The Writer Awoke before Dawn

About the Author:

Born in 1903, in the tiny hamlet of Hogs-Bonking on the south-west coast of Corset, in England, best-selling author and pig farmer, Ian Hobson, is relatively new to writing, having taken it up only the day before yesterday. His many literary achievements to date include his remarkable 500,000 word epic 'A Day in the Life of a Lettuce', his anthology of single word poems titled 'This is an Anthology of Single Word Poems and That's Why it's Not Very Thick', and 'Mistaken Identity', a heart-rending true story about his father's hysterectomy.

His latest novel 'The Day I Killed Mr Smith', is causing a sensation in literary circles, as well as looking likely to reopen the investigation into the death of one Josiah Smith, one-time Mayor of Hogs-Bottom and Crouchdown-in-the Marshes, who died in suspicious circumstances; his body having been found shot, stabbed, garrotted, and hanging upside-down in his outside toilet.

Ian has now moved to Florida, where he lives with his wife and two pigs. He still loves to write but now devotes most of his time to the cataloguing of his rare Antarctic cockroach collection.

The Writer Awoke before Dawn

©2003 Ian Hobson

He put his boots on. And tied the laces. At school, he was taught that he shouldn't start a sentence with the word And, but he knew that that was an outdated rule. ‘And in any case,’ he reminded himself, ‘rules were made for the guidance of wise men and the obedience of fools.’ He pondered over the use of the word ‘men’, wondering if, in this age of political correctness, he should say ‘wise persons’.

He hefted his rucksack and slipped out of the back door… coming down hard on his tailbone and uttering the two vilest expletives in his vocabulary of vile expletives. That was twice in three weeks that that slippery doorstep had caught him out, and his bottom was still sore from the first time. He quickly deleted the expletives - daring not to offend potential readers this early in the story - picked himself up, locked the door and, adjusting the position of his rucksack, he set off down the garden path.

The writer - he flattered himself with that description – opened the garden gate and stepped into the road. He was actually a retired postman. Not that he had wanted to take early retirement, but he had been offered a generous ‘package’… No, that sounded ridiculous; a postman being offered a package. He was actually a retired bank clerk. Not that he had wanted to take early retirement, but he had been offered a generous ‘package’.

His main pastimes were gardening, hiking and reading, but recently he had taken to writing short stories, partly for his own amusement, and partly in the hope that he might actually have something published. Out of habit he crossed to the right-hand side of the road, preferring to face the oncoming traffic. Not that there was any this early in the morning.

He liked this time of day; just enough light to see by, but no sign of the sun yet, and no one else around. And living in the countryside certainly had its advantages. And he had been very lucky to buy the cottage before property prices had soared. He was about to say And something else but he thought three Ands in a row was pushing it a little. He passed through the gap-stile in the wall and followed the well-worn footpath down towards the stream where he crossed the footbridge. This reminded him of his daughter, as when she was small she had always looked under footbridges to see if there were any trolls. At the head of the valley the first rays of the sun, but not the sun itself, were visible.

Leaving the stream behind, he began to climb towards a distant farm, leaning heavily on his walking stick… Which was more than a little odd, as there was no mention of a walking stick in the opening paragraphs. ‘Fuck it!’ he said, ‘I’ll go back and edit one in later.’ He considered deleting the F-word but decided that any reader that had come this far was probably hooked. A fox trotted across the footpath about a quarter of a mile ahead, before disappearing into the trees on the left. He had never thought about it before, but foxes did actually trot, he noticed.

He, the writer / retired bank clerk, not the fox, stopped for a moment to admire the view, and as he did so, the sun crested the low hills in the east. He liked the dawn. The opening lines of an old Doors song sprang to mind… No, not sprang to mind… they surfaced? Aw, bollocks! He suddenly remembered the opening lines of an old Doors song, ‘The killer awoke before dawn. He put his boots on’, and the seed of an idea began to germinate. This often happened. He would set off for a walk with the intention of doing no more than getting some fresh air and exercise, only to find himself writing another story in his head.

He continued to climb, soon passing the spot where the fox had crossed the path. And as he reached a small rocky outcrop, he decided that it was time he stopped for some breakfast. He took off his rucksack and sat down on the flattest of the rocks… No, that’s the last thing he’d do with a sore tailbone; sit on a rock… And upon reaching a wooden field gate in a dry-stone wall, he decided that it was time he stopped for some breakfast. He took off his rucksack, and leaning back against the gate, he opened the rucksack, took out his foil-wrapped bacon sandwich and began to eat… He should have unwrapped it first, but surely the reader would know that.

He washed down the sandwich with hot coffee from his Thermos flask; still working on the story that was now beginning to take shape in his mind. But he turned to look uphill as his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an approaching tractor. He wondered if the driver, a young lad in green overalls, was intending to pass through the gate, in which case he would open it for him, but with a wave of his right hand the lad veered sharply to the left, bumping over some rough ground, and coming perilously close to making this sentence too long. ‘Who’s to say Microsoft know an overly long sentence from a short one, anyway,’ he thought.

He replaced his Thermos flask and slung his rucksack. Fortunately it landed in soft grass. He walked over to it and picked it up and put it back on his back, wishing he could think of a better way of saying that, then continued on through the gate and uphill towards the farm buildings. He looked around to see if the farmer was about, thinking that it would be nice to introduce some dialogue into the story. But the farmyard was deserted, apart from a ginger tom… No, that’s probably a cliché. …a black and white cat sitting on a wall beside the barn. He had a one sided conversation with the cat, then deleted it, thinking that it sounded stupid. A flock of geese flew overhead in almost perfect V-formation, apart from one straggler, and both he and the cat watched them.

As the geese became no more than specks in the sky, he walked on through the farmyard and along the main farm track, undecided as to whether its gravel should crunch under his feet or whether it should be recently tarmacked. He opted for the gravel because neither he nor Spellcheck knew for sure how to spell tarmacked. Ahead, in the distance, he could see the reservoir, but above it there were rain-clouds, and they looked to be heading his way. The rain wasn’t forecast, but he was running out of ideas now and thought that the rain would give him a good excuse to take the short route back to the cottage and more swiftly conclude the story.

He left the farm track via a ladder stile and followed the footpath down through the pinewoods. The gong was very soft… He wondered if he could say that about a footpath, or if that description was strictly reserved for racetracks. He reached a fork in the path, uncertain of which way to go, and he stood for a while, prodding at a rotting log with his walking stick, and trying to think what to write next. A large piece of bark fell away, and a family of woodlice scurried off to look for a new home.

He took the left fork, deciding to go back over the story in his mind once more. That sometimes worked. Though he was soon distracted, as the footpath narrowed and was, in places, overgrown with brambles, some of which tried to trip him. But after toiling on for another fifteen minutes or so, and occasionally using his stick as a jungle explorer might use a machete, he finally reached the end of another paragraph.

He thought about being struck by lightening, but that seemed just a little too dramatic… Or being attacked by a bear, but there were no bears in England. Overhead the sky was growing darker, and he could hear distant rumbles of thunder, and as he left the trees he felt the first few drops of rain. And somewhere ahead he could hear the rush of water where the stream went over a waterfall. He felt a sudden urge to make a waterfall of his own and stepped off the path to relieve himself. Now he really was hard up for ideas; making the subject of the story take a piss. ‘Aw bollocks!’ he thought. It started to rain like fuck, so the bloke rushed back to his cottage as fast as he could. THE END.

The Writer Awoke before Dawn – PART 2

‘So what do we know, Jim?’

Detective inspector Jim Green referred to his notes. ‘Well, Sir. He’s male, probably aged between fifty and sixty-five. He owns a cottage in the country, somewhere in England, but we don’t know which county. But we do know the cottage is located in a valley that runs east to west. And that he’s a retired bank clerk… or possibly a retired postman, but we think more likely a bank clerk.

‘Name? Description?’

‘No, Sir. We did have a name, but when we checked it out we discovered it was just a pseudonym. And we’ve no description as such. We just know that he’s reasonably fit. Goes walking and that sort of thing.’

‘And you’re sure it’s the same man?’

‘Oh yes, Sir. Slight change of MO, but it’s definitely him. And you know what that means, Sir?’ It was a rhetorical question. ‘We have another serial-writer on our hands.’

‘I see. Well, keep me informed of developments, Jim.’

‘Will do, Sir,’ replied DI Green, as his superior left his office. He moved to the chair behind his desk and sat down, still studying his notes. This was a tough case. But DI Green had cut his teeth on tough cases. That was why he had been hand-picked to head the N.S.S.S. – the National Short Story Squad.

‘I’ll get you, you bastard,’ he said out loud. ‘You’ve been lucky so far - writing short stories with dubious plots and abrupt endings – but one day soon you’ll make a mistake, and then you’ll be mine.’

***

He reread his last short story, cursing as he realised that he had forgotten to edit the second paragraph to include the walking stick. But it was too late now; almost a week had passed since he had finished the story and submitted it to abctales.com

He had arrived home from his walk that morning soaking wet, almost slipped on the dodgy back doorstep again, shrugged off his rucksack and wet cagoule, then headed straight for his computer, eager to get his thoughts down on paper. The latter being a figure of speech, as he always saved his work on the computer’s hard drive.

He switched off his computer, retrieved his newly printed shopping list from his ink jet printer, not mentioning the manufacturer by name, as he was less than impressed with their Customer Services Department and didn’t want give them a free advertisement. ‘That reminds me,’ he thought, as he reached for a pen and added another item to his shopping list, ‘HP Sauce.’

He walked through to the kitchen. There were still muddy boot prints across the tiled floor. Cleaning had never been his strong point. He wondered about editing the bit about coming home and shrugging off his rucksack and cagoule, to include taking his boots off as well, but decided against it, thinking that the rest of the floor could do with a clean anyway, especially with his sister coming to stay.

His little sister, Josephine… No, he knew better than to use long names that were a pain to spell. His little sister, Janis - younger by fifteen years – lived in Harrogate. Not quite the same as living out in the sticks, but still a very nice compromise between town and country, what with The Stray and all… ‘The stray what?’ a reader was bound to think… what with the wide open grassy areas, then… No, that’s cobblers. His little sister, Janis - younger by fifteen years – lived in a suburb of Leeds. Not quite the same as living out in the sticks, though nice enough. But she would insist on coming to stay with him from time to time, though at least she didn’t bring her workaholic husband with her.

He ducked into the under-stair broom cupboard and reached for the mop and bucket. It had taken him almost a month and several bumps on the head to learn to duck. The front door to the cottage was almost as low, which was why he always used the back door. He gave the floor a thorough mopping, then stepped carefully out of the back door. He looked down at the worn out old doorstep, probably the original from when the cottage was built in the eighteenth century. Three local builders had been and looked at it, then measured it, then promised to quote for repair or replacement, but not one of them had got back to him. ‘Bloody builders,’ he grumbled, as he fumbled for his keys, locked the back door, and set off down the garden path to his car.

***

Detective Sergeant Honey adjusted her skirt, pushed her long blond hair back from her face, and then knocked before entering DI Green’s office. ‘You wanted to see me, Sir?’ She gave him her best smile.

‘Yes, Angela, pull up a chair… I’ve been reading your file and I see that you have an O-level in geography.’

‘Oh, yes, that’s right, Jim… Do you mind me calling you Jim? Only… well… we’ve been working together for almost a year now and… Oh, Jim, I can’t keep it inside any longer. I love you!’

DI Green swallowed so hard that his Adam’s apple almost became his third testicle. ‘But I’m a married man,’ he stammered. ‘And we have a job to do. Now pull yourself together, Angela, and get down off my desk.’

‘I’m sorry, Sir… I…’ DS Honey scrambled backwards off the desk and peeled DI Green’s coffee mat from her left knee.

‘That’s alright, Angela, err, DI Honey… Now, I want you get out a full set of ordinance survey maps and start looking for an English valley that runs from east to west.’

‘East to west,’ DI Honey repeated, adjusting her skirt and blouse.

‘That’s right. We’re looking for a country cottage in a valley, not far from a reservoir.’

***

It was a good three quarters of an hour’s drive to the nearest town and supermarket, but he had almost as long again before his sister’s train was due. He turned on the radio. It was tuned to a local station. There was a report about a local shop owner who had gone missing two years ago, after leaving a note on the door that read ‘Back in ten minutes.’ He couldn’t help laughing and wondered if he might use it in his latest short story. He had surprised himself; writing a sequel. That was something new. He re-read what he had written so far, thinking that perhaps he should be a little more descriptive.

He accelerated smoothly as he overtook a limestone caked quarry wagon, glad to be out of its wake of iniquitous black smoke and free of the clanking accompaniment to its cacophonous engine. Ahead, and to his right, the sky was a clear cyan, apart from where it was criss-crossed with thin white lines painted by high-flying aircraft. And to his left, above the rolling auburn hills, fluffy white clouds, shunted by the south-westerly winds, were gathered like a convention of giant soufflés…. ‘Sod that,’ he thought, ‘let’s keep it gritty,’ … It was a nice day, and he put his foot down, trying to get past a smelly old wagon, but had to slam his anchors on or else hit the soddin’ bus that was coming the other way.

Thankfully he soon reached the outskirts of the town and the turn-off for the supermarket, though as usual its entrance was clogged with vehicles. He joined the queue of eager shopper / motorists, finally spotting an empty space and deftly reversing into it whilst other contenders gave him evil looks.

Inside the supermarket the isles were packed, and typically, his chosen trolley had a severe tendency to drift to the left. But finally, after filling his wayward trolley and then queuing for what seemed like half a lifetime, he arrived at the checkout. He emptied the trolley, balancing the last few items on top of the others on the conveyor, waited patiently as the lady in front reloaded her trolley and paid for her goods, then stepped forward to peel a plastic shopping bag from the stack at the end of the stainless steel ramp.

He silently cursed the bag and his own inability to open it, as the checkout girl expertly passed his purchases over the barcode reader and sent them sliding towards him. And he wondered at the magical way that other shoppers, all female, need only touch their bags to have them spring open like parachutes. It was at times like this that he wished that he was still married. He gave up on the bag, threw his shopping back into the trolley, paid his bill by Switch, and wrestled the trolley out to his car, by this time almost completely off his ‘trolley’ as he had used the word seven times in the last two paragraphs.

***

DS Honey poured over the ordinance survey maps – well, not poured exactly – a tear rolled down her cheek and landed in the Yorkshire Dales north-west of Leeds, appropriately drenching the tiny hamlet of Puddleby. She watched her tear soak into the paper, frustrated by the difficulty of her task, and distracted by the pain of unrequited love. Suddenly the name Puddleby seemed to leap out at her, as did the name Puddleby Reservoir and the fact that they were both in a valley that ran horizontally across the map.

***

He led the way up the garden path and into the cottage, carrying Janis’s suitcase for her. ‘Would you like to put the kettle on?’ he asked as he returned to the car for his shopping, glad to have at last given himself a speaking part in his own story.

‘Okay, love,’ replied Janis, conspiring with him in not revealing his name to the reader.

‘Perhaps I should re-title it “The Man with no Name” or “The Man with no Brains!” ’ he thought, as he realised the stupidity of placing the frozen peas next to the bag of sugar.

‘I see you’ve not replaced that dangerous doorstep yet,’ said Janis, as her brother carried in the last of the shopping, and the kettle came to a boil.

‘No, not yet. But I’ll get around to it one of these days… How’s that husband of yours?’

Janis burst into tears.

‘Oh dear, what’s the matter? He hasn’t left you has he?’

‘Oh, no. He hasn’t done that. It’s just that since he got promoted and moved to the Sheffield office, I hardly ever see him. I do sometimes wonder if he has another woman though.’

***

Detective Inspector Green sped along the M1, heading north, with Detective Sergeant Honey at his side… Oh, all right then! DI Jim Green is Janis’s husband! What do you expect? I’m not PD James!

‘Good work, Angela.’ DI Green complemented his subordinate, trying not to notice the way her skirt had rucked up after an hour in the car. ‘You know… I’ve heard that name Puddleby before somewhere.’

‘Thank you, Sir,’ she replied, glad to be back in his good books, and smiling inwardly as she saw him take another sidelong look at her legs.

‘What’s our ETA?’

‘It’s going to depend on the traffic, but I should think about six o’clock… No, you pillock! These a police officers… ‘It’s going to depend on the traffic, but I should think about eighteen-hundred-hours.’

‘Lets see if we can beat that.’ DI Green put his foot down and his old, but well cared for, Jaguar’s speedometer registered ninety-five mph… Yeah, well, he was an Inspector Morse fan, all right!

***

Janis popped the casserole into the oven. She liked to cook for her brother, suspecting that he didn’t feed himself properly. She wandered through into the living room, where he was playing on his computer, shaking her head at the clutter and thinking that the room could do with a really good spring-clean.

‘Having fun?’ she asked, as she walked over to the window. Outside, it had begun to rain, but the view across the valley was still beautiful.

‘What? Oh, just trying to finish a short story I’ve been writing.’

‘Oh, I didn’t know you had taken up writing,’ said Janis, doing a double-take as a Jaguar identical to her husband’s and driven by a man identical to her husband, cruised past, with a blond woman pointing what looked like a miniature satellite dish towards the cottage.

‘I’m getting a strong signal!’ said DS Honey, excitedly, as the digital readout on the SSD – Short Story Detector – shot up to ninety-seven percent. DI Green hit the brakes and threw the gear lever into reverse, and the gearbox whined as the Jaguar sped backwards along the road.

‘You better come and see this,’ said Janis. ‘There’s a man looks just like my Jim, and…’

‘Not now, love. I’m just coming to the climax of my story.’

‘But… Good heavens! It is Jim! And he’s coming here!’ exclaimed Janis, as her husband leapt from the car and ran up the garden path, quickly followed by the young blond woman.

‘What!’ exclaimed the writer, immediately realising the implications. ‘Don’t let him in. What ever you do, don’t let him in!’ His fingers rattled the keyboard, as DI Green hammered on the front door.

‘Why not?’ asked Janis, thoroughly confused.

‘Shall I call for backup?’ DS Honey asked her boss, excitedly.

‘No time,’ replied DI Green, trying to open the front door, but finding it was locked. He raced around the side of the house, almost loosing his footing on the rain-soaked stone paving, before trying the back door. It flew open, but as he put his foot on the doorstep he slipped and fell flat on his face, breaking his jaw on the tiled kitchen floor. The two women who loved him ran to his aid, one from the garden and the other from inside the house.

‘My darling, are you all right?’ asked DS Honey.

‘You bastard!’ Janis screamed at her husband, her worst fears realised.

‘Stop him,’ groaned DI Green, as blood spilled from his mouth. ‘I must… stop him.’

But it was too late. The writer was on line and just about to post his short story, and before clicking the Submit button he typed … THE END