Free Kill All the Judges by William Deverell Page B

you’ll still put it to shame.”
    She smiled, but in a tired way, with a hint of scorn–she’d heard it all before. “Thank you. Now I must leave.”
    â€œI’m sorry, but that’s not a good idea.”
    She paused while getting her coat. “Why?”
    Lance pointed out the window. “See that bloke? The leviathan?”
    She joined him, observed the tight end walking across the street toward their building.
    â€œHe means to do me harm.”
    Frightened, she went to the phone. “I’ll call 911.”
    â€œJolly good idea. Make sure they send an ambulance. He’ll need one.”
    Â 
    Widgeon: The writer must endeavour to end each chapter with a gut-churning, page-turning moment of high suspense. Nudge your fickle reader into the next chapter before he escapes from your literary clutches, turns off the bedside lamp, rolls over, and enfolds himself in the arms of Morpheus.
    Despite the master’s overblown prose, his advice, when stripped, is always on the mark. Yes, O Windy Sage, let’s leave the reader hanging there for the moment, before kicking his butt right into Chapter Eight.

 

    THE CONQUEST OF NORBERT
    A dream held for a few seconds, then shredded, leaving hazy recall of a courtroom, a pitcher of gin, Arthur on trial for being drunk and disorderly–a typical alcoholic’s dream that recurs in many guises. He blinked with relief: he wasn’t hungover.
    The dream signalled he was depressed and anxious, but in the fog of waking he didn’t know why. Now last evening came back, a terrible evening, two long-distance calls featuring, first, the apologetic falseness of Nicholas Braid in Vancouver, followed by a detonation from Melbourne. Nick Junior had been abed when the calls came. How was Arthur to handle this, how to tell Nick that his father can’t make it for Christmas at Blunder Bay?
    Nicholas Braid’s voice had been tight despite the few drinks he must have taken to brace himself. Something had come up. A group of VIJPs was in town for the holidays. Very Important Japanese People. The plan was to entertain them lavishly on Whistler Mountain, buy them choice seats for the World Figure Skating Trials.
    â€œThere’s no way I can crawl out of this one, Arthur. But I’m going to make it up to Nick big-time. Tell him I’ve booked New Year’s in Maui. Four days, five-star resort, first-class tickets.”
    He must not have felt able to tell Nick himself, that’s why he called so late. Arthur could see no rational reason for hisex-son-in-law’s unpardonable behaviour and promptly informed on him to Deborah’s answering service.
    Her return call woke Arthur at 3:00 a.m. She was spitting mad. Her lawyer was going to hire a detective to get evidence on Nicholas and the floozy he was obviously shacking up with. Then she was going to seek full custody. Nicholas wasn’t allowed on Garibaldi Island. He wasn’t allowed anywhere near his son. Nick was to stay on the island until she could fetch him home.
    Arthur, at a loss as to how he might enforce these dicta, hadn’t uttered a syllable before she said abruptly, “Never mind, I’m going to tell him myself. Maui? Maui ? Forget it. That piece of shit.”
    What was Arthur to say to Nick?
    Ten after seven. Through the window he could make out pasture and sea covered in low, thick mist, strands of it spiralling around the trunks of conifers. Apollo’s chariot had yet to wheel over the horizon, but there was a glow of his coming.
    Margaret was in the kitchen, he could hear the blender, a clattering of pans, her basic-training voice, Nick’s responses. Cool. Whatever. He’d been conscripted as sous-chef for a spread planned for Christmas Day. A dozen carefully chosen guests–major donors for the Greens–plus the woofers.
    He rose from bed, showered, dressed, worrying and fussing about Nick, about surviving tomorrow’s dinner.