Disclaimer;
I Disclaim therefore I am.
(Am not an owner of Dick Wolf's characters - which is obvious, because they
are Dick Wolf's characters, however all other façets of this story, such as
the plot and characters, that are not associated with the television
program are definitively mine, my own, my preciousssssss.)
Author's Note: (or more correctly defined) Additional Disclaimer: I do not own various extracts from books (for example Crime and Punishment) or poetry that may be included at some point along the way.thank you very much indeed for your attention thus far.
bChapter 1 ~ Columns of Names and Years/b
She felt a little aimless, tucking her feet under the blanket in that mandatory - but futile - effort to conserve the lingering vestiges of warmth. Sniffing contentedly she tossed her hair over her shoulder and fussily patted the bed clothes into place. It was Sunday morning. It was her day off.
'Aw, who am I kidding,' Alex muttered, swinging her legs out of the bed and bare-footedly dancing to the shower. Outside, a frosty kiss clung to the pointed tips of the railings and the grass, now barely visible in the early morning light, was an appealing silvered mat, unmoving but glistening. She was in one of those moods where everything is frustratingly unfulfilling. The mess of paper on the kitchen table was irritating but she had neither the energy nor inclination to bother. Waiting for the kettle to boil she found herself contriving a mission for this, the most missionless of days. Glancing around the apartment, she fiddled with her hair. 'Goddamn it.' She slammed down her coffee-cup in disgust. She hated these raw, uncomfortable mornings where the air was too chilled to be refreshing and too warm to warrant an interesting conflict with the thermostat. Pulling on a jacket she resorted to retail therapy, and the old adage, that spending will heal all wounds. Shopping was the most flexible timewaster invented by the human race and arguably more addictive than television.
'Bookshop' Alex decided, pulling the cold metal handle of the door towards her as she escaped into the warm smell of antiquarian dust. It had that muffled silence that she loved as she meandered around the wooden shelves and leather bound first editions. The crisscrossed web of pathways led towards the stain-glass window crowning an antique mahogany desk at the back wall of the shop. A young man in his twenties was reading intently, a tide of books extending from his reclined position. His hunched form reminded her of Goran, truthfully mirroring his posture while consumed by words and phrases. Alex ran her fingers along the spines of the books in respect of the painstaking construction of the volumes. Newton's Principia Mathematica, Darwin's Origin of Species, Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams - Die Traumdeutung, Alex could not help but wonder how many of these books Goran had read along his way to where he was today.
On the top she noticed a black tome that seemed out of place amongst the dark red leather of the other books. It had its spine turned inwards. She stretched up, cursing her inability to grasp it. A polite cough made her look around; the man behind the desk had pulled his attention away from his work and was waving a small wooden box. 'Hi, I decided to be a superbly annoying git and hold the diminutive stepladder hostage.' He placed the carved teak stairs on the ground and hopped up the three steps and turned, 'so what is it that warrants a lady risking twisted ankles?'
Alex grinned at his accent, 'Curiosity, I wanted to know what that book was,' she indicated the thick clump of pages in the corner, 'you're Irish?' She guessed that he was smiling even though she could not see his face. He vehemently spat something in annoyance in a foreign language as the novel refused to slide out of its place.
'Yup, I'm', he slipped his fingers behind the book in an attempt to lever it out, 'Irish.lads, this is really stuck.' He removed a hefty copy of Don Quijote de la Mancha from further along the shelf to allow himself more room and eventually he succeeded in releasing the now identified classic from its papery prison. 'Annnnnd, we have got a rather pretty publication of Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment.' He lightly leapt down and carefully laid it in Alex's hands after examining the inside cover for a moment and then smiling in approval, 'illustrated, and in good condition. I wonder how I never spotted it. Anyway I'll leave you in peace.' He demurely picked his way through the arranged system of books and reinstalled himself in his place, and just as you blow out a candle, his interest in the outside world was quenched.
Alex peeled back the translucent protective cover and studied an illustration of a melancholy man named Raskolnikov. He bore an uncanny resemblance to the Irish boy now chewing his pen in concentration. Looking out the window, it started to rain. 'What a day.' she whispered having decided to buy the book. She rapped gently on the mahogany to get his attention. He smiled pleasantly, 'I bestow this eternally excellent tale of guilt upon you', he lovingly wrapped it in dark crêpe paper, 'may I ask your name?' He pulled out a heavy ledger and searched through the wrinkled pages until he found a blank line, he placed a pot of ink on the desk and dipped an ivory fountain pen in the black liquid. Alex raised an eyebrow and leaned over to examine the ledger, 'what is it?'
He grinned, 'It is a tradition of the shop, started by the original proprietor, every time we sell a book we record its name, the date, and the names of the seller and the new owner. I think it's charming, even though most people nowadays think it's creepy.' He signed "Ruaidhrí O' Murchú" neatly in his slanted spidery handwriting next to the title and offered her the pen. She flicked back through some of the pages, scanning the columns and columns of names and years. As she returned to the page that would record her purchase she noticed a reoccurrence of names, and tucked away at the end of a leaf, a certain R. Goren. She laughed, and pointed at the familiar signature, 'he's a colleague. I should have known he would have found his way here.' She signed, "Alexandra Eames", 'how do you pronounce your name, it is Irish right?'
He returned the heavy ledger under the desk, 'yeah, in English it is Rory Murphy, but my parents are really into the native language. You pronounce it Rue-er-ree Oh Mur-huh-coo' she decided not to try to duplicate the guttural technique he used to say the 'chú' and just stared at him instead. He laughed, 'Just call me Rory.' 'Thanks, Goodbye Rory' 'See ya' round. Enjoy the book.'
Author's Note: (or more correctly defined) Additional Disclaimer: I do not own various extracts from books (for example Crime and Punishment) or poetry that may be included at some point along the way.thank you very much indeed for your attention thus far.
bChapter 1 ~ Columns of Names and Years/b
She felt a little aimless, tucking her feet under the blanket in that mandatory - but futile - effort to conserve the lingering vestiges of warmth. Sniffing contentedly she tossed her hair over her shoulder and fussily patted the bed clothes into place. It was Sunday morning. It was her day off.
'Aw, who am I kidding,' Alex muttered, swinging her legs out of the bed and bare-footedly dancing to the shower. Outside, a frosty kiss clung to the pointed tips of the railings and the grass, now barely visible in the early morning light, was an appealing silvered mat, unmoving but glistening. She was in one of those moods where everything is frustratingly unfulfilling. The mess of paper on the kitchen table was irritating but she had neither the energy nor inclination to bother. Waiting for the kettle to boil she found herself contriving a mission for this, the most missionless of days. Glancing around the apartment, she fiddled with her hair. 'Goddamn it.' She slammed down her coffee-cup in disgust. She hated these raw, uncomfortable mornings where the air was too chilled to be refreshing and too warm to warrant an interesting conflict with the thermostat. Pulling on a jacket she resorted to retail therapy, and the old adage, that spending will heal all wounds. Shopping was the most flexible timewaster invented by the human race and arguably more addictive than television.
'Bookshop' Alex decided, pulling the cold metal handle of the door towards her as she escaped into the warm smell of antiquarian dust. It had that muffled silence that she loved as she meandered around the wooden shelves and leather bound first editions. The crisscrossed web of pathways led towards the stain-glass window crowning an antique mahogany desk at the back wall of the shop. A young man in his twenties was reading intently, a tide of books extending from his reclined position. His hunched form reminded her of Goran, truthfully mirroring his posture while consumed by words and phrases. Alex ran her fingers along the spines of the books in respect of the painstaking construction of the volumes. Newton's Principia Mathematica, Darwin's Origin of Species, Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams - Die Traumdeutung, Alex could not help but wonder how many of these books Goran had read along his way to where he was today.
On the top she noticed a black tome that seemed out of place amongst the dark red leather of the other books. It had its spine turned inwards. She stretched up, cursing her inability to grasp it. A polite cough made her look around; the man behind the desk had pulled his attention away from his work and was waving a small wooden box. 'Hi, I decided to be a superbly annoying git and hold the diminutive stepladder hostage.' He placed the carved teak stairs on the ground and hopped up the three steps and turned, 'so what is it that warrants a lady risking twisted ankles?'
Alex grinned at his accent, 'Curiosity, I wanted to know what that book was,' she indicated the thick clump of pages in the corner, 'you're Irish?' She guessed that he was smiling even though she could not see his face. He vehemently spat something in annoyance in a foreign language as the novel refused to slide out of its place.
'Yup, I'm', he slipped his fingers behind the book in an attempt to lever it out, 'Irish.lads, this is really stuck.' He removed a hefty copy of Don Quijote de la Mancha from further along the shelf to allow himself more room and eventually he succeeded in releasing the now identified classic from its papery prison. 'Annnnnd, we have got a rather pretty publication of Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment.' He lightly leapt down and carefully laid it in Alex's hands after examining the inside cover for a moment and then smiling in approval, 'illustrated, and in good condition. I wonder how I never spotted it. Anyway I'll leave you in peace.' He demurely picked his way through the arranged system of books and reinstalled himself in his place, and just as you blow out a candle, his interest in the outside world was quenched.
Alex peeled back the translucent protective cover and studied an illustration of a melancholy man named Raskolnikov. He bore an uncanny resemblance to the Irish boy now chewing his pen in concentration. Looking out the window, it started to rain. 'What a day.' she whispered having decided to buy the book. She rapped gently on the mahogany to get his attention. He smiled pleasantly, 'I bestow this eternally excellent tale of guilt upon you', he lovingly wrapped it in dark crêpe paper, 'may I ask your name?' He pulled out a heavy ledger and searched through the wrinkled pages until he found a blank line, he placed a pot of ink on the desk and dipped an ivory fountain pen in the black liquid. Alex raised an eyebrow and leaned over to examine the ledger, 'what is it?'
He grinned, 'It is a tradition of the shop, started by the original proprietor, every time we sell a book we record its name, the date, and the names of the seller and the new owner. I think it's charming, even though most people nowadays think it's creepy.' He signed "Ruaidhrí O' Murchú" neatly in his slanted spidery handwriting next to the title and offered her the pen. She flicked back through some of the pages, scanning the columns and columns of names and years. As she returned to the page that would record her purchase she noticed a reoccurrence of names, and tucked away at the end of a leaf, a certain R. Goren. She laughed, and pointed at the familiar signature, 'he's a colleague. I should have known he would have found his way here.' She signed, "Alexandra Eames", 'how do you pronounce your name, it is Irish right?'
He returned the heavy ledger under the desk, 'yeah, in English it is Rory Murphy, but my parents are really into the native language. You pronounce it Rue-er-ree Oh Mur-huh-coo' she decided not to try to duplicate the guttural technique he used to say the 'chú' and just stared at him instead. He laughed, 'Just call me Rory.' 'Thanks, Goodbye Rory' 'See ya' round. Enjoy the book.'