Sorry this chapter took so long, I am currently grappling with a lot of
school work.
Chapter Four ~ Lachesis, Clotho, Atropos
'Possessed, impervious. I could feel the scalding blood running through my veins! I could taste the air. My heart pounded, strong and pressured my chest. The knowledge of my own power coursed through me. I seemed to have innate instinctual capabilities as a predator. This would be it. I would dispel all fears. Have you ever gotten so close to freedom? So close to casting off all the constraints of guilt and just committed a crime without caring? Is this power? Is the ability to disregard consequence the real means of being impervious? My hands shook with the excitement, the ivory hilt of the knife slippery with blood so red it seemed unreal. I'm afraid you must excuse my egotism, for my first departure from conventional right and wrong, I indulged the artist in me and treated myself to a blade worthy of such an experiment. It seemed poetic, my dagger glinting silver, with its handle a dull eburnean sheen. So polished, so clean. It is ironic that the fire and brimstone waiting for me after this life was in his eyes as he fell to his knees. When The Fates, Lachesis, Clotho, Atropos came to him on the third, I wonder did they know. Could even they weave this?'
Detective Robert Goran finished reading the paragraph aloud to his two companions, Alex and Captain Deakins. Alex smiled wryly 'He has got quite a way with words whoever he is.' James Deakins soberly nodded his agreement, 'Goran, what does he mean 'Fates', 'the third'?' 'In Greek mythology the three fates came to children three days after their birth and decided how long they would live, weaved the cloth of their destiny and then when the time came for that person to die, Atropos would cut the threads.' Tapping a pen on the cover of the book Deakins was visibly uncomfortable but he did not say anything. He knew that the detectives would make their case, given time. Alex frowned quizzically 'He asks a lot of rhetorical questions. Why?' Bobby stood and faced her, his long fingers animatedly gesturing towards the book as he explained, 'Well, I think he is making his plea, this is more than just a confession, more than an exercise in ego-boosting. This is his way of giving a reason. This is a man crazy with guilt, but too intoxicated by his own ingenuity to see it. But for all his remorse and culpability this was fuelled by despair. He probably found himself smothered by loneliness and frustration. This is his autobiography, his will and testament...this is his shadow.' Eames played with the bouquet of pens nestled together on her desk, 'What are we going to do?' Removing a thick creamy rectangular slice of manuscript from between two pages Goran smiled and ran his fingers along the tiny black type embossed understatedly at the bottom right hand corner. 'I think we should visit O' Murchú and co. and see what we can see.' Grabbing her coat Alex followed Bobby's long stride out the exit, 'Rory said he had never noticed it before.' 'Well somebody must have.'
Passing under the fading wooden sign proclaiming the existence of the shop, Goran and Eames assuredly made their way towards that same stained glass window. This time, underneath the primary colours of the emerald and ruby winter light, sat the boy with an older man, hunched over an oak walking stick. Approaching him with a smile of recognition Bobby held out his hand, and the elderly gentleman shook it warmly, 'Detective Robert Goran, to what extraneous circumstances to we owe this pleasure?' he laughed pleasantly, and gestured to Ruaidhrí to go into a back room, 'bring our visitors coffee.' As he passed, Ruaidhrí winked at Alex and whispered, 'I think you have secured yourself a place in my Dad's good books by showing up with Mr. Goran.' Not missing a beat Mr O'Murchú waved his stick energetically at the young man, 'I see that you two already know each other, but you'll have plenty of time to chatter when you've gotten the coffee. Step quickly my son! Now you two, settle yourselves back here.' The stick, which seemed like an extension of the man himself, indicated towards the furniture that was cramped behind the desk. Alex realized how similar the father and son looked, both with the lively brown eyes, and pale skin, not to mention the lilting accent that made even the most mundane word sound as though it was hiding a deeper and truly amusing meaning. 'Now Goran, you must introduce this lady to me!' Grinning happily Bobby settled himself on a deep red sofa next to her, 'this is my partner, Alex Eames.' 'It's an honour to meet you. I am Tadhg', he grasped Alex's hand with a strength belying his age, 'now Robert, well 'tis a fierce strange thing to be seeing you on my doorstep at this hour of the morning.' 'Tadgh, we are here about a book Alex bought from Ruaidhrí.' Alex stared at him in wonderment; it seemed that amongst his many talents he could pronounce awkward names. Bobby slid 'Crime and Punishment' from a brown paper bag and gingerly opened on the appropriate page, 'we were wondering if you knew anything about this.' The old man perched a delicate pair of gold rimmed reading glasses on the end of his nose. 'Well, now what do we have here?' he fell silent as he began to read and then, relaxing back into his armchair he sighed, 'an unfortunate thing you brought here Robert. I think I know what this is.' Ruaidhrí returned and poured everybody coffee while his father tentatively studied each page of chapter three, reading the words quickly. After a minutes silence he turned to Alex, an admiring smile on his face. 'How terribly quixotic! It seems you have made yourself his Aldonza Lorenzo, his Dulcinea del Toboso, the aim of his heart and the witness to his deed.' 'I wasn't intending to.' 'Neither was she. Through you, as the discoverer and reader of this, he defines himself as an errant knight with a mission. I'm surprised he hasn't declared himself Don Quixote de la Mancha!' Bobby waved a finger, 'Does that mean you think this is all untrue?' 'Pompous old man prone to pretentious polysyllabic preaching and an aficionado of soliloquies', Ruaidhrí chuckled to himself, 'I shouldn't think that he would even be capable of harming a fly, his reaction time was too slow.' Both detectives sharply turned their stares towards Ruaidhrí. Alexx pointed at the book, 'You know the man that wrote this?'
Chapter Four ~ Lachesis, Clotho, Atropos
'Possessed, impervious. I could feel the scalding blood running through my veins! I could taste the air. My heart pounded, strong and pressured my chest. The knowledge of my own power coursed through me. I seemed to have innate instinctual capabilities as a predator. This would be it. I would dispel all fears. Have you ever gotten so close to freedom? So close to casting off all the constraints of guilt and just committed a crime without caring? Is this power? Is the ability to disregard consequence the real means of being impervious? My hands shook with the excitement, the ivory hilt of the knife slippery with blood so red it seemed unreal. I'm afraid you must excuse my egotism, for my first departure from conventional right and wrong, I indulged the artist in me and treated myself to a blade worthy of such an experiment. It seemed poetic, my dagger glinting silver, with its handle a dull eburnean sheen. So polished, so clean. It is ironic that the fire and brimstone waiting for me after this life was in his eyes as he fell to his knees. When The Fates, Lachesis, Clotho, Atropos came to him on the third, I wonder did they know. Could even they weave this?'
Detective Robert Goran finished reading the paragraph aloud to his two companions, Alex and Captain Deakins. Alex smiled wryly 'He has got quite a way with words whoever he is.' James Deakins soberly nodded his agreement, 'Goran, what does he mean 'Fates', 'the third'?' 'In Greek mythology the three fates came to children three days after their birth and decided how long they would live, weaved the cloth of their destiny and then when the time came for that person to die, Atropos would cut the threads.' Tapping a pen on the cover of the book Deakins was visibly uncomfortable but he did not say anything. He knew that the detectives would make their case, given time. Alex frowned quizzically 'He asks a lot of rhetorical questions. Why?' Bobby stood and faced her, his long fingers animatedly gesturing towards the book as he explained, 'Well, I think he is making his plea, this is more than just a confession, more than an exercise in ego-boosting. This is his way of giving a reason. This is a man crazy with guilt, but too intoxicated by his own ingenuity to see it. But for all his remorse and culpability this was fuelled by despair. He probably found himself smothered by loneliness and frustration. This is his autobiography, his will and testament...this is his shadow.' Eames played with the bouquet of pens nestled together on her desk, 'What are we going to do?' Removing a thick creamy rectangular slice of manuscript from between two pages Goran smiled and ran his fingers along the tiny black type embossed understatedly at the bottom right hand corner. 'I think we should visit O' Murchú and co. and see what we can see.' Grabbing her coat Alex followed Bobby's long stride out the exit, 'Rory said he had never noticed it before.' 'Well somebody must have.'
Passing under the fading wooden sign proclaiming the existence of the shop, Goran and Eames assuredly made their way towards that same stained glass window. This time, underneath the primary colours of the emerald and ruby winter light, sat the boy with an older man, hunched over an oak walking stick. Approaching him with a smile of recognition Bobby held out his hand, and the elderly gentleman shook it warmly, 'Detective Robert Goran, to what extraneous circumstances to we owe this pleasure?' he laughed pleasantly, and gestured to Ruaidhrí to go into a back room, 'bring our visitors coffee.' As he passed, Ruaidhrí winked at Alex and whispered, 'I think you have secured yourself a place in my Dad's good books by showing up with Mr. Goran.' Not missing a beat Mr O'Murchú waved his stick energetically at the young man, 'I see that you two already know each other, but you'll have plenty of time to chatter when you've gotten the coffee. Step quickly my son! Now you two, settle yourselves back here.' The stick, which seemed like an extension of the man himself, indicated towards the furniture that was cramped behind the desk. Alex realized how similar the father and son looked, both with the lively brown eyes, and pale skin, not to mention the lilting accent that made even the most mundane word sound as though it was hiding a deeper and truly amusing meaning. 'Now Goran, you must introduce this lady to me!' Grinning happily Bobby settled himself on a deep red sofa next to her, 'this is my partner, Alex Eames.' 'It's an honour to meet you. I am Tadhg', he grasped Alex's hand with a strength belying his age, 'now Robert, well 'tis a fierce strange thing to be seeing you on my doorstep at this hour of the morning.' 'Tadgh, we are here about a book Alex bought from Ruaidhrí.' Alex stared at him in wonderment; it seemed that amongst his many talents he could pronounce awkward names. Bobby slid 'Crime and Punishment' from a brown paper bag and gingerly opened on the appropriate page, 'we were wondering if you knew anything about this.' The old man perched a delicate pair of gold rimmed reading glasses on the end of his nose. 'Well, now what do we have here?' he fell silent as he began to read and then, relaxing back into his armchair he sighed, 'an unfortunate thing you brought here Robert. I think I know what this is.' Ruaidhrí returned and poured everybody coffee while his father tentatively studied each page of chapter three, reading the words quickly. After a minutes silence he turned to Alex, an admiring smile on his face. 'How terribly quixotic! It seems you have made yourself his Aldonza Lorenzo, his Dulcinea del Toboso, the aim of his heart and the witness to his deed.' 'I wasn't intending to.' 'Neither was she. Through you, as the discoverer and reader of this, he defines himself as an errant knight with a mission. I'm surprised he hasn't declared himself Don Quixote de la Mancha!' Bobby waved a finger, 'Does that mean you think this is all untrue?' 'Pompous old man prone to pretentious polysyllabic preaching and an aficionado of soliloquies', Ruaidhrí chuckled to himself, 'I shouldn't think that he would even be capable of harming a fly, his reaction time was too slow.' Both detectives sharply turned their stares towards Ruaidhrí. Alexx pointed at the book, 'You know the man that wrote this?'