one.” Then she looked out the curtains down at the street and told me to “Tell everyone.” She was actually crying.

Well I’ve read as much as I could stomach. I don’t know what kind of scam you’re pulling Isabel but I refuse to be drawn into it. I’ve handed the whole thing over to the police. There’s even a bloody letter from that dotty woman on the scooter.

Part of me wishes you a fun and a happy life Isabel. You are one of those brave people I think I’m not which is why we could never have worked together. The other part will be glad if we never cross paths again. I’ve sent this to the Hotel where you mailed the whole thing to your friend. I hope you read it.

Take care Izzy.


Part 2: A Letter from Apple


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