WRITING

FICTION

A SHORT STORY BASED ON THE PAINTING NIGHTHAWKS BY GABRIELLA CARR-HILL, YEAR 9

I examined my scarlet nails as he sat listlessly, like an erect corpse, by my side staring into the distance almost inhuman in his dull demeanor; following William here to this impossibly bright little diner had been a mistake, for now I had to spend at least another half an hour in his presence before I was allowed the privilege to leave. And yet, there was a man opposite me who had captivated my attention without even a glance. The dismal figure kept his head down facing the polished table, his charcoal hat obscuring his face. He cradled an empty glass of whiskey in his right hand clutching it making me worry that it might shatter. For some odd reason, the way his veins protrude out of his thin skin made me think he might be throttling some innocent and yet I knew it wasn’t true.

How long had I been seated at this damp little counter now? I wondered. The man on the other side of the counter was a scrawny old thing, faffing around with dishes and glasses the whole time we’d been here, quite unaware (or it looked so at least) that anyone had even entered. I pressed my sweaty palms on the wooden counter to stand up but, when my eyes darted around the room, I found no door. The entrance must have been somewhere otherwise, we wouldn’t have been able to get in. Because if there was no entrance, it meant there was no exit.

I felt my cheeks blush pink as I began to panic. It was only then, in my frantic survey of the street that I noticed there was nothing: no debris littered the street making it the filthy dump it usually was and no youths stumbled past ready for some food to counteract their alcohol consumption. Nothing. Only darkness. The world seemed to have faded away, leaving only drab colours and building devoid of any personality or good cheer.

I tugged at William’s shoulder hissing at him that we had to leave but I did not even receive the monosyllabic reply that would normally follow. Pivoting around to face him, I reached for his lapels and found his eyes glassy and absent of life. I didn’t need to check his pulse. I knew. About to shriek, something stopped me - the man who had been sitting on his own began to cackle, lifting his eyes to meet mine. They were blood red.

My eyes scanned his face, which was no different to William’s. Not a blemish or wrinkle set them apart. All was the same, but their eyes.

I looked in desperation for the man in white, behind the counter, but landed my eyes on nothing but a stack of shiny, clean dishes. The inside of my mouth burnt, the fire stopping me from screaming.

A MURDER IN A RESTAURANT BY ANOUSHKA RAKESH, YEAR 8

It all started with an invitation to a fancy restaurant from a lawyer. I arrived at the restaurant to find a group of others who had received similar invitations. We were all perplexed with our invitations. It was raining heavily outside, and the night might have been a boring one sitting at home alone, so I was glad to be spending it outside even if it was in the company of unknown strangers.

Our hostess asked that we call her Cynthia. It was a small group of people, and it felt like I knew them all from before but couldn’t place where. Cynthia was accompanied by her aide, a young woman called Sara, who was always at her side taking notes and clutching her handbag.

Cynthia had requested a private room for our gathering. Wasn’t the whole floor, boasting of lavish tables draped with silk cloth, silverware and China plates sitting cold, enough for her taste? At least it secluded us from the noise of the battering rain.

“Sara, order some food for us.” instructed Cynthia.

Sara nodded but was stopped by someone else. “I am particular with what I order. Let me take the orders instead. Why don’t you all tell me what you want?” cried a woman.

Cynthia asked us to sit in our respective seats by the nameplates on the chairs.

“Why are we here?” a woman called Claire asked impatiently. She was ostentatious and dressed in the finest fabrics and materials in the room.

Everyone sat down and only then did Cynthia reply. “You all know each other since you all were part of a case. A case that tore your reputations and set relationships with those you love in a crumbling decay.”

The woman who had left to place our orders abruptly entered the room. Slowly she took her seat. I noticed that her nameplate said “Mary”.

“Who could forget the missing diamond case.” someone muttered in a lost tone. “I knew that the instant you reached out to me.”

“Yes, James.” Cynthia smiled warmly at him, ignoring the pain in everyone’s eyes. “I was working as a lawyer in that case for truth and I remember the pain I inflicted on all of you. It happened years ago that some of you might not even remember. Making you reveal all those truths and painful secrets-”

“And who did you convict in the end?” interrupted Mary, her voice raised in anger. “Did you find the person responsible for the missing diamond?”

“No, I imprisoned someone wrongly, Mary, and I took away her future. But hopefully I can rectify that.”

Everyone sighed in the room, including me. Sara reached into Cynthia’s bag and produced a handkerchief. She gave it to the frail lawyer exactly when she sneezed and coughed hysterically. Her nose was flushed red.

Food slowly started pouring in, from puffs to pies and smoked meat. James excused himself and brought in five cups of coffee, placing them down on each saucer. Cynthia whispered to him while he gave her the coffee. He added five teaspoons of sugar in Cynthia’s cup while everyone else had three. I had some lobster while the good lawyer feasted lightly on some spaghetti.

“Thanks for the meal.” I said in gratitude. “I think I better head back home.”

“No, Robert!” she cried indignantly “Stay for some time. You know what, would you be a dear and get some cakes for all of us.”

I wanted to leave but resigned myself to fetching some cakes. The air outside the private room felt troubled and quiet. I shortly returned to the room with the cakes, only to be paralysed by the sight of confused and disorientated faces. I saw Cynthia lying still in her seat, her arms spread eagle. Her spaghetti was unfinished, and her skin was pale and sucked of blood. I wanted to call the police, but the weather was awful, which meant they would arrive late to take her in for an autopsy. I had to figure this out myself.

All of them, including me, had a motive for her death. There was Claire, a woman trying to build connections with her family. James, an accountant who lost his job after being implicated in the case. Mary, who was kicked out of her house because of the case. And then there was me, having lost my family and friends because my secrets were finally cast in the spotlight. That horrendous diamond case had ruined us all and Cynthia was partly the cause of it.

From everything I had observed, this was a likely case of poisoning. Perhaps cyanide or even strychnine ingested into her system. I examined her food and asked the waiter about the spaghetti that had been delivered to her. He claimed that it had been left out of his sight for a minute after he delivered it. Then I drew away from checking her food and checked everything else. The bags of all the suspects and the bag of the victim itself.

I gathered everyone back into the room. I would keep this announcement short.

“All of you were linked to the murder -”

“How are you sure if it’s a murder?” interjected Mary. “Couldn’t it be natural causes? The woman had health issues after all.”

“I know, but this is not a great place to die. Just listen to me. Cynthia didn’t just come here to apologise to all of us before she rotted in her bed. She came to find out the true thief in the missing diamond case. Yes, the case that cost us everything. As a normal thief would do after they stole something of value, they cash in and spend it on themself. 7 years is enough time for the thief to show off their tastes in money. And that thief is right here, perhaps most conspicuous, and richer than anyone in this room. I am referring to Claire over here.” She summoned a gasp. “I noticed her expensive clothes the moment she came here, while the rest of us were perhaps financially crippled by the case. She is the only one that walked in adorned with riches that boasts her affluent status.”

“But-”

“The countless bank notes in your purse and your accessories, especially such elegant clothes speak for themselves.”

“So, she killed the lawyer?” James asked sceptically.

“Not at all. James, when you delivered the coffee to Cynthia, why did you administer five teaspoons of sugar in it? You didn’t do that for anyone else.”

“She asked me to. Said she only liked it when it was very sweet.” muttered James.

“And Mary, you are the one that ordered food for everyone. Did you, by any chance, add some poison into her spaghetti?”

She raised her voice. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing!”

“I am not accusing you.” I calmed Mary down. “I checked both of your bags. None of you: James or Mary, had bottles of poison or anything else.” I paused, staring at a bored young woman staring into the air. “But you did, Sara.”

Her head turned slowly. “I believe that handkerchief contained traces of slow poison which slowly infected her respiratory system. It was the only material that could administer poison properly into her system, as none of the food contained any. The poison you had in your bag was a slow acting poison by the name of Thallium. It takes days to properly kill someone and is unnoticeable. Imagine adding it to food. It would take longer to kill her, and she wouldn’t die a few minutes ago.”

“You can’t prove this!” argued Sara. “She ruined my life with that stupid case, sentencing me to prison for years till she finally realised it wasn’t me. Then she tried to make me her assistant, arguing that I could earn money… but look at me! I have no family anymore and I am still working off debts. Being her ‘assistant’ worked as a gain for her, not for me. Of course, I killed her.”

Everyone’s eyes shot up in horror, raising their hands to cover their open mouths. “You just confessed.” I ignored her cries of pain and came to a haunting realisation. Cynthia only had a few months to live because of her health issues. She would have just died anyway. All Sara had to do was wait.

ALORA UNBOUND BY ANOUSHKA RAKESH, YEAR 8

The day I realised my parents were willing to send me away as a maid was the day I started planning my escape.

I loved my homeland. It was always bustling with tourists and the air was damp with the smell of fresh grass and soil. The village I lived in was quaint and consisted of mud. It was beautiful and I still recall freshly the memory of climbing on the guava trees back or casting pebbles at the neighbour’s dog.

There was a school that boarded everyone in our village. The learning wasn’t sufficient, but it allowed me to be able to spell my name out in the sand: Alora. I had always wondered what my name meant, and I finally had an answer. It meant “dreamer”. I no longer had any doubts as to why I had to escape: I am a dreamer, I have dreams. I am Alora!

I did not want to be taken away by that woman as a subservient slave that would attend to her duties. I wanted to learn. Spelling my name on the sand and shells that were washed up on the shore didn’t satisfy me. I wanted to learn more and grow rather than hand myself over to a fiendish lady that would remorselessly snatch my life away. So I left my village in rural Nigeria and boarded a cargo train supplying mangoes. The train compartment was incredibly claustrophobic, and the fragrant smell of mangoes plucked freshly from the tree suffocated me. I yearned for the pure air I knew of, and my mind drifted with thoughts of frankincense and dried rain. I thought of that air and inhaled it into my lungs, only to be ensnared by mangoes. I coughed wildly until I fell into a slumber and dreamt of home.

The cargo train rocked several times and threw me awake.

The train was stationary and no longer sliding along the railway tracks. I heard voices growing louder as each second passed. I felt a certain weight pushing me down to my feet. Shadows flickered closer to my soulless compartment inhabited by the mangoes that I grew to despise gravely. I crouched under the cartons containing the fruit and held my breath, shivering from fear. A flashlight was drawn towards the cartons that shielded me and it was pulled away. Footsteps fell fainter till they were light on the surface they touched. I was safe for now.

Three days was how long it took for the train to finally carry me to an alien place called Libya.

“Libya!”

My lips pronounced the word from posters advertising travel and jobs. Streams of sand dispersed from my hands and my ragged shoes were buried. It was like a desert with few shops and services. The air was putrid, and I found myself yearning for those fragrant mangoes. The place was very sandy, and dust speckled and infiltrated my nose. I nearly choked.

In the distance I saw a tiny red dot that came slithering towards me at full speed. It was no longer a dot and it revealed itself to its full height. A bus, its wheels struggling to trample through the thick blankets of dry sand. Its destination was Florence, and I got the impression that we were in a desert close to Italy. Impatiently, I got on the bus but was refused entry by the conductor who deduced I was penniless.

“Sorry child, without money you can’t get on board this bus.”

I felt as if someone had put salt to my wounds. I was helpless and needed to get away from this desert to somewhere that my dreams could blossom. Resignedly I stepped down from the bus, which is when I noticed a ladder leading to the upper bunk. It consisted of luggage and other paraphernalia. Thanks to my puny stature no one would notice me crouching and camouflaging against these bleak suitcases. Before the engine rumbled to life and the wheels grinded, throwing sand to those boarding the bus, I clambered up the ladder and breathed in relief.

The cloth that draped over the suitcases was clean and I blanketed myself with it. No one seemed to pick up their luggage for the next few so I was left in peace. I noticed the sun dipping behind the atmosphere and the night air was getting cool. I slumbered peacefully in the clean air that wafted with black pepper and melted cheese. I arose and a new scenery emerged. From the hot, vaporous desert came the cool, thrilling town bustling with restless crowds and tourists.

In a daze I left the train and was instantly taken in by the beautiful new place I had arrived at. I walked away from the cacophonic noises of the bus station. Soon I was lost. The impatient yells of market vendors and breathless cries of crowds were far and dimming. Smells of oily street food, rotten vegetation and congested air evaporated from my nostrils. I was surrounded by sweet lilies, mouth-watering honeysuckles, and fresh bougainvillaea. The streets were desolate and untouched, left with baronial bricked houses lying as chess pieces on the cobbled streets. The quietness was interrupted by the cooing of sea birds that flapped in the ethereal sky. Gladly, the stillness returned, and the fresh air tugged on sea salt. I could hear waves crashing against rocks, noises of creatures and the cold gails drifting towards the sea.

Far from the baronial houses, I could make out the pristine blue waters of the sea, bubbles forming on the surface. Houses rested on white cliffs and holly boughs of green grass. Endless bricked flats streamed like a river down the cliffs, overlooking the pale pinkish-blue sky. It was a majestic sight. A rainbow formed around the cliffs with otherworldly clouds drifting towards it. It was a seamless spectacle of beauty.

Was I in Italy? I didn’t know. Darkness settled in swiftly. It was a moon-less night, and very windy. Suddenly I felt very tired and drained. Exhausted, I sat down, resting against the brick walls of a house. It had been a long day, and my head started to throb and something fluid undulated down my hair. All I had was a golden locket hanging from my neck and a fabric draped around me. Grasping the locket, my thoughts drifted back to my valorous grandma. Oh, how would she react if she saw me now. How her aging eyes would shed tears were they saw me exposed to the shivering night. I tried to get up to appease her and regain her hopes, but I fell. Blisters covered my weary feet and they hurt so wildly. “I am sorry to disappoint you, grandma, but I can’t keep moving.”

I was so overconsumed by fatigue that I must have fallen into a slumber, for I was shocked when I unexpectedly awoke under thick musty blankets. My blue lips were nourished pink and my skin was glowing. A wizened woman approached me and claimed she found me lying destitute in the night, as if suffering from morphia. She waved her lantern in the blankets of night till she found me and carried me inside. Her voice was like a lilting lullaby which I adored. It almost cradled and compelled me to confess everything. She listened earnestly without any interruption till my lips stopped moving.

“We are in Florence in case you were wondering” her sweet voice began. Abruptly, she broke into her own story. Her husband had travelled to Europe for work, and she wanted some company. She asked if I wanted to work as her maid. I couldn’t refuse that sweet old woman of her wishes.

Working as a maid for the old woman had many benefits. I was offered a place to reside, clothes, mouth-watering food home-cooked by the old woman. In her I found an employer as well as a friend and mother. She consorted with me for everything and considered me her daughter, whose life was taken in the hands of a river. Life was adventurous and fulfilling till her vile husband returned home. He was determined to get rid of me just because he thought I was too independent and intelligent. My tone was sharp, and my attitude deliberately haughty so he spited me. He compelled the sweet woman to thrust me back into the harsh streets, and I felt like all the fruits that were harvested were being snatched away and eaten by a fiend.

“I am sorry, but I have no choice to let you stay anymore.” As she said this, tears rolled down her eyes in bleak sorrow. She dried her tears and handed me train tickets to Paris and spared me some money to afford a living. “Catch this before it leaves in an hour.” She smiled and embraced me warmly for the last time.

“Can’t I stay in Italy?” I implored.

“You can. This is just an option.”

I begged her to come with me, but she said didn’t want to. She loved staying in Florence with him, even though he could be frustrating to deal with. With a heavy heart I said my farewells and ran to catch the train before it departed.

And so here I am, breathing the fresh air of Paris.

The train journey bore me a few headaches and nausea, but all fell from me like a veil when the wheels of the train came to a halt. The weather is a bit capricious, but the city is magnificent when washed in inky and iridescent colours of the lustrous clouds. I managed to afford a comfy apartment overlooking the river Seine. The river is calming whenever I look out to write. I work as a governess in a state school and write poetry and stories as a hobby whenever pay isn’t sufficient. I feel hopeful, destined for more. I am currently trying to get a degree in Law and Literature, but I can't feel my dreams that I have been carrying since a child being satisfied.

Who ever said to stop after achieving something?