The Letter

As part of a brief for Uni, my class was tasked to come up with a short story about a letter imaginatively entitled... The Letter. I got some good feedback from my tutor about my story, so here it is.

The Letter

 

“How could I resist?”

“Resist what exactly?” came the reply from the shrink, his grey eyebrows lowering, eagerly awaiting my response,

“Investigating.”

            Hi, my name’s Liam Wragby, and I’m an investigative Journalist for the Sunday Herald, the biggest newspaper in Saddleworth, where I live. I’m a big fan of Bradford City Football Club, I drive a 2012 model, red Honda Civic, frequently attend my local Theatre, like to cook casseroles, and have a crush on Hilary Clinton. I have an IQ of 158, shop at Waitrose, suffer from extreme narcissism, and my favourite colour is blue. I’m the guy who broke the news that the local MP Ian Glemmas was actually neglecting the local reservoir systems, and using the money he saved to finance his daughters’ fiancé’s fledgling Logistics business. Paper sales increased by 89% following that story. Just a days work.

Quite a few national Newspapers have contacted me to offer me a place on their staff. I rejected all their offers though. It was obviously flattering to see their interest, but none of the Papers met my requirements. There’s only one paper that would do, The Daily Mail. I’m waiting for that offer. It’ll come. Anyway, I should probably explain, I love to investigate things. Nothing gets me going more.  For me life is a mystery, everything else is irrelevant. I always loved the idea that I could find out anything. That’s the reason I ended up having to see a shrink. I was trying to get to the bottom of my neighbour Clive’s depression. He wouldn’t co-operate with my questions, so I pushed him down the stairs. Rookie mistake really, ended up getting a 5-month prison sentence, and a prescribed year of weekly meetings with a shrink called Lloyd. Ended up finding out that Clive has a drinking problem based on a traumatic childhood however, so it was probably worth it. Lloyd’s sessions are always quite dull though; I like to fabricate parts of my life, just to see Lloyd’s reaction. It amuses me. He tries to act like a dominant figure, but I know by the faint tremor in his voice that my stories intimidate him. Not surprising really. I’ve seen a lot of things and have an overactive imagination. Sometimes my stories scare myself. Some are true, and some are as legitimate as a Russian election. It’s up to you decide which are which however. That’s where the fun is. I’m gonna tell you the story I told Lloyd just a few hours ago, a story is always so much better the second time you tell it. You’ve already rehearsed it. You know your cues and graces; it just rolls off the tongue. Anyway, here goes…

Beep, beep, beep! 7:27AM. Alarm clock goes off. It’s a crisp early autumn morning. The low Sun penetrates through the thin brown curtains, casting the room in an eerie Orange hue. 7:29. Beep, beep, beep! Alarm goes off again. This time I roll out of my bed. I stand up, stretching my muscles as I do, trying to remove all ounces of exhaustion from my body. 7:31, I take my boxers off and get in the shower. The heating came on at 6:45, so the water is at a tepid enough temperature when it starts, and gets gradually warmer. 7:36. I get out of the Shower dry off and put on my dressing gown. 7:39, I hear the letterbox rattle downstairs, the postman is 2 minutes 17 seconds earlier than normal. 7:40, I open the curtains and let my eyes adjust to the September light reflecting off the puddles in the cobblestones and roof shingles from the houses opposite. 7:41, I leave my room and head down the wooden stairs. The mail is lying there on the foot mat. Something’s different. One of the envelopes is particularly noticeable. There amongst the dullness of the everyday forms and bill notices, lies a splendidly blue envelope. I reach over and pick it up. There’s no address on the front, or the back. This was hand posted by somebody. I take it into the Kitchen with me, intrigued. I grab my knife, and slice open the envelope. A pale yellow piece of parchment falls out. The smell of old paper fills my nostrils, as I grab the parchment, and fold it open. What greets me are some of the most finely crafted calligraphic writings I’ve ever seen.

‘SM52HOO. W1984FA. KKLNYYF’TTY LNDGJDGKLSM DYKK’

Nothing on the reverse side. That’s it. That’s the entire letter. For the first time ever, I’m annoyed at the enthralling mystery presented to me. I’ve been working on my biggest story yet. The last 6 months have been nothing but tip-offs, sourcing contacts, travelling and holding interviews with ‘anonymous witnesses’. And just as I was on the verge of a huge breakthrough, this letter arrives. I’d dedicated 6 months to unravelling a Police cover-up. I was certain. The local Police force was corrupt. They hid evidence of certain crimes, and allowed several high profile illegal acts to go by unnoticed, all in the name of profit for themselves. All I needed was the evidence. I’d spent the last week leaving the house at 7:57AM, and spending my days snooping around the Police Station. Fortunately I was very familiar with that place after my earlier arrest for my ‘altercation’ with Clive. Hell, I could walk through that place blindfolded. I’d spent 83 hours 47 minutes in there so far this week, without appearing on one camera, or raising one alarm, just listening, and sneaking. It wasn’t necessarily legal, but why should you let that stop a good story? I was so close to getting the evidence I needed. The last thing I needed now was a distraction. Yet as my Honda Civic pulled up on one of the side streets near the Station at 8:13AM, the letter was all I could think about.

             10:34PM. Sergeant Worsley is about to leave. He gulps down the last of his coffee, which he has strong with three sugars, it takes about 20 seconds, giving me enough time to sneak out of the Station unnoticed before he locks up. What a disastrous day. Hour upon hour staring at a blank piece of paper. My head was over occupied. ‘SM52HOO. W1984FA, KKLNYYF’TTY LNDGJDGKLSM DYKK’. What could it mean? The latter part I could easily decipher, it was clearly an attempted code to cover up information. Yet as it had been mailed to me, they clearly knew that I could decipher it. The fact that this person had coded the information meant that it was clearly of great importance however. I had to know what it meant.

            The minute I got back, I grabbed the parchment and sprinted up the stairs to my dimly lit room. I smacked the parchment onto my mahogany desk, and grabbed my pen. Within half an hour I had ‘KKLNYYF’TTY LNDGJDGKLSM DYKK’ deciphered in front of me.

‘They’re Hiding It’.

Decoding it was child’s play. Each letter was assigned one or two other letters that represented it. For example, ‘T’ was represented by ‘KK’. Such a succinct sentence, yet it raised so many questions. What were they hiding? And, who were they? The ‘SM52HOO. W1984FA’ just added to the intrigue. They were so much less clear, and thus so much more interesting. Perhaps the blue envelope was a clue? Then again, maybe it meant nothing. I wasn’t to know, however, with so little accomplished at the Police Station, the premise of an early night was unbearable after spending so many nights up late organising my findings. At exactly 11:23PM my body hit the mattress, and after spending an hour or so deliberating over the meaning of ‘They’re Hiding It’, my mind eased, and I drifted into the serenity of unconsciousness.

            Another new day. I followed my routine to the minute once again. The Postman was 1 minute 4 seconds late today. I only knew because I was waiting for him, hoping for a follow up letter. The Postman came and went, and no blue envelope was amongst the letters he delivered. I couldn’t hide my disappointment at this, but I had expected it. Whoever had sent me that letter, had no intention of letting me know their identity, they clearly basked in their own enigma. How I envied them. No time for dallying however. I should have been in my Honda Civic 13 seconds ago.

            Another day passed by with my head struggling to contain anything other than the thoughts of that piece of pale yellow parchment. I could still make out the lingering smell of the decaying paper in my nostrils, following me, mocking me.

“What the f*****g hell do you think you’re doing here?”

Startled my instincts kicked in, I jumped up, and tried sprinting to my nearest escape route, all that greeted me however, was the arm of one Sergeant Worsley.

            “Alright Son, don’t make any sudden movements, wouldn’t want you vomiting on the floor now would we? It’s just gone eleven, which means that Ernie’s only just finished mopping them, but listen to me telling you that, as if you didn’t already know!” I rolled my eyes in the back of my head, trying to adjust to the dim light from Worsely’s desk lamp, poor decision, the rotation of my eyeballs exasperated a headache I’d quite evidently just acquired. Eventually my eyes focussed on the wrinkled, bashful, moustached face of the Sergeant.

“There we are! How are you lad? It’s been a while, hasn’t it? There’s an ice-pack to your right, you know what to do with it,” he said cheerfully, a broad grin stretching his plump cheeks to the side of his chubby face.

“Now then, what to do with you eh?”

“Look, I’m sorry Simon, can we please just look past this, I promise I won’t trespass here again,” I said, trying to convey as much honesty as I could in my voice and eyes,

“Now I think we both know that’s not true hey!” Worsley blabbered before erupting into laughter with the ferocity of a newly active Volcano.

“And if you think that we can just look past trespassing on private property, then you’re not quite as smart as you think you are,” he continued, before settling his glimmering, joyful eyes on mine.

“What do you want?” I asked frankly.

“Now what makes you think that we want anything lad?” Worsley grinned,

“You’re being even friendlier than normal, it’s insufferable. I think everyone gets a kick out of your ‘don’t see what’s going on behind your back’, gleeful persona, but I think that we both know it’s bullshit. Now, you just apprehended someone who was trespassing in a Police Station, and all you’ve done is bring me into your office, give me an ice pack and make a Coffee. I know your game Worsley. And the answer is no. Throw me in the slammer again. I don’t care how many times you do it, I haven’t committed any major infringements, so I’ll just be back being a pain in your arse again the next time I’m released. Basically, Mr. Worsley, and with all due respect, go f**k yourself.” I snapped back. Sergeant Worsley’s grin grew even wider until it looked like he might squeeze the fat out through the pores in his cheeks.

“You always were a little s**t Wragby. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t work together. You scratch my back; I’ll scratch yours and all that. What do you say?” He enquired. I paused for a minute. I always loved doing this for dramatic effect. It gave my response so much more weight.

“…Go f**k yourself.” Worsley’s face beamed even wider, the light reflecting off the grease that clung to his face.

“Look Wragby, I’m gonna lay down my proposition, and I’m pretty sure you’re going to listen to it, and you’re going to agree to it, and if not, then I’ll drag your smug arse to the cells myself.” He stared intently at me, his gaze unwavering,

“Now, you ain’t quite as smooth as you think you are. We’ve had you on that security camera every day for the last week; did you really think we wouldn’t notice? Now you’re good, I’ll give you that, you avoided everyone I sent to find you, but in the end you walked straight into me, and while you were having a nice little nap, I had a good read through your notepad. Seems like someone thinks he’s stumbled across a little conspiracy here, you have a hell of an imagination, but I’m here to save you some time. This little investigation you’ve got going on, not only is it highly illegal, but it’s a complete waste of both of our time. There’s nothing wrong with our Police force, so here’s my offer to you. You stop this stupidity, and end your investigation, and I’ll let you walk out of here right now, no strings attached. Sound good to you?”

Another perfect opportunity to take advantage of a long pause before delivering my rejection. Divine. All of a sudden something caught the corner of my eye however. A blue envelope. Splendidly blue in fact. It was a Police envelope. Had someone from the Police posted that letter? It was all too tantalising. My mahogany desk was screaming for me. I had to get home and think.

“I tell you what Worsley, just this once… fine. You let me go, and you can consider this investigation over.”

“That’s more like it Wragby,” said Worsley, the grin quickly disappearing from his face as he grabbed my ice pack and turned to pour his coffee down the sink, providing me with the opportunity to slip the blue envelope on his desk into my coat pocket. Worsley turned back to me, and lifted me onto my feet from under my arm,

“Now, get the f**k out, and don’t come back here uninvited again,” he said aggressively, his face pressed up against mine so I could smell the foul aromas of his dinner through his open mouth.

I couldn’t leave quickly enough. I made it to my Honda Civic in record time, and speeded back home, without a care for the fact that I had just evaded a prison sentence by 8 inches of blue paper. I made it to my flat in about 5 minutes, before running up the stairs and slapping the envelope from my pocket onto the desk. I grabbed my own envelope to compare. Exactly the same colour. It was then that I noticed the writing on the blue envelope I’d just ‘acquired’.

‘Hide the evidence at Whitworth, 1984, Ferguson’s Avenue’. It clicked. ‘W1984FA’. It was an address. An address I found in Worsley’s office. Coincidence? Doubtful. But what was this address?

The joys of the Internet, a quick Google search gave me the directions to the location, as well as a quick look at the exterior. The most interesting thing I found however? A Murder.

            ‘Tracey Anderson was found dead in her home at 1984 Ferguson’s Avenue in Whitworth at about 11:17 on Friday morning by a law enforcement officer…’ Tragic. A murder, and I hadn’t even been assigned to investigate it by the Herald. Clearly a huge oversight on their behalf. Now, however it had led into my investigation. I guess the Herald might get a decent story about that murder after all. I ran down the stairs at such pace that I stumbled over the last two steps, got into my car, and set forth.

            Within about 20 minutes I was there. What greeted me was a gravel parkway leading to a dank, tiny, detached house, standing alone in the middle of a dark field, that went as far as the blackness would allow it. But someone had beaten me. The house was definitely vacant, Tracey Anderson had been the sole occupant, and the House was still being investigated, nobody should be there. Yet the driveway was full. A white Ford Anglia sat in the parkway, and as my car crunched along the gravel, I got a better view of the beige leather on the seats inside. I got out and shut the door, before jogging up the stone steps to the decayed red door. It was slightly ajar. Slowly, I entered.

            “Hello? Who’s here?” I asked,

 “Whoever’s here, this is the Police, and I am armed,” I said in the most intimidating fashion I could manage as I entered the living room. All of a sudden I heard footsteps behind me. They got closer. The door opened.

“That’s a bit strange isn’t it, given as the Police are already here.”

In walked Sergeant Worsley.

“You had to snoop didn’t you, you little s**t!” He growled.

Quickly I grabbed for my phone and took a picture. Finally I had evidence of the treachery of the man, and Worsley knew it, within a fraction of a second his body language changed entirely. He seemed a lot more timid all of a sudden.

“What are you doing with that picture eh?” he asked, trying to mask his obvious concern,

“I was about to post it to Facebook, how would you like that eh? If I posted a picture of the Police Sergeant in the house of a recently murdered woman, with no good reason to be there at one in the morning?” I said sinisterly, taking my time to enjoy each word I uttered,

“You have no proof that I’m at this house! All you have is a picture of me in a house, that picture is useless!” He retorted gleefully,

“The best thing about Facebook Sergeant, is that it’ll tell people the location from which I uploaded the picture, which right now leaves you in a bit of a predicament,” I grinned.

“Why are you here?” asked Worsley seriously. I grabbed the blue envelope from my pocket and held it up.

“I found this in your office. You know a couple of days earlier, I found one of these blue envelopes posted through my door, d’you know what it said Sarge? It said, ‘They’re Hiding It’, as well as an acronym of this address. Seems like someone in your ranks wasn’t too happy with you’re corruption Sarge.” Worsley exhaled deeply and lowered his head.

“You don’t get it do you Wragby?” he exclaimed.

“Get what?”

“I sent that letter Liam… it was me.”

“What? You’re lying!” I retorted angrily, surely he wouldn’t have, surely?

“It’s true… we saw you on the security cameras snooping around the station, I was pretty sure you were trying to investigate the force, I wanted to distract you, looks like I did a hell of a job” Worsley sighed.

“Now really, do you think a picture of a Police Chief in a House of a victim who’s death his team are investigating is enough to bring me down? Codswallop! If you think that you’re a fool. I’m just doing my bloody job, though it’s so much easier when you’re not snooping around! This whole thing was a tactic to get you out of our hair for a while, but keep you out of prison.”

“If you want me out of your hair, why didn’t you just put me in prison?” I asked, my whole world collapsing around me at the sudden turn of events, was I wrong? If so how could I be so wrong?

“This town still needs you Liam. You’ve got a hell of a mind, and you could be so useful to someone one day, if you’re in prison, all your mind does is elevate those around you. Look Liam, it’s over; delete the picture, its pointless. Come on,” he said as he stretched his arm out towards my phone. Without hesitation I posted the picture. Worsley was enflamed.

“You idiot! Now you’re just wasting both of our time! Now get out!”

“If that picture doesn’t mean anything, why are you so mad?” I asked, intrigued by his extreme reaction,

“My reaction doesn’t mean anything, you’re just getting on my nerves! I’m in the middle of an investigation here, now, get the f**k out!” He screamed as he pushed me out the building and into the night.

            As I trudged back to the car I couldn’t help but think, was he lying? Of course he was lying, it was Worsley. But… what if he wasn’t? Did he send that letter? If so, what about the bit still encoded? What about SM52HOO? I got in the car, and started the ignition. I reversed out of the parkway, my headlights shining off the license plate of Worsley’s white Ford Anglia. Something about the license plate caught my attention. I studied it closely. ‘SM52 HOO’. Worsley’s license plate… The license plate on his White, 1984 Ford Anglia… ‘W1984FA’…

            “Well, what did you do next” came Lloyd’s voice. I looked up to see him peering over his clipboard.

“What?” I said, astonished at the interruption.

“What did you do next?” He enquired again, moving forward as he did so,

“How could I resist?” I responded,

“Resist what exactly?” I waited a moment for dramatic effect. How I loved to do that.

“Investigating.”

 

Author's Note

I did this as part of a Uni brief, and have had some really positive feedback about it, I do however like frank, honest opinions to help me improve, for example, for this particular story, my tutor told me he loved the story but didn't like the ending. Although then again why am I telling you how to review a story? You've definitely got a better idea than I do! Please be as open and honest as you want, but also try to keep in mind, I write mainly as a hobby, and haven't been educated in any way about creative writing, so some of your criticisms may need an explanation to help little old me improve further, thanks!