Good morning/afternoon/evening or night to you all. My name is Christopher Brown and I am a writer from Stirling, Scotland. I have never been published in ten years of trying. I must not be very good at all. You will not find grandiose statements concerning the “art” of my work or the importance of literature in this blog. I just want to be heard. Isn’t that all that anybody wants in this age of global interaction. I just want my voice to be acknowledged.

Wankery over. 

Here is the prologue from a novel that I have written (the fourth) called “Raindrops and Frying Pans”. I will add a chapter each week until the book is completed. I hope that you enjoy. Please feel free to let me know what you think at clbrown83@hotmail.co.uk

Love it, hate it, despise it, adore it; whatever you feel, please let me know.

Raindrops and Frying Pans

Prologue

Prologue

            ‘So…Mr McIntosh, given that my colleagues have found no trace of either the young lady or the alleged money in your flat, would you care to make any amendments to your version of events? May I also remind you that giving any falsified statement is a serious felony and that those found guilty are treated harshly.’

            Danny sipped noisily from the polystyrene cup of coffee that had been placed by his hospital bed, wincing at the bitterness, before raising his worried gaze to the police inspector standing over him.

            ‘Karen’s gone? Are you sure?’              

            There was an ominous silence. And then:

            ‘Mr McIntosh, are you aware of how serious this situation is? I think that it would be for the best if you were to answer my questions as honestly and quickly as is humanly possible before interrupting with your own? What do you think?’

            ‘Yes. No. Sorry. Of course.’ Danny replied awkwardly.

            The inspector waited.

            ‘Oh. Right. Well…no. I can’t really tell you anything else. I’ve already told you what happened. It’s just so typical that Karen would drop me into something like this. She’s quite a bit of work you know. Very high maintenance. She’s a complete drama queen.’

            ‘Yes, Karen. No surname. Fifteen years old; below the legal age of consent. Would you care to explain to me again how it came about that this young girl, of no relation, came to be staying alone with you in your flat for the period of two weeks, unsupervised by any lawful authority?’

            ‘It wasn’t like that.’ Danny protested hotly, struggling to sit upright in his bed, the bandage around his scalp slipping slightly across his forehead.

            ‘Calm yourself Mr McIntosh. If you could just answer the question please?’

            Silence. And then:

            ‘Well it’s because of bloody him isn’t it. He’s the reason that everything happened the way it did. That…psycho. He took a knife to my face. He’s dangerous.’

            ‘We’ll get back to him soon enough. At the present moment however I’m much more concerned about the wellbeing of the underage girl that you claim is at the centre of this violent assault but of whom absolutely no trace can now be found. I’d like you to clarify several…more than several…of the points that have been raised earlier, starting with the nature of your relationship.’

            Danny settled back down, suddenly drained, the resistance fleeing. He picked up his cup of coffee and cradled it between his palms, running through the events of the past two hectic weeks.

            ‘Karen…’