James Grace
New Member
Hi
I would welcome any feedback on my first adult crime novel. Thank you very much!
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Chapter One
4.11pm Friday
I sat in the car with the weighty door pushed open to its limit, my legs dangling, the last few draws of a cigarette burning away in my hand.
My week so far had been a frantic hop around the country, meeting with clients, reviewing budgets, analysing drawings and agreeing contractors. I was now back home, perched on the opulent seat of my own car, faced with a panoramic view of my own land, weighed down by my very own sorry problems and an ever-growing feeling of concern.
The sales guy told me that the leather on the doors and seats came only from cows that originated in countries that refrained from the use of barbed wire. He could have been lying, but I’ve already used this gold nugget of bragging on more than one occasion, so true it has become. The car was beautiful, but it couldn’t help me solve my issues.
The jitters still danced from my short hop flight; Heathrow to London in less than an hour. As flying takes up a reasonable part of my working week, you think I’d have become used to it, even blasé, but unfortunately every flight I took scared the shit out of me like nothing but a fucking lion could.
I’d sit there, near the front if I could, with milk coloured fingers digging into the armrests whilst the rest of my body shook like a shitting dog, as I believe the saying goes. All that taken into account though, there’s still nothing like the southern approach to my home city. It meant I was coming home.
Safely delivered by British Airways finest, I wasn’t just back in Newcastle, I was back at the site of my new dwelling. Well, I was sat on a building site waiting for a bank manager who might, just might, help me finish the job.
As I flicked the still smouldering cigarette butt towards one of my many piles of rust coloured, reclaimed bricks, I saw the charcoal S-Type Jag break free from the tree line, slowly round the bend and begin the laboured climb up the muddy bank towards me. The grey of the sky and the wet underfoot made the scene look darkly ominous; dirty and hopeless.
I jumped down from the Rover, tightened the Windsor of my tie, brushed down the cut of my suit and slammed the door shut. I tried elevating the bottom of my pants by holding the knees up as I walked; a vain attempt to maintain the aesthetics of my Jermyn Street tailoring. Quickly realising I must look like a tit, I put an end to the practice and all but welcomed the mud onto my hand stitched three piece.
Forty something, but with the rotor skills of a man twice his age, the guy got out of the car at his own pace.
Was that good or bad sign, I wondered?
He retrieved his brief case from the backseat and his umbrella from the boot, stroked back his dark, thinning hair and patted at his jacket pockets for assurance. All of this he did before even making eye contact. And why the **** did he want his umbrella anyway when it wasn’t even raining? Unless of course it was to simply look the part. The city gent, that sort of shit.
“Mr. Clayton,” I smiled, trying my best to emit confidence and need in the same grin, but ending up looking like a less intelligent but slightly scarier version of Nicholson in Batman. “Thanks for coming all the way out here, I really do appreciate your effort. It’s not every loans manager that would go to such lengths.”
“Not a problem at all, Mr. Kane, our bank likes getting out in the field, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
I laughed out loud, but I knew I’d over-egged it. There’s a fine line between accommodating poor patter and insulting the guy with a forced laugh. Just calm down John, cool your fucking jets. Just tell the guy what it is you need cos’ laughing at his jokes isn’t going to make the slightest bit of difference.
With a steely tone, I began my pitch. “As I mentioned over the phone, the project has hit some extra costs caused by unforeseen circumstances such as weather and drainage. In addition, the current cost of steel has added somewhat to the structural framework. What I need is to…”
The blank look was the first unpromising sign. “Mr. Kane, sorry to interrupt, but let me make some things clear. I agreed to meet with you today, at your fifth request I should add, but I must reiterate what I informed you of over the phone - the bank can’t and won’t support a loan extension of the figure you’ve requested. I don’t wish to sound condescending, but you are, first and foremost, an architect. Surely you can’t attribute an extra requirement of three hundred thousand pounds or so to a bit of rain and steel prices.”
****. And I’d hoped the guy would see my muddy field, smell the grass, inhale the view, fall in love with the vision of it all and write me a cheque there and then.
It seemed it was time to rescue this conversation with some cold hard facts. “Admittedly,” I began, “I may have overlooked some costs, but surely the estimated value of the build once complete should allow me some flexibility. There’s more than enough equity in the build, you know that as well as I do!”
The blank look again, eyes on me but not with me. “Mr. Kane, you were granted a bridging loan by our bank in order for you to have access to capital against a set budget. This loan was in part calculated on the estimated equity of the completed build. The fact that the plans haven’t changed, but the costs have, means that the estimated equity is now reduced in the banks eyes. In the most basic of terms, you’re not delivering any more value because of these greater costs you’ve made us aware of. Unless you have a significant increase in salary that would allow the bank to review its lending parameters, I do not see any feasible way that the bank may increase the bridge by any amount whatsoever. You must also understand that equity only has meaning at the point of sale, and I don’t believe you are planning to sell when the building is complete. Am I wrong?”
I chose not to play his game. “So you’re saying you can’t do anything for me,” I said as I looked away. Perhaps if I didn’t see the heedless look in his eyes then I could take a little more hope from his words.
“Well, beyond the large amount of funds that the bank has already extended to you, no, we can’t do anything for you. I must also add that the bank now has some concerns over the re-payment of the loan amount in the event of these spiralling costs. We would like to see a swift and satisfactory resolution to this situation or we may have to ask for the assets as they stand to be realised. I’ve already requested that the remaining advances be held until these issues have been satisfactorily resolved.”
My heart began to drum against the inside of my rib cage, I could even feel it beating in my throat. Warm, salt water swam around my mouth as I fought tooth and nail against the urge could to throw up.
Convince him John. Show him your brilliance. Get the plans out again. ****, show him a picture of the wife and kids. Anything. Don’t just fucking stand there.
“I’ll see what I can do,” were my only words, shallow in their commitment, hollow in their meaning. A placebo of a response that was more for me than him.
We shook hands and he headed off back down the hill with my hopes and dreams in tow, dragging through the mud and shit behind his Jag. I just couldn’t believe what was happening. A meeting that was supposed to help me get out of a hole had just dug me even deeper. Basically, the bank wouldn’t lend me the money, so if I didn’t get it, they would demand the money back that they’d already loaned me. On top of that, they wouldn’t let me finish the build until I’d proven to them I could cut the budget or find the extra without putting their repayment in danger. Shit. The bank was demanding the chicken while I was asking them for the egg.
The whole dream for my family and me was hanging by a very thin, getting weaker by the day, entirely piss poor, thread.
It’s a bit like that feeling you get when you know a girlfriend wants to end it, but you don’t. That absolute nausea that consumes you. Knowing that no matter what you do or say, no matter how many lies or promises you make, the path that sits before you is set in concrete. There is no way to alter your future. You just have to wait for the inevitable, like being tied to a railway track in an old Harold Lloyd flick. No matter how much you kicked, screamed or tried to free yourself from the shit, you just had to accept your fait.
The big difference was of course that I had no obvious rescuer to yank me from the tracks in the nick of time. A mono Lloyd was not about to write me a cheque for over quarter of a million, cutting my ropes and heroically dragging my body from the path of the oncoming steam engine, lying me across the backseat of his S-Type and telling me everything would be fine. No, I was supposed to be the hero in this movie. My wife and kids depended on me and I was on the verge of fucking up our lives for the foreseeable future and beyond.
Rather than choosing to sit in a quiet room with a pen and a calculator, contemplating the options open to me, I knew there was only one thing that could help my immediate problem. I really needed a smoke.
I would welcome any feedback on my first adult crime novel. Thank you very much!
***************************************************
Chapter One
4.11pm Friday
I sat in the car with the weighty door pushed open to its limit, my legs dangling, the last few draws of a cigarette burning away in my hand.
My week so far had been a frantic hop around the country, meeting with clients, reviewing budgets, analysing drawings and agreeing contractors. I was now back home, perched on the opulent seat of my own car, faced with a panoramic view of my own land, weighed down by my very own sorry problems and an ever-growing feeling of concern.
The sales guy told me that the leather on the doors and seats came only from cows that originated in countries that refrained from the use of barbed wire. He could have been lying, but I’ve already used this gold nugget of bragging on more than one occasion, so true it has become. The car was beautiful, but it couldn’t help me solve my issues.
The jitters still danced from my short hop flight; Heathrow to London in less than an hour. As flying takes up a reasonable part of my working week, you think I’d have become used to it, even blasé, but unfortunately every flight I took scared the shit out of me like nothing but a fucking lion could.
I’d sit there, near the front if I could, with milk coloured fingers digging into the armrests whilst the rest of my body shook like a shitting dog, as I believe the saying goes. All that taken into account though, there’s still nothing like the southern approach to my home city. It meant I was coming home.
Safely delivered by British Airways finest, I wasn’t just back in Newcastle, I was back at the site of my new dwelling. Well, I was sat on a building site waiting for a bank manager who might, just might, help me finish the job.
As I flicked the still smouldering cigarette butt towards one of my many piles of rust coloured, reclaimed bricks, I saw the charcoal S-Type Jag break free from the tree line, slowly round the bend and begin the laboured climb up the muddy bank towards me. The grey of the sky and the wet underfoot made the scene look darkly ominous; dirty and hopeless.
I jumped down from the Rover, tightened the Windsor of my tie, brushed down the cut of my suit and slammed the door shut. I tried elevating the bottom of my pants by holding the knees up as I walked; a vain attempt to maintain the aesthetics of my Jermyn Street tailoring. Quickly realising I must look like a tit, I put an end to the practice and all but welcomed the mud onto my hand stitched three piece.
Forty something, but with the rotor skills of a man twice his age, the guy got out of the car at his own pace.
Was that good or bad sign, I wondered?
He retrieved his brief case from the backseat and his umbrella from the boot, stroked back his dark, thinning hair and patted at his jacket pockets for assurance. All of this he did before even making eye contact. And why the **** did he want his umbrella anyway when it wasn’t even raining? Unless of course it was to simply look the part. The city gent, that sort of shit.
“Mr. Clayton,” I smiled, trying my best to emit confidence and need in the same grin, but ending up looking like a less intelligent but slightly scarier version of Nicholson in Batman. “Thanks for coming all the way out here, I really do appreciate your effort. It’s not every loans manager that would go to such lengths.”
“Not a problem at all, Mr. Kane, our bank likes getting out in the field, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
I laughed out loud, but I knew I’d over-egged it. There’s a fine line between accommodating poor patter and insulting the guy with a forced laugh. Just calm down John, cool your fucking jets. Just tell the guy what it is you need cos’ laughing at his jokes isn’t going to make the slightest bit of difference.
With a steely tone, I began my pitch. “As I mentioned over the phone, the project has hit some extra costs caused by unforeseen circumstances such as weather and drainage. In addition, the current cost of steel has added somewhat to the structural framework. What I need is to…”
The blank look was the first unpromising sign. “Mr. Kane, sorry to interrupt, but let me make some things clear. I agreed to meet with you today, at your fifth request I should add, but I must reiterate what I informed you of over the phone - the bank can’t and won’t support a loan extension of the figure you’ve requested. I don’t wish to sound condescending, but you are, first and foremost, an architect. Surely you can’t attribute an extra requirement of three hundred thousand pounds or so to a bit of rain and steel prices.”
****. And I’d hoped the guy would see my muddy field, smell the grass, inhale the view, fall in love with the vision of it all and write me a cheque there and then.
It seemed it was time to rescue this conversation with some cold hard facts. “Admittedly,” I began, “I may have overlooked some costs, but surely the estimated value of the build once complete should allow me some flexibility. There’s more than enough equity in the build, you know that as well as I do!”
The blank look again, eyes on me but not with me. “Mr. Kane, you were granted a bridging loan by our bank in order for you to have access to capital against a set budget. This loan was in part calculated on the estimated equity of the completed build. The fact that the plans haven’t changed, but the costs have, means that the estimated equity is now reduced in the banks eyes. In the most basic of terms, you’re not delivering any more value because of these greater costs you’ve made us aware of. Unless you have a significant increase in salary that would allow the bank to review its lending parameters, I do not see any feasible way that the bank may increase the bridge by any amount whatsoever. You must also understand that equity only has meaning at the point of sale, and I don’t believe you are planning to sell when the building is complete. Am I wrong?”
I chose not to play his game. “So you’re saying you can’t do anything for me,” I said as I looked away. Perhaps if I didn’t see the heedless look in his eyes then I could take a little more hope from his words.
“Well, beyond the large amount of funds that the bank has already extended to you, no, we can’t do anything for you. I must also add that the bank now has some concerns over the re-payment of the loan amount in the event of these spiralling costs. We would like to see a swift and satisfactory resolution to this situation or we may have to ask for the assets as they stand to be realised. I’ve already requested that the remaining advances be held until these issues have been satisfactorily resolved.”
My heart began to drum against the inside of my rib cage, I could even feel it beating in my throat. Warm, salt water swam around my mouth as I fought tooth and nail against the urge could to throw up.
Convince him John. Show him your brilliance. Get the plans out again. ****, show him a picture of the wife and kids. Anything. Don’t just fucking stand there.
“I’ll see what I can do,” were my only words, shallow in their commitment, hollow in their meaning. A placebo of a response that was more for me than him.
We shook hands and he headed off back down the hill with my hopes and dreams in tow, dragging through the mud and shit behind his Jag. I just couldn’t believe what was happening. A meeting that was supposed to help me get out of a hole had just dug me even deeper. Basically, the bank wouldn’t lend me the money, so if I didn’t get it, they would demand the money back that they’d already loaned me. On top of that, they wouldn’t let me finish the build until I’d proven to them I could cut the budget or find the extra without putting their repayment in danger. Shit. The bank was demanding the chicken while I was asking them for the egg.
The whole dream for my family and me was hanging by a very thin, getting weaker by the day, entirely piss poor, thread.
It’s a bit like that feeling you get when you know a girlfriend wants to end it, but you don’t. That absolute nausea that consumes you. Knowing that no matter what you do or say, no matter how many lies or promises you make, the path that sits before you is set in concrete. There is no way to alter your future. You just have to wait for the inevitable, like being tied to a railway track in an old Harold Lloyd flick. No matter how much you kicked, screamed or tried to free yourself from the shit, you just had to accept your fait.
The big difference was of course that I had no obvious rescuer to yank me from the tracks in the nick of time. A mono Lloyd was not about to write me a cheque for over quarter of a million, cutting my ropes and heroically dragging my body from the path of the oncoming steam engine, lying me across the backseat of his S-Type and telling me everything would be fine. No, I was supposed to be the hero in this movie. My wife and kids depended on me and I was on the verge of fucking up our lives for the foreseeable future and beyond.
Rather than choosing to sit in a quiet room with a pen and a calculator, contemplating the options open to me, I knew there was only one thing that could help my immediate problem. I really needed a smoke.
