If You Only Watch One Horror Film This… Lifetime

Somebody once wrote, ‘Hell is the impossibility of reason.’

– Oliver Stone

The above quote, ironically enough, makes perfect sense, at least in the context of a horror film. Surely horror in its purest, undiluted form would indeed be the projection of the horrific, the monstrous, the irrevocably disturbing with no comprehensible meaning or corresponding logic: it’s what we don’t understand, see, or hear that terrifies us the most.

Forget your cheap jump scares and sustained gore; in 2011, indie director Ben Wheatley brought to us Kill List – in my humble opinion, the most effectively disturbing and important British horror film since Robin Hardy’s classic The Wicker Man (1973).  The aforementioned classic, depicting Edward Woodward’s by the book police officer investigating the report of a missing child in Christopher Lee’s (supposed) sleepy Scottish island of Summerisle, was clearly a huge influence on Wheatley’s film.

There were no showboating visual effects in The Wicker Man, it confidently presented the escalation of creepy events as business as usual, the skewed events seen as absolute normality for the converted residents.

Kill List doesn’t so much go one step further as rewrite the rules. Unlike Wicker, there are scenes of hugely disturbing graphic violence, but these aren’t sustained or even gratuitous. The images don’t so much disgust as slowly sear themselves into your brain for a long time to come.

Deadeyed: Neil Maskell excels as the tortured Jay

 

The premise of the film – the only semblance of narrative and chronology the director and screenwriters allow – follows our protagonist, Jay (a retired soldier still reeling physically and emotionally from a botched mission in Kiev), and his best friend and former fellow soldier, Gal, on a mission to assassinate three targets. To give any more away would spoil the proceedings; needless to say, what transpires escalates to a final act and a final two minutes that will burrow under your skin for days, months, or possibly years to come. A final shot so haunting that you’ll be trying to fill in the blanks forever, and that’s the supreme strength of the film: the best horrors eschew exposition, reason and logic. The most effective horrors leave the answers to those questions scattered throughout the darkest recesses of the human psyche, and believe me, this film with leave you searching and searching.

One scene in particular features Jay watching, against his friend’s desperate protestations, a videotape in a creepy, decrepit warehouse. Jay has evidently seen some unspeakable events during his military tenure, a hard man who is no-nonsense (take one, comically tinged scene where he, in no uncertain terms silences an overzealous party at a neighbouring table at his hotel) and will not hesitate to embark on a frenzy of psychosis, should the situation call for it. We, the viewer, can hear what is transpiring in this appalling ‘film’, but Jay’s horrified, tear-filled reaction ensures the horror of the proceedings are compounded tenfold. The blanks are there, and we’re filling them in.

The cast acquits itself in uniform excellence – Myanna Buring as Jay’s long-suffering (and also former soldier) wife, Michael Smiley as the less volatile Gal, Emma Fryer as Gal’s phantom-eyed girlfriend-with-a-secret and a small but memorable and downright haunting role from Struan Rodger as the hitmen’s softly spoken, nameless client.

Mean business: Struan Rodger, perfectly cast as the hitmen’s inkwell-eyed client

 

 

This is five-star filmmaking without question and I urge all those with a strong constitution and appreciation for the art to give it a watch (it’s currently on Amazon Prime).

Let me know what you think, and…

“Thank You.”

 

 

In Bruges. Eventually…

I always look back upon my holidays with fond memories. The way I see it, although travelling is, on occasion, beset with inconveniences and frustrations, I only tend to focus on the highlights; those happy experiences that you’ll always hold dear.

On my latest trip, to the wonderful Brussels and city of Bruges – an enchanting location in which I’d previously stayed – I’d started off with a deep well of optimism: for an anxious, grumpy man, I’d attempted to trick my brain into enjoying myself right from the outset. My friend picked me up, the sun was shining and I could practically taste that nuclear strength Belgian beer. The world was my oyster, or to be more fitting, my mussels and fries (a trademark Belgian dish).

Then airport security happened…

Nobody enjoys the practise of airport security, that’s a given. The whole process is akin to being thrust into a marine boot camp against your will. Astonishingly, I manage to keep my cool and just go through the motions. This time, however, things went a little differently.

My case went through the x-ray scanner and ended up on a parallel conveyer belt, alongside other ‘rejected’ cases. I’m not sure why, exactly, as the only suspect luggage would have been antihistamines or paracetamol – not your typical hardened Colombian drug baron’s products of choice.

I waited anxiously, only to be told by a member of staff that it had probably just “failed” the scan. It was rescanned and lo and behold, it was returned to my loving arms.

Minus a trainer.

Was I to hop to the departures lounge, nervously bouncing on the spot, attempting to barter down a pair of overpriced trainers? Luckily, a staff member located the missing article and I was on my way. We had booked into the airport lounge, where free food and drink was in abundance. I was going to need them.

As we entered the lounge, a young man passed us, attempting to sing, well, “Duh duh duh,” at us. It must have been his first pint.

The lounge itself was a very pleasant area. Hot and cold Buffett food, beers and spirits. Cold Guinness! I was in my element, even with each carefully opened can of Guinness exploding into a mist of brown froth upon my person. Humph.

When our time in the lounge had expired, we made our way to the departure gate, only to be clinically informed that we would now be experiencing a four-hour delay to our flight due to “Crew issues.” This is such a wonderfully generic term that the airport could in essence make up anything to substantiate the reason the crew were having “issues.”

Never mind.

We eventually arrived at our hotel around 3am Brussels time. Despite mistakenly attempting access to the wrong room (twice) due to the room number description, I made it to bed.

What ensued was a roller coaster ride of beautiful locations, ales, friendly locals and bar tenders who have a delightful apparent ‘No rules’ policy when pouring spirits straight from the bottle. Oof.

All these events had to come to an end, and an end they did, when I was awoken on our day of departure around 3:35am from a hurried knocking on the adjacent wall. I’d set my alarm for 3:45am, but obviously I’d not received the memo that I had to be up and out by 3:50. So in my fragile state, I’d woken up, dressed, packed, brushed my teeth and left the room on the space of several minutes.

It would have been a terribly curious sight; akin to the world’s first silent movie, depicting a man running late for his own funeral whilst resembling a zombie clutching on to the last remaining thread of humanity, complete with toothpaste running down his chin, thinking about the time just spent in Brussels.

In Bruges.

In some now fine memories.

☺️

The Remains of the Delay: A Tale of Airport Terror.

I had a great break away in Lanzarote. 

With great friends. 

And great weather. 

Great food, great drink and great cats!

On my last afternoon, I had a great little nap, then my friend entered the room and casually informed me that our flight had been delayed by several hours. 

‘Ha,’ I thought to myself, ‘She’s pulling my leg.’

“Check our WhatsApp group,” she replied. 

I did. 

Then, the cruel reality hit home: not only were we already on a night flight, we were now on an even later one. We’d essentially be flying throughout the night, on a four hour flight, suspended in a huge tin can, with little to no chance of sleep (well, for me, anyway.)

We made our way to the airport, arriving around 8pm and then began the four hour wait for our flight. 

Four hours doesn’t sound too long a period in the context of the average human lifespan, but in an airport – with pretty much bugger all to do other than be hoodwinked by the overpriced burgers and aftershave – you can’t help but clockwatch in despair as time itself slows down to 30% of its normal speed. You’re basically in limbo, where all you see are similarly tortured souls glaring variously at their phone screens, tablets, books, the floor, their shoelaces, or perhaps an imaginary Shakespeare production, for those experiencing the latter stages of mania. 

Anyone who knows me well enough is aware of my comical intolerance to pretty much anyone/anything emitting any kind of noise. Situated in an airport, tired, late at night, my core irritability and susceptibility to said noises are increased tenfold. How dare that group of women playing cards to pass the time laugh next to me. How dare a child scrape his seat across the floor. A guy constantly snorting to such an extent that it could appear he’s attempting to actually inhale dust off the floor was a highlight. 

The thing is, I can’t hide my annoyance, I have an acutely expressionate face: I’d be the world’s shittest poker player. 

Nonetheless, our flight eventually boarded and we took our seats. 

Now, if the seats on the plane were ones you could actually lean back in without experiencing crippling neck and back pain, and the entire population of the plane was mute and motionless, I could’ve had a nice four-hour slumber. 

Alas, no. 

Prior to boarding, a group of particularly loud, crude, inconsiderate middle-aged ‘people’ assembled near our seating at the gate. 

‘Don’t sit near us. Don’t sit near us. Don’t sit near us,’ we hoped, as they stumbled around, exchanging crude, infantile remarks, all of which they found hilarious. 

They were visibly drunk, yet somehow able to bypass the airport staff and enter the plane undetected: like a film starring a bawdy ‘70s comedy troupe inexplicably bumbling around their destinations, but even less funny and with weaker motor skills.  

We all took our seats and yes, you guessed it, they sat right by my friends and I. Only now, the pungent stench of alcohol was near overbearing. Their combined blood alcohol level could probably assist scientific experts in formulating a new type of rocket fuel. If one passenger had walked past them with anything more than a mildly hurried pace, a single spark of static electricity would have ignited them and blew the whole plane, and its inhabitants, into the stratosphere. 

Needless to say, as they continued their sophisticated ‘banter’ for four hours, with no possibility of escape or respite for any of us, I plugged in my headphones and blasted out music for the flight’s duration. I did catch a couple of zingers though, one golden bantz nugget being: 

Eh, have I still got five cans of Foster’s back at yours? Shall I bring a pan of soup? I’ll bring my guitar.

As the awaiting taxi aided our eventual escape, I couldn’t help but feel like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s character in the Predator film. Not only because of my similarly dead eyed gaze out of my transportation’s window into the early morning abyss, but also because I too felt I’d narrowly escaped the malevolent clutches of extraterrestrial beings. 

The next time I consider holidaying abroad, I’ll swim there, as long as those pesky fish keep the noise down. 

Bon voyage. 

A Quick Scrawling in the Sunshine.

In case you hadn’t been bombarded with even more cat pictures – just this time in another country – I’m in Playa Blanca, Lanzarote. I’m sat in the shade at a café/bar/annoying family magnet. I’m nursing a beer. Alone.

This is through choice, however. My co-holiday makers are galloping through the sea like an ‘80s shampoo advert. I’m mentally shielding my ears from the demonic horde situated at the adjacent table.

Being a misophoniac is a little like being a hollow sieve: throw anything at it and it slops straight through, sans filter. Even right now, as I type this, I’m picking up on chairs grinding across the floor, cans being opened, people smacking their lips, sniffing, snorting, shouting, slurping, dragging their flip-flops as they walk.

But then a cursory glance across the nearby beach redresses the balance of my neuroses. What a calm, serene scene: ships bobbing lazily atop the glittering, sun-splashed ocean, speedboats courting smiles and laughter from the passengers (or projectile vomiting) and hundreds of sun worshippers baking their…

Hang on, a young child opposite has nearly burst his own lungs in a tantrum. Maybe he dislikes this heat too? I look up and profer a sympathetic glance. Nobody sees it. Poor family.

Anyway, back to the sunbathers. I’m here, alone and incognito – well, like a shit spy – looking after my friends’ belongings as the heat has finally beaten me. It’s like He-Man one day just sending Cringer to the nearest planetary cattery, softly telling Teela ‘It’ll never work,’ and promptly, emotionlessly, impaling himself on Skeletor’s staff.

According to the BBC, it’s 30 degrees. According to my body, I could comfortably  run a steakhouse from my upper torso.

This is intense.

Having said that, the joys of people watching offers some meagre consolation. The family to my left have calmed down, I can’t hear people eating, and I fed two beautiful little birds under my table.

It’s hot, but it’s a holiday. ☺️

Dating in the 21st Century

Mention the dating scene to anyone currently involved in a relatively long-term relationship and they’ll invariably remark, ‘Oh, I wouldn’t have a clue what to do now.’

This supposed naivety, as it happens, could be a saving grace, a temporary antidote to the snarling, cynical skeptic they may become, should they ever wish to re-plug into ‘The Datrix.’

As someone who has adequate experience of the current dating scene, it’s safe to say the whole thing has metamorphosed into a superficial, technological hall of mirrors, where nothing is quite as it seems, where we mere human beings are typically reduced to enhanced (read: Instagram sheened to perfection/Snapchat filtered into a flawlessly skinned deer, complete with earnest, furry ears) images on a perma-activated mobile phone screen.

And therein lies the rub: the mobile phone screen.

These days, you’d be hard-pressed not to witness someone texting at the wheel, taking a post-workout selfie in public in full view of heavy traffic, at the gym, having dinner with a significant other where both parties fix their loving gaze not on their partner, but their beloved hand-held real partner – the one true significant other they could not do without.

In times past, prior to the Age of the Image, people would actually venture out into the wilderness and make eye-contact, approach and speak to people they liked. Try approaching someone these days (not me, I’m far too shy) and they’ll either struggle to comprehend the slab of flesh with a moving mouth standing in front of them or they’ll only be able to establish a form of communication through the screen via their phone’s camera. Have things really come to this?

Well, that’s the external reality as I see it. The internal reality of the dating scene, that of the now near exclusive online variety, is an altogether different beast…

The main dating sites as I understand the current crop are Tinder, Plenty of Fish and Match. I’ve somehow secured dates through all these sites, and have been very lucky to have experienced some enjoyable evenings with intelligent, beautiful, funny ladies. One must take the rough with the smooth, however, and to quote the Bard himself, “The course of true love never did run smooth.”

With my experience, it’s not so much as not running smoothly as piggy-backing on a drunk kangaroo as he fails to negotiate a derelict building site.

I’ll elaborate on this with examples of my experiences from each of the sites I’ve used:

Tinder

Girl: Hello

Dan: Hi *inserts name*

*Girl unmatches*

Match

Girl goes on a date with Dan, it goes well. Girl suggests going to Chester Zoo for date two. Girl cancels on the morning of the date as she didn’t sleep well.

*Girl blocks Dan on WhatsApp*

Plenty of Fish

*Dan receives a message from a very attractive lady. Numbers are exchanged and a date is arranged. Dan doesn’t text during the day and girl messages, protesting that I have not texted during the day and wishes me all the best on the site. Dan advises he was at work and the matter is (supposedly) resolved*

*The girl texts again, repeating the same complaint and wishing him all the best on the site. Dan blocks girl*

*Dan compliments a girl’s jacket on her profile, as it is the same as the one worn by Ryan Gosling in the exceptional film Drive*

*Girl blocks Dan*

*                                        *                                        *

Obviously, this is a heavily subjective account of events, but given the overpowering (and overbearing) presence of technology and the apparent inability to truly connect ahead of actually meeting someone for the first time, is this the end for the once noble art of courtship?

Only time will tell for us singletons out there, stranded in an orbit of Boomerangs, ludwig filters, ‘funny’ videos, deers, bunnies, profound, homogeneous quotes being passed of by the individual as their own etc.

This will all sound very cynical and, dare I say, grumpy, but at the end of the day, all you can do is laugh.

And at the end of the day, isn’t that all we truly need?

Happy dating. 🙂

The System

Dawson: You ever watch that TV show, ‘Beat The Teacher’? Way back in the ’80s on the BBC. Popular show. I’m sure you can guess the concept – a bunch of games where the kid plays against a, you got it, teacher. Hosted by that hot shit radio DJ, Bruno fucking Brookes. That wasn’t his real name, of course, no, his real name was Trevor (laughs).

Anyway, there was this hotshot whizz kid on there. Every show, he’s winning; week in, week out, bam, bam, bam. He’s the embodiment of anti-authority, this lone symbol fighting the system and winning.

Well, there’s this one show, and they’re both playing a timed game. A puzzle or jigsaw or something, you know, against the clock. The kid’s frantically shifting all these pieces of the puzzle, the audience is cheering him on, willing him to win, children, adults, everyone.

Now, I liked this guy too. I wanted him to emerge victorious, just like everyone else did. I mean, everyone has at least one teacher they didn’t like at school, right?

So he’s there, shifting – shift, shift, shift, arms a blur. Then the buzzer goes. The time is up. The game is over.

That’s when things get interesting.

Y’see, the buzzer had gone, but he’s still shifting those pieces. ‘Buuuuuzzzzzz!’, and he then moves a couple of pieces and he’s completed the puzzle. He’s done it. The crowd goes crazy. He wins that show, and he goes on to win the whole thing. The whole series.

Bruno saw him move the pieces after the buzzer. He let it go. I mean, this is a television studio – cameras everywhere, a live audience, millions of viewers. This was all picked up on camera, this kid, cheating, and winning. Or rather being allowed to win. Being granted this victory from the very authority he was challenging.

Now, for me, this changes everything. Don’t get me wrong, the kid was good, but what if they played by the show’s rules, and he didn’t win that game? What then? He would’ve lost that show and been knocked out of the series. Authority reigns supreme.

That wouldn’t wash with the masses, would it? Everyone loves an underdog, don’t they?

I mean, look at me, now, in this interrogation room. I’ve been charged with stealing millions of pounds worth of fine art. I was caught on camera, fair and square. No buzzers, no cheating, no free passes.

The fact I was going to sell these pieces, and donate the money to animal rescues and shelters, the organisations that look after the animals that some of these very same rich pricks I stole from torture with their fox-hunting, their foie gras, their fucking veal chops. None of that matters, because we work within a system, don’t we?

You know why I don’t eat veal?

Officer: (Slowly shakes head) No.

Dawson: When I was a lot younger, my mother told me what veal is. She said the calf is born, then it’s taken away from its mother. It’s slung in some dark shed and fed and fed and fed until it’s fat enough to be slaughtered. Its whole life is spent in fear. What kind of life is that?

I could be going down for a long time now. But, just like that TV show, sometimes even through good grace and exception, you can use the system and win.

Officer: Care to explain what you mean by that?

Dawson: I think I’ve spoken enough now, don’t you?

Dawson slowly shifts his gaze toward the other officer guarding the room. The officer reaches over to the video camera power lead in the corner of the room and removes it from the rear of the camera. He then unholsters his gun and walks slowly towards the arresting officer.

Dawson: Buuuuzzzzzzzz!

Andrew Cribb

Glasgow, 2005.

Driving through a seemingly unending stretch of motorway on my return to Formby, and needless to say, feeling a little fragile, I noticed a figure in the corner of my eye, slumped in the passenger seat, begin to stir.

The figure came to, recognised my anxious features as I negotiated a busy lane, and smiled.

This was possibly the most content and at peace I’d ever seen Andrew, despite this being only my second nervous foray into the world of motorway driving and that only earlier, he’d remarked about hallucinating the cast of The Beverly Hillbillies chugging past in their 1921 Oldsmobile Model 46 Roadster (presumably complete with granny on rocking chair). Yes, he’d had quite a few vodka and Red Bulls the night before.

To witness such contentment and peace from Andrew in the passenger seat was quite ironic, as anyone who knew Andrew knows, he was certainly not one of life’s passengers. He was more the car, and a fast, flamboyant, welcomingly ostentatious one at that.

Formby High School, 1995.

Rewind ten years back, and you have my first experience of Andrew. Again, ask anyone who met him and it was rarely an encounter, never a nod and a quick handshake, it was an experience. A force of nature such as he would not let you get away with such a casual, innocuous introduction.

It was a sociology lesson and the teacher had to leave the room temporarily. Andrew was in this lesson. A teacher leaving a classroom housing a teenage Andrew Cribb was not the shrewdest of moves…

Without prompting, he bolted up from his seat and reached for a nearby, irresponsibly discarded staple gun. He then proceeded to staple random gentlemen’s blazers. I was inexplicably spared this ordeal, but I knew I had a character on my hands. Who knew if our paths would cross?

Formby High School, lower-sixth, 1996.

It turned out our paths would indeed cross again, albeit under much more civilised conditions, without a staple gun in sight.

This is where our friendship began.

Perched on a rather beat-up armchair, Andrew seated on a similarly bedraggled adjacent couch in the common room, we both got involved in a conversation about parents. When Andrew had done or said something bad at home, he explained that this would usually be met with a neanderthalic grunt from his dad. This was met with empathetic laughter from both myself and my twin sister, Katie. Somehow the conversation moved on to an anecdote about my dad cleaning his ears with a cotton bud, relaxing his arm with his hand down by the floor and one of our cats trotting over to hungrily lap up the wax.

Andrew found this most amusing and responded with that signature booming laugh of his. Most infectious it was, too. This was a lad who experienced life to its fullest, taking it by the reins and giddying it up as fast as he could. Few could ride alongside him.

Mum’s 50th, 1999.

Astoundingly, Andrew behaved impeccably at my mum’s birthday, even cracking my mum up with an expectedly cheeky birthday card and entertaining the screeching children (I don’t think even they could match his energy). It was only a few days after that, when rearranging a pillow on my bed, I felt a cold, squidgy blob. Removing the upper pillow, I was met with the sight of a paper party plate, generously doused in tomato ketchup.

The *insert expletive here*

Today.

When someone you’ve known, such a larger-than-life character, passes, it doesn’t quite sink in. It may never, fully. He’ll leave a big gap in all our lives, simply because he was who he was. All who knew him know exactly what I mean. Cribb was Cribb. He gave everything and never once asked for anything in return. He had many crazy (ad)ventures and lots of us experienced these with him.

 

                                                        *                                  *                                 *

The last time I saw Andrew was in the Freshfield beer garden. It was a beautiful sunny day. He was there with his little girl. If I’d witnessed him at his most content and peaceful, this was truly the happiest I’d ever seen him. What we’ve all lost will live on in the form of a beautiful little girl. There is a twinkle in her eyes that will transcend this loss and keep Andrew’s memory alive.

I’d hope any nursery teachers remember to hide that staple gun.

My thoughts are with Cath, Dave, Stu, Mrs Perrin and everyone whose life he touched.

If there’s one thing I can’t imagine, it’s Andrew rocking up to those Pearly Gates with a straight face. Where most people would walk amongst the clouds, bewildered, unable to speak, I think I speak for us all when I suggest his first words to St. Peter would be:

 

‘Alright mate, what are your best rooms, and where’s the bar?’

Rest in peace, Andrew, and know that you’ll never be forgotten for the extraordinary character you were, are, and always will be.

Dan

xxx

John Wick

For a man, to date, not critically lauded for his acting ability, the latest venture from Keanu Reeves is both a reinvigoration and a very shrewd choice.

A one-man killing machine – albeit lapsed due to the pursuit of a more peaceful, loving existence with his wife – Reeves could oddly be compared to Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Terminator.  Dialogue is at a lean minimum, Wick utilising his smarts and brawn to express more than showcasing monologues.  To not praise his acting in this film, however, would be to sell him short.  This is a new chapter in Reeves’ career, and he turns the pages in unexpected and welcome ways.

In an early scene, an adorable beagle puppy is delivered to his home with a letter from his late wife.  Wick was left with nobody after her death and the pup is a token, an anchor for him to hang on to what they had.  As Wick reads the letter, he quickly begins to break down and sob – pain and grief washing over his bearded, broken features.  This scene, this performance, is so deftly played out, you almost forget you’re watching Keanu Reeves.  You’re watching John Wick, and he’s hurting.

Events quickly make matters worse, and John is instantly back to his old life and out for revenge…

The film’s antagonist – a brilliantly layered performance from Swede Michael Nyqvist (The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, Mission: Impossible – Ghost Protocol) hears that John is on the warpath.  What’s different in this film is how the Big Bad isn’t just some pseudo-indestructible mountain of arrogance and testosterone (although he demonstrates both), he is all too aware of Wick’s ability, focus, ruthless efficiency and resolve; and this scares him.  Wick’s near-mythical status amongst the criminal underworld precedes him and for the uninitiated, or disrespectful, a heavy price will be paid for those who stand in his way.

Action set pieces are staggeringly staged with hyper-kinetic cuts and camerawork, complementing the style of this unstoppable, yet highly fallible force of nature.  Wick shoots, stabs and snaps his way through all obstacles as if they are mere pawns, and he’s the chess grand master. There are shades of Tom Cruise’s hitman, Vincent, from Michael Mann’s 2004 cool as ice LA thriller, Collateral, a nightclub shootout particularly reminiscent.

Solid turns from Game of Thrones’ Alfie Allen, Willem Dafoe and a delightfully creepy turn from David Patrick Kelly (The Warriors, Commando, The Crow) as a ‘laundry man’ flesh out Reeves’ best vehicle since The Matrix.

See it, or run and hide…

Reacher #3: Something’s Cookin’

‘WHERE’S REACHER, NORMAN?’

Three simple words, scrawled on a napkin.  It wasn’t what he expected, nor what he wanted.

But it was what he needed.

Norman was frogmarched out of the coffee shop to the Mercedes by the two taciturn men.  The lady followed.  He was carefully placed in the back of the four-by-four.  One man accompanied him, the other ducked into the driver’s side.  The lady slid into the passenger side.  The other two men that had been standing guard entered another four-by-four behind.  The vehicles slowly moved off.

‘So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?  What’s this all got to do with my brother?’

There was no reply.

Norman knew any further questions were an exercise in futility.  This wasn’t a vehicle encouraging discussion.  Let’s see where this takes me, he thought.

After around 45 minutes, the vehicle came to a stop outside a small, secluded building just west of the main highway exit they’d taken earlier.  Norman was led out toward the building’s entrance – a large glass door outlined in chrome.  They approached a front desk in a lobby, of sorts.  The lady approached a uniformed man, presumably local PD, and whispered in his ear.  The man nodded and gestured over to the opposite side of the entrance, where a solitary, empty cell was situated.

Norman heard a loud buzz and the cell door opened.  He was ushered in and the door was closed and electronically locked behind him.  The lady and men left, silently.

‘What, no phone call?’ Norman shouted after them.  There came no reply as the glass door closed behind them as they exited the building.  The man at the desk tapped away at a keyboard, occasionally looking at some files to his right on the desk.

‘Hey, can you get HBO on those monitors?’ Norman asked the man.

Again, no reply.

Norman looked at his watch – 3:15.  All he could do now was wait.

He removed his thin summer jacket and slung it over a horizontal bar that fed through the vertical cell door bars.  Lied down on the surprisingly comfortable bed.

He was awoken by a loud buzz, the same one as earlier.

He blinked several times to regain his focus.  Looked at his watch – 7:22pm.

He saw a man approach the cell, dressed in a light grey suit and black tie.  The man beckoned Norman out of the cell, ‘Follow me, sir,’ he said.

Norman grabbed his jacket and followed the man toward the building’s exit, glancing at the guard at the desk on his way out – he was still tapping away at his keyboard.

Norman followed the man around the corner of the building, the early evening summer sun offering an impossibly beautiful concentration of light on a flawless, shiny 1970 Dodge Charger.

The man gestured to Norman to get in the car.  As he approached, he almost hesitated to touch the door handle, as flawless as it was.

‘You’re moving up in the world, Jack,’ Norman said, smiling.

Reacher said nothing.

Reacher nosed out of the small, sandy parking lot and turned right, back on to the road that’d led Norman here.

‘What are you doing here, Jake?’ Reacher asked.

Joe, Jack and Jake.  The Reacher brothers.  Except Norman never wanted that kind of allegiance; it was alien to him.  He’d idolised his brothers – their strength, accomplishments, but he wasn’t them.  Didn’t bother him, why not be proud of your siblings?  He was Norman, a separate entity but still a Reacher.  He’d not heard from Joe for several years before his murder.  Jack even more so.  Didn’t stop him thinking about both of them every day.

He was Norman Reacher.  And he was very alone.

‘I needed to see you.  How do you find the man who can’t be reached?’

Reacher glanced over, frowned.

Norman continued, ‘I knew you’d be in Chicago.  Leon Garber, your old mentor had been stationed up here, years ago.  He’d done a lot of good and had many friends.  I recalled you attending his funeral around this time.  One of the guests, a friend of Dad’s, emailed me.  Said you looked well.  Said some of his old compatriots met up around this time every year.  Didn’t know where in Chicago though.  The trick was getting to you.  It was a stab in the dark, but all I had to go on.’

Norman pointed to his bow tie.  ‘You walk around dressed like this enough and you get noticed.  More cameras around now than there used to be.  It was only a matter of time before I got recognised.  And found.  Needed to bring you out of hiding.’

Reacher slowed down as he approached a red light.

‘Well, whatever the reason, it’s cost me time and a lot of trouble,’ Reacher replied.  ‘It’s gonna have to wait.  I’m late for an appointment and it’s more important than your game of hide and seek, that’s for damn sure.’

‘Getting involved in another crazy adventure, Jack?’ Norman asked.

Reacher gestured to the back seat of the car.  There lay a light brown folder.  He trusted Norman more than most people in his life.  He wouldn’t humour him with specifics, but didn’t want to lie.  ‘I’m working with a friend in the DEA, he called in a favour.  Just like the one I called in to get you out of that cell, quickly.  He needed some undercover hired muscle at some drug buys.  I need to get back to my motel and change out of this suit.  Can’t show up looking like this.’

‘Anything I can help you with?’ Norman offered.

Reacher said nothing.

The light changed to green and Reacher squeezed down on the Dodge’s gas pedal.  It let out an exhilarating growl.  He took a corner faster than he needed to, but well within the Dodge’s capabilities.  Norman noticed the contents of the folder spill across the length of the back seat as the car screeched through the turn; in particular, a high quality surveillance photograph of a smartly dressed middle-aged man standing next to a younger man dressed in baggy clothing.

There was a name written at the base of the photograph in thick black marker pen.

‘Walter White’

Norman Reacher in Reacher #2: ‘Two’s Company’

Chicago has a population of roughly 2.7 million people.  Norman Reacher was sitting in a coffee shop, containing around one hundred.  Everywhere he looked, there were people: men, women, children, families.  He was surrounded by people, yet he’d never felt so alone.  Every time someone walked past his table, he automatically looked up and attempted to make eye contact.  A simple glance and smile – an acknowledgement – would have helped remedy his ongoing, near terminal feeling of isolation.  He needed to find his brother.

He felt close to his brother, sitting in such an establishment.  He knew how much he liked his coffee, ever since he was a teenager.  This was the closest he was going to get.  How do you find the man who can’t be reached?

The door to the coffee shop opened.  A ray of blinding sun eclipsed the shop’s entrance as a figure emerged.  A smartly dressed lady in her early thirties, dark brunette bobbed hair, slim figure, a dark skirt and blazer covering a crisp, clean, open-necked white blouse.  Norman watched as she reached up to remove her sunglasses.  She scanned the room for a place to sit.  All the tables were taken.  She glanced over in his direction and only then he noticed her eyes.  Big, piercing blue eyes; the kind that could disarm anyone.  Like him.

She shifted her gaze to Norman and proceeded to stride over, confidently.

‘Excuse me, is this seat…’

‘No, please, sit down,’ Norman said, cutting her off before she had time to finish her question.

‘Oh, thank you.  I guess I timed my visit wrong, huh?’  she smiled.

‘Lunchtime rush,’ Norman replied.

The lady took a seat on the cheap but comfortable wooden chair with brown leather cushions.  She removed an expensive looking red handbag from her shoulder and placed it on the floor next to her feet.  Norman couldn’t take his eyes of her the whole time.  It was the most familiar of sights – someone making themselves comfortable on a chair – but the way she moved, looked, smelt, had him absolutely engaged.  Engagement was something he’d not experienced with someone for weeks, months, maybe longer.

The lady looked up and caught the attention of the waitress.  She ordered a turkey sandwich and coffee.  The waitress offered to refill Norman’s mug of coffee.  He had to snap out of his trance in order to accept.

The waitress hurried off amidst the ambient customer chatter and the clinking of dishes and cutlery from the shop kitchen.

‘Lunch hour?’ Norman asked.

‘Yeah, I like to get away from the office and get some fresh air.  I also like to people watch, it’s a guilty pleasure of mine, noseying at people as they walk past,’ she remarked, thoughtfully.

‘I’m just as guilty of that,’ Norman smiled.  ‘You do it long enough, you begin to see things other than people walking, sitting or eating.’

‘Really?’ she asked, genuinely interested in his claim.

‘Sure,’ he replied.

Norman nodded over to the counter area in front of the kitchen.

‘See that kid with the piece of paper, tapping his foot on the floor, biting his nail?’ he asked her.

‘Yeah,’ she replied.

‘I’ll bet you a hundred bucks he’s got a job interview in the next hour.’

‘How do you know?’ she asked.

‘Nobody adjusts their tie every thirty seconds if they’re stopping by for a quick coffee… unless they have a crush on one of the waitresses,’ he said.

The lady laughed, an irresistible giggle that merely increased his resolve to maintain the conversation, and more so, her attention.

‘Old guy, two o’clock,’ he said.

The lady looked over to a man in his early eighties, sitting alone at a table in the corner of the shop.  He nursed a cup of steaming coffee whilst reading a newspaper.  Opposite him was another cup and an orange hat that was perched on the corner of the chair facing him.

‘Go on,’ she offered.

Norman sighed, thoughtfully.  ‘I’d say he lost his wife recently.  They came here a lot.  She bought him that hat and he didn’t like it, but she found it funny.  It made her very happy to see him jokingly wear it about town.  Just for her.  He keeps that memory going, makes him remember how happy he made her.  And how happy she made him.  How he loved the way she didn’t take life too seriously.’

‘That’s so lovely,’ she said.

Norman nodded.  ‘See the steam only coming from his cup?  I’ll bet he has a few coffees and just orders one for her.  Like he always did.  It just sits there, every time he comes here.’

The waitress arrived with the sandwich: two brown baguettes covering turkey, lettuce and mayonnaise.  Looked appetising.  The lady thanked the waitress and she hurried off again.

They sat in silence and watched as the man sipped the coffee, read the newspaper, and occasionally glanced up at the hat and the coffee, misty-eyed, with a knowing, poignant smile.  He touched a thick gold wedding ring each time he glanced.  It was clear to see that he’d loved his wife and refused to let her go so quickly.  Not yet, Norman guessed the man was thinking.  Not yet.

The lady slowly shifted her attention back to Norman.  Took a deep breath and sighed.

‘You ever lose anyone?’ she asked.

On any other day, Norman would not volunteer such information.  This was not any other day.  It was the first time he’d been engaged, and, in turn, engaged another person, in as long as he could remember.

‘Yeah, a brother.  Lost him a few years back,’ he replied.

The lady pursed her lips.  ‘I’m sorry.’

Norman smiled.  Not in his eyes, just his mouth.  That kind of ‘thank you’, acknowledging smile.  Not a real one.

‘You?’ he asked.

The lady glanced down at her sandwich, picked at some lettuce.

‘I’ve been here a few times, but never seen you.  What’s with the bow tie?’ she smiled.

Norman acknowledged the subject change, but chose not to continue his line of enquiry.

‘Hey, it’s different, right?’ he smiled.

The lady chuckled.

There was nothing quite like making a lady laugh, Norman thought.  Especially one to which he was irrevocably attracted.

The lady began to eat her sandwich whilst Norman sipped his coffee.  They both sat in a comfortable silence and looked outside at the crowds as they walked past the window, occasionally blocking out the sun rays beaming on to their table.

Chicago was a vast place, infinite stretches of road snaking around huge skyscrapers.  You’re out there, somewhere, he thought.

The lady finished her sandwich and carefully dabbed each side of her mouth with a napkin.

‘Well, I’m going to have to get back to the grindstone,’ she said.  ‘It’s been really nice speaking to you.’

Norman felt his heart sink as she smiled, thoughtfully, and searched his face with her eyes, awaiting his response.

‘You too,’ he said, barely hiding his disappointment at her impending exit.

She looked at the napkin holder and reached over, smoothly removing one and placing it down in front of her.  She leaned down to her handbag and removed an expensive looking gold-plated ball point pen.  She began to write.

Norman felt a surge of adrenaline as she began to scrawl on the white napkin.  His heart-rate increased.  She clicked the pen, turned the napkin around and slid it across the table.  She was no longer smiling.  Now, she was looking at him, dead-eyed.  This was no longer the lady that had walked in earlier, this was a chameleon.

Norman slowly read the smudged blue lettering.  He felt a huge icy wave of anxiety wash over him.  He froze.

He looked across the table as the lady carefully gripped the left lapel of her blazer and pulled it open, marginally, revealing a gun holster.  Whatever gun she was carrying, Norman thought, it sure as hell wasn’t standard government issue.  He was no expert, but that much he did know.

Outside, almost simultaneously, an impeccable black Mercedes four-by-four screeched to a halt on the sidewalk adjacent to their table.  He saw four heavy-set men, all dressed in black, methodically pace out of the vehicle in unison.  Two bounded over and stood either side of the shop’s entrance, the other two unhurriedly entered the shop and paced over to Norman’s table, each one glaring directly at him.  Nobody else.  Him.

Norman could talk his way out of most situations.

Not today…