Composition

Significance

“Let’s move this along, I’m already late,” said Dan irritably.

“Really?” said Ben, looking up from his notes.

“No,” said Dan.  “But I assume you’ll be leaving soon.”

“I’m in for the evening,” Ben said.  

“You’re not at home,” said Dan.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ben said, turning back to his work.  

His half of the table was covered in college-ruled loose leaf sheets of paper.  Some had started to creep towards Dan, and Ben had twice stooped to pick a few scrabblers off the floor.

“So I see,” said Dan.  “What is all that?  It looks like a paper.”

“It is a paper,” said Ben.

“Since when do you write long hand?” Dan asked.  The pages were all covered with neatly-printed handwriting in blue ink.

Ben glanced at his friend but didn’t reply.

“So whose is it?” asked Dan.

“Someone very lucky,” said Ben.

“How so?” asked Dan.

In answer, Ben searched for a moment, picked up a page near the bottom left corner of the heap, and handed it to Dan.  Dan accepted it in his free hand while holding and drinking from his glass of beer with the other.  His eyebrows shot up as he read the page over.

“They’re doing an essay on--” Dan finished the sentence with the name of a popular motion picture that had been released the previous year.

“Give the man a medal,” said Ben.  “You can read after all.”

“It got too hard to keep faking,” said Dan.  “How come we didn’t get to write papers like this when we were in school?”

“We are still in school,” said Ben.

“Only by proxy,” said Dan.

Ben shrugged.  “Professors are cooler now?”

Dan looked skeptical.  “We had great professors, they probably would have been okay with an essay like this, if we could give a good reason for it.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what this person did,” said Ben.

“So how come we didn’t write anything like this?” asked Dan.

Ben shrugged again.  “No guts,” he said.

“No inspiration,” said Dan musingly.

“It also helps,” said Ben, “that the movie only just came out recently.”

“There is that,” said Dan.  “But we had good movies when we were in school.”

“True,” said Ben.  “But I feel like they were less important.”

“Maybe,” said Dan.

Ben continued to pour over the large mat of sheets.  Without looking up he removed another from a folder in his lap and lay it in an empty place on the table.

“Why do we need to look at all the pages at once?” asked Dan.

“I’m trying to sort out an overall structure,” said Ben thoughtfully.

“Is this the only copy?” said Dan, putting his nearly empty beer glass down on one of the pages that had crossed to his side.

“No,” said Ben, snatching the page free and almost tipping the glass over before Dan caught it.  “I ran a copy off this afternoon for safety.  But this is the original.”

“So what do they want you to do with it?” asked Dan.

“For starters,” said Ben dryly, not looking up, “they wanted me to help them nail their overall structure.”

“Hm,” said Dan.  He wished he had something he could be busy with.  Instead he got up, came back with two beers, but kept both on his side of the table.  Ben didn’t seem to notice.

“They’ve got some solid insights,” Ben said.  “But they could be a lot clearer with what they’re saying.  Their points just don’t quite add up to what they’re trying to argue yet.”

“What are they trying to argue?” said Dan.

“That western civilization,” said Ben lightly, “is collapsing.”

Dan nodded thoughtfully.  “What?” he said a moment later.

“They’re arguing that this movie is a sign,” said Ben, “that society as we know it is heading down the drain.”

“I liked that movie,” said Dan.

“So did I,” said Ben.  “And they’re not saying it was a bad movie.  They’re not even saying that it’s a movie that could only be made while society is collapsing, they sort of go through a lot of extra effort to point that part out.”  He halted, and turned one of the uppermost pages on his grid over.  “I think maybe they should cut that, actually.”

“So how is it causing the collapse of civilization then?” said Dan.

“It’s not causing the collapse,” said Ben.  “It’s just a sign that the collapse is underway.”

“Tomato tomato,” said Dan, pronouncing it differently one of the times it was said (that line doesn’t actually work in print).

“The argument,” said Ben, “is that in a society that wasn’t undergoing a collapse, the movie wouldn’t be anywhere near as popular a success as it was.”

“Thriving societies don’t like good movies?” said Dan.

“It has something to do with tragedies, actually,” said Ben.  “They’re a little muddled, I’m trying to reason it out.”

“I thought it was funny,” said Dan.

“Not the movie,” said Ben.  “Tragedies in general.  When was the last time you saw a good tragedy?”

Dan thought.  “Made recently?” he said.

“Yeah,” said Ben.

Dan thought some more.  “Does it have to be popular?” said Dan.

“This is my point,” he said.

“Their point,” said Dan.

“Their point,” agreed Ben.

They both thought about it.  Ben rose and returned with a beer.  He put it on Dan’s side of the table, and it was pushed back.  They thought some more.

“The closest thing I can remember to a popular tragedy,” said Dan after a while, “is that comic book movie from a few years back, the one where you thought he was going to save the people, but they actually mostly died.”

“You mean the one with the hero they deserved--” said Ben.

“Yes, yes, yes,” said Dan.  “It wasn’t a completely happy ending.”

“Unless you were rooting for the bad guy,” said Ben.  “I feel like with that one you were supposed to be rooting for the bad guy.  He got all the best lines.”

Dan shrugged.  “Then I’ve got nothing.  Why is tragedy important?”

“The short version seems to be,” said Ben, “that a people who can’t handle sad endings can’t take life seriously.”

Dan shook his head violently as if under attack.

“You disagree,” said Ben.

“It doesn’t follow at all,” said Dan.

“How so?” said Ben mildly.

“First of all,” said Dan, “who are they comparing us to with all this tragedy, the ancient Greeks?”

“It’s not as clearly argued as I’d like,” said Ben.  “But it starts with them, they also mention Shakespeare and opera in a sort of general way.”

“The short version,” said Dan, “is that we go to movies for completely different reasons than the Greeks went to theater.”

“How so?” said Ben.

“I go to the movie to escape from life for a while,” said Dan.  “Not to get an emotional release and feel cleansed, or whatever.”

Ben shrugged again.  “They might argue that that’s another one of the symptoms,” he said.

“Do they argue that?” said Dan.

“Not really,” said Ben.

“Ha,” said Dan.  “They’re two different things, American movies and ancient Greek theater.  Apples and oranges.”

“But you’ve got to admit,” said Ben, “it seems a little one-sided nowadays, compared to how it used to be.”

“What seems a little one-sided?” said Dan.

“The way stories end,” said Ben.  “They all have happy endings.”

“Not a fan of independent films I see,” said Dan.  “Two out of three of those things will just wreck you for no reason.”

“The stories that everyone knows and likes, then,” said Ben.

“How do we know that Shakespeare wasn’t an independent filmmaker?” said Dan.

“Apart from the invention of the camera being several hundred--” said Ben.

“You know what I mean,” said Dan.  “Who says his stuff was wildly popular in its day?”

“Literary historians,” said Ben.

“What do they know?” said Dan.  “Happy endings are more popular.  They make you feel happy, and people listen to stories to feel happy.”

“Mostly,” said Ben agreeably.  “Moreso now than before I’d say.”

“They’d say,” said Dan, nodding to the papers.

“They’d say,” agreed Ben.

They thought some more.  Dan finished one glass and started the other.  At last Ben took out a red pen and began making notes.

“Got an idea?” said Dan.

“I think so,” said Ben, circling and noting a paragraph and then searching through the sheets for another page and circling a paragraph on it.

“I was thinking the other day,” said Dan.  “Being a university student might be the best paid job there is.”

“You wanna run the math on that one by me,” said Ben.  “When I went to school they made me pay to go.”

“As they do now,” said Dan.  “But think about it: what is value?”

Ben looked up at his friend with a weary expression.

“Value,” said Dan, feeling that he should keep moving forward, “is whatever you find to be useful.  The more use you can get out of a thing, the more valuable it is to you.”

Ben considered this.  “Probably not without exceptions,” he said, “but I can see what you mean.  This can opener was a bargain, still works great after ten years, the list goes on.”

“Right,” said Dan.  “Or that computer’s overpriced, it can do exactly what this other one does at half the price, and so forth.”

“So the information is valuable?” said Ben.

“Exactly,” said Dan.  “You pay your money, sure, but you get so much in return.”

“What’s that?” said Ben.

“The socially acceptable position of student,” said Dan.  “The only time in your life when your time is one hundred percent your own, and no one judges you for how you use it.”

“No one judges me,” said Ben.  “Or I don’t notice.”

“You know what I mean,” said Dan.  “Things are never as good once you’re done being a student.  You pay money to go, sure, but the main thing is the time, and you’re free to spend that wisely or not.  You get to find your own way.”

“You can get useful information,” said Ben.

“And experiences,” said Dan.

“And experiences,” said Ben, “or not, if you like.”

“It’s like you get to pay a cover charge,” said Dan, “to go in the big room where there’s all this money on the floor.  And you get to keep whatever you can pick up.”

“So the trick is to pick up more than you pay to get in,” said Ben.

“That’s a very un-Ben thing for you to say,” said Dan.

“What should I have said,” said Ben.

“You should have said,” said Dan, “that the trick is not to mind the cover charge, and pick up the money that’s most valuable to you, somehow.”

“I would never say that,” said Ben.  He made a final note and started packing up his papers.

“I was waiting for you to mention that book we were talking about,” said Dan.  “Did you finish it yet?”

“Which book?” said Ben.

“The one you said you didn’t like,” said Dan, “but wouldn’t quit reading.”

“Oh that book,” said Ben.  “Still working on that one.”

“Really working on it?” said Dan.  “Or sick of hearing about it?”

“Really working on it,” said Ben.  “I was reading it last night, I’ve got about one-sixth still to go.  It’s getting interesting, such as it is.”

Dan made the face of someone surprised and pleased, but not completely without a sense of derision.

“I’ll let you know what I think when I’m finished,” said Ben.

“Please do,” said Dan.

“I still don’t like it,” said Ben.

“Of course not,” said Dan.  He picked up his books and made ready to leave.

“What are you working on?” asked Ben.

“Nothing at the moment,” said Dan.  “I spent the day in the university library.”

“You can’t check anything out without being a student,” said Ben.

“You don’t need to check anything out,” said Dan, “when you stay there all day.”

“Don’t you have bills to pay?” said Ben, shouldering his bag and rising.

“I’m ahead,” said Dan as they walked towards the door.  “Two jobs last week.”

“Not putting it in savings or anything,” said Ben.

“Gather ye rosebuds,” said Dan.

On Starting Trouble

Photo by Michael Hirsch
courtesy of unsplash.com

We’re talking about trouble.  We’ve talked about what trouble is,  how important it is to a story, and in brief review what kinds of trouble characters can typically get into.

What remains to be seen is what the best ways of getting trouble into a story, of how to tie it to characters, how to ground it in the reality of the storytelling.  In short, how to start it.

So far as I know, there are only a few key rules for how trouble has to exist in a story.

First and foremost, if the trouble doesn’t effect the characters, there is no reason to talk about it.

Consider this carefully: what is trouble, if it doesn’t directly effect either we ourselves or someone we’re interested in?  The party experiencing it is what makes it relevant to us.

So once again we have the same question: what is trouble?  How do we put our characters into trouble so that they have to work their way back out again?

The most obvious solution is to put their lives in danger.  In fact, the simplest thing to do is to put the whole world and everyone in it in danger, and then make the characters figure out a way to solve it.  That’s sort of the simplest possible trouble a character can be in: either they personally and/or the world totally will be destroyed if they can’t fix this problem quickly.

But what about that makes the story interesting?

The easiest answer is that most people don’t want the world to end, in fact we’ve mostly got plans that are based on the world continuing its big spin for some time to come.

And so we arrive at a simple axiom for understanding how to get characters in trouble:

All trouble is an obstruction to some character’s preexisting goal, whether they know they had that goal or not.

Example.  You don’t have a stated goal not to lose a leg in a jaguar attack today.  But if you’re attacked by a jaguar, and if you’re pinned to the ground and being bitten on the leg, really hard, it will probably occur to you clarity and force that you really had this goal of keeping your leg all along.

So, the goal that gets obstructed is where the rubber touches the road.  

And the reason that character had that goal in the first place is what makes the story relevant to us in the first place.

So it’s simple: Storyteller, know thy characters.

If you want a good story that has an interesting problem being worked on for realistic reasons in a way that will get you a sympathetic audience, you need three things.

1. A character’s goal

2. An obstruction to that goal

3. A reason they will fight to accomplish it anyway.

And that’s it, that’s how to start a story.

What does your character do for a living?  What do they want to do?  Are they married or single?  Do they want to be married or single?  Do they have kids?  Do they want kids?  What are their interests?  What are their fears?  What do they think of their neighbors and why?  Somewhere in all this you’ll find what makes them tick, and usually the possibilities for causing them trouble won’t be far behind.

Next, the rule about how to bring the trouble itself into your narrative, that is the course of the story.

At an earlier point in these wanderings, I noted that typically trouble in stories is like trouble in life, in that we generally notice the effects of the trouble (a patch of wet carpet, missing fishing boats, a band of soldiers turning up to lock us away, and so forth) before we become aware of or figure out the cause of the trouble itself (a leaky roof, a giant mutant lizard, our fiance’s jealous lover has conspired to frame us for conspiracy to commit treason to the crown, and so forth).

I’d like to amplify this remark here by adding that whenever possible, to engage the interest of the audience, a storyteller should try to get these effects of the trouble into the story as early as possible, perhaps into the first paragraph if not in the first sentence.  Usually a good story will, but doesn’t need to, have some dark hint as to what’s to come this early.  

If something else that’s interesting enough to snag the reader’s attention suggests itself instead of the problem the characters will have to face by all means use that instead, but if you’re struggling with how to get the story started, ask yourself what the trouble is and come up with the first time the character noticed some part of it.

Of course, indirect references can always be stacked on top of each other; the trouble may be that a dragon will attack the castle, but the first thing our hero notices is the bootprints outside of his house of the thief who will compel him to go out of his usual course,  where he will hear of the trouble and start on the road to adventure and so forth.  This subject is a little lame since there are no surprising details, and because the two things don’t really have anything to do with each other.  But hopefully the point makes sense, that characters, places, words, strange objects, whatever you find to stand as a symbol for what’s to come, putting that at the front, so long as it’s surprising or in some way interesting to the audience, is a great way to start things off, too.

And of course all this will have a profound impact on and draw a great deal of information from the setting as well as the character.

Which is why the framing of trouble, character, and setting is sort of a three-body problem in and of itself, but that will hopefully become clearer (or not) when we get to those two parts of starting stories next.

Of course, all this “start with the main trouble at once” is moot if you want to have a prologue, as many good stories do, because prologues usually best work as ways to introduce the characters, their setting, how they usually cope with trouble (at least at the start of the story before they’ve been through anything), and what the general feel for the story will be.  But that’s also for a later article.

Finally some quick notes on how trouble will play out as your story goes on.

I’ve already said twice that trouble starts vague and gets more clear as the story goes on.  I don’t insist on it, but usually people take time to fully understand things, and I find that far more often than not the process of sorting out what the real trouble is and how to fix it is a large part of the character’s journey.  The other part is how they solve it.

A lot of good stories I’ve read have had red herrings of one sort or another; the character either thinks they’ve figured out what the problem is, when they really haven’t, or they think they’ve got the solution in their grasp, and they don’t.  Many stories emphasize in one way or another the first of these points in describing the course of events, and nearly all, in one way or another, emphasize the second.

Keep in mind that so long as you want your story to go on, the problem has to remain unsolved, in order for there to be an emotional reason for the audience to keep listening/reading/watching.  I have nothing against epilogues, such as they are, but I think wherever they have nothing to do with tying up some side-effect or aftershock of the main struggle, the audience views them as irrelevant information, and I tend to agree.  No matter how much we like characters and settings, once the problem is solved, there’s no real reason to keep reading.

So choose your trouble carefully, go with your gut.  What would mean a great deal to you?  What would you fight for?  What wouldn’t you think is worth it?  Above all know your characters, and their reasons for doing the things that they do.  It’s the best way I can think of to craft a thoughtful, meaningful, and satisfying narrative that people will enjoy and remember.

That or just put a time bomb at the earth’s core, either way.

Illustrator's Workshop: Secret Base

As I'm currently working on locating my stylus, I figured this week was a perfect opportunity to explore the wonders of working on the tablet o naturale, as it were.  And nothing, to me, says fun like fingerpainting, so while I was at it I wanted to draw something fun.

I must have drawn between two hundred and a thousand secret bases when I was a kid, especially after the advent of Super Nintendo in my family home and the copy of Super Mario World that came with it.  Here was a fully-realized world in two dimensional images, you could jump on platforms, swing on ropes, climb vines, swim under obstacles, the possibilities seemed endless. It was in the spirit of these expansive forests and fields and dungeons, especially the dungeons, that I first started drawing the ficticious super-hideouts where, if I were an evil dragon overlord, I would keep my gold and lava and secret submarines.  (Dang!  I forgot the lava!)

And here we have a fairly representative of that aesthetic tradition.  Would you like a tour?  Of course you would.

Below the unsuspicous tableau of the American countryside, rolling fields and a quiet little house all on its own, two massive steel doors set on hinges with working gears and engines, albeit crudely drawn ones.  Immediately below this is the missile silo.  The usual deal, reenforced concrete panels with catwalks all around, and a pool of water and steam escape tunnels at the bottom.  But the important thing to remember is that rocket isn't for destroying anything, it's purely a vehicle.  It just happens to also be preposterously cartoonishly awesome-sized.

Around the silo we have the control stations; top left is the main command floor, below that is the video game arcade accessible by fireman's pole, above the command floor is the emergency helicopter pad, and below all is the emergency alligator pit for anyone who's insolent.  Across the floor is the disco lounge over the spiral staircase slash poster room which leads down to a second video game arcade and the main feature of the sub-basement, the round theater room, complete with easy chairs, a staffed kitchen with order counter in the wall, fireplace, and surround sound (not pictured).

Finally descending from the theater room is the grand ramp to the smaller chambers; first a safe place to keep my pogs, then the library ("bib" is short for "biblio," I think), and finally a second bedroom featuring a bed roughly the size of the quiet little house above.  All this is of course leading up to the grand finale, the submarine tunnel dock.

Some rough shading went in to give a bigger sense of space and a more definite sense of light, though more variety of shades and of course precision would have been preferable to give an exact idea.  But I feel like with fun sketches like this one the imprecision is part of what makes it a little bit alive.

The great thing thing about this sort of sketch-up is that it almost tells its own story as you go along, in sort of a Batcave, tree fort, Dexter's Lab way.  The setting is almost enough to get along with, as long as each new thing on the tour is more awesome than the last.  (I would draw a parallel here to mallorn trees preceded by balrogs, but I feel like we already covered the lava thing.)

What's different from when I was a kid?  Did I learn anything from this?  Well I inadvertantly included more perspective and sort of three-dimensionality than in those old SNES-inspired doodles I used to do; the whole thing is sort of on a three-quarters drop angle rather than straight on, and all the floors are ovals instead of flat lines because of that.  Of course it's really wonky perspective and all the rooms have their own vanishing points and horizons, but what can you do.  There were some parts that came out better than I'd expected, and for everything else I gave the descriptions above so you could see what I meant it to be.

I think touchscreen drawing without a stylus is perfectly feasible so long as you're willing to zoom way in and take your time with everything, while also zooming out again frequently to make sure you're keeping the big picture in mind.  I didn't really do all these things here, 

I would love to do a version with labels and explanations, maybe dimensions, materials, and estimated costs; you could go infinitely deep with a daydream like this, to me it's just hilarious.  And of course I have to do at least one do-over at some point; I have to remember to include the lava.

On Kinds of Trouble

Most stories start with the characters getting into some kind of trouble or another, and end when that trouble gets sorted out.

There are all sorts of different kinds of trouble.  The kind of trouble your characters get into will play a huge role in the size and shape your story will take.

As a storyteller, unless you're able to invent a totally new form, which would be excellent, you'll likely find that most kinds of trouble will fall somewhere on the following rough chart:

The Y axis, that is up and down, is how big the trouble is.  How many people does it effect, how much effort is it going to take to get it sorted out, what are the consequences if it isn't resolved.  In my mind, story troubles range from small, effecting just one person, to the largest possible, meaning that solving the problem involves saving the world.

So at the bottom of the chart we have troubles on a personal scale; losing a job, losing a loved one, not winning the championship, etc.  These are a lot more accessible to us as people, but because they're so much more familiar, they take a lot more ingenuity to spark interest.

In my personal experience getting lost is generally the small-scale trouble I've had the most. (See above)  Whether it's on the road, on a train, at a state fair, or just in a grocery store. It's a problem I know how to solve, but apparently not how to avoid in the first place.  Does this have anything to do with character?  Something interesting to keep in mind when we get to that.

At the top we have basically the simplest kind of story there is to tell; if the trouble isn't solved before time runs out, the earth and everyone on it will die.  Basically picking the cause of the world's destruction, and its subsequent solution, is the only thing we get to be original about here, but at least it's a livewire when it comes to tapping basic interest.

The X axis, left and right, indicates how clearly the characters can tell what the trouble is. I tend to think of this in terms of effects and causes; generally when something's going wrong in our lives, we're aware of the symptoms long before we're certain of what's causing it.  

So on the left-hand side of the chart we have things going wrong; your car's making an odd noise, swimmers are disappearing from the beach or turning up chewed, the body of the CEO is in the lobby with a bullet in it, etc.  And on the right we have definite causes: a belt in your engine is wearing out, a giant shark has decided to stake out your piece of coastline, the CEO's secretary was passed over for a raise too many times.

One thing to keep in mind on the X axis, the definition of the problem, is that in almost all stories figuring out the cause of the trouble is the first step towards solving it.  Since most stories can be thought of basically as "how this problem was solved," it seems to me that trouble almost always goes from very vague at the start of the story to clear and understandable by the middle of the story, or in the case of murder mysteries, right at the end (since typically once you know who's killing people, all you have to do is lock them up).

One last quick note on the chart above, I think the "vague+large-scale" kind of trouble is a little tricky to pin down in terms of an example, but I've listed historical dramas or biopics because usually these are telling a larger story than one small problem to be resolved

Why did I go with clarity and scale?

For me, these are the two clearest dimensions for me to get an idea of the size and shape of a story at a first look.  For me, these two aspects of the trouble the story is bound up with are the easiest to get a handle on who will be playing, what they will have to do, how bad things are going to get, etc.  Setting and character are just as important, but those of course will have to wait for another article.

Are there other ways to characterize trouble than the above chart?

Of course!  It doesn't have to be a two-dimensional chart, it doesn't even have to be a visual breakdown.  The important thing is to figure out how the balance of your story's plot and payoff will work, and what, in general terms, your characters might have to do to bring the story to a satisfying end.

Some other ways it could be looked over?  Instead of big vs. small it could be universal vs. personal (it's a subtle difference), or urgent vs. weightless, deadly vs. farcical, or even caused vs. causeless.

When laying out a preliminary idea of your story, remember the kind of trouble in your story determines what kind of story you're telling.  Who the trouble effects determines your character's challenges, and as the story rolls on it will probably shape their motives as well.

Finally, remember the story can only go on so long as the trouble isn't resolved, and the more satisfying the solution the more satisfying the story.

Late Comic!

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Tireless, Part 1

photo courtesy of unsplash.com

“Why do you have him in handcuffs?” the young lady demanded.

“Is this her?” Caxton asked, glancing up with a weary expression from the official paperwork that covered his desk.

The younger detective, the one who had come in with the young lady, nodded.  His expression was tight-lipped, and he also looked tired.

It was very late, midnight was long gone.  The two detectives had been nearly ready to call it a night after a long day of working on an unrelated case when this new business had come up.  Something had happened, someone had been killed.  From what they could tell it was almost certainly in self defense, but it was becoming more and more obvious by the minute that they had their work cut out for them in trying to get everything squared away.

“Why is he under restraint?” the lady asked, lowering her voice and addressing Caxton, and not Deaver, the younger detective who had come in with her.  She had guessed correctly that Caxton was now the person in charge.

“He’s all right, miss,” Caxton said, rising and going to them.

They stood by closed door just inside the entrance to the department floor; it let into a small side office.  They all looked through the window set in the door into the little room.  Inside, sitting in a straight chair at the desk, hands behind him, was a small dirty looking old man.  His hair was thin and matted, it seemed to be almost caked solid with grime.  His face and hands were very dirty, his many layers of clothing were darkened with wear and dirt and were all worn and ratty around the edges.  He looked like exactly what he was, an unfortunate older man who lived homeless in the street.

“Has he done anything violent?” asked the young lady.  “Do you have any reason to think that he might do anyone harm?”

“No, miss,” said Caxton, sounding utterly exhausted.  “It’s standard procedure to restrain persons in circumstances like these.”

“But he’s only a witness,” the young lady said.  “You’ve only brought him in because he was there when it happened.”

What she said was quite true, they had brought him in to serve as a witness to the events leading up to the unfortunate death of the young man in the alleyway which they were currently investigating.

“He’s a witness,” Deaver, the younger detective said, staring through the window at the old man, “but when we need someone to come in, and they won’t come willingly, sometimes we have to take measures like these.”

“What do you mean he wouldn’t come willingly?” asked the young lady.

“He refused to come with us,” said Deaver.  “He wouldn’t talk to us in the alleyway, he wouldn’t voluntarily come with us to the station.  We need him to give evidence, and he wouldn’t cooperate.”

Caxton, who was a little tired with Deaver’s somewhat puffed-up way of performing his job, shook his head as though to himself.  They were all still looking through the window at the old man.  

“Well now you’ve got him here,” said the young lady, “so why do you need to keep him in cuffs?  If he hasn’t done anything wrong you should release him at once.”

The old man himself seemed to have gone to sleep in his seat, his neck and head were slouched forward, and although his arms were still locked behind him, attached to the chair, his muscles and figure appeared to be completely relaxed where he sat.  His face was turned down, his eyes appeared to be closed.

“He seems harmless enough now,” Caxton said after a moment, speaking as if to himself.  “Deaver, see if he wants anything to drink, then take the cuffs off.”

Deaver looked at Caxton sharply but said nothing, instead he gave a little half-shrug and moved to open the office door.

“I’ll question this young lady,” said Caxton.

Deaver nodded, pulled the office door open, and went inside.

Caxton lead the young lady over to his paper-plastered desk.  Because it was so late the department was mostly deserted, the desks were all empty and indeed half the overhead lights had been switched off.  On the way back to his desk Caxton switched these back on.  He pulled over a second chair for the young lady and they both sat down.

“State your name, please,” he said quietly.

“Beatrice Sitwell,” the young lady answered, “but everyone calls me Bee.”

He took her through the usual preliminary questions; current address, date of birth and so forth.  He offered her water or coffee, and she said yes please to both.  He got up and brought back a bottle of water and two styrofoam cups filled with steaming syrupy brownish dregs, two packets of sugar, and two packets of non-dairy powdered creamer.  Bee opened the bottle and drank about half, glanced at the coffee but did not drink any.

“I’m sure my partner Detective Deaver,” Caxton began, “already talked you through what happened tonight, but I’d like to talk it over with you again, just to make sure we have all the facts straight.  I’ll try to get you out of here as quickly as possible so that you can get home, and we can take care of the formal signed statement at your convenience tomorrow.

“Can you tell me first please,” he went on, still speaking quietly but managing to not sound as though he’d gone through this routine hundreds of times, but as if this were a case he was particularly interested in, “where you were earlier this evening and how you happened to be in that alleyway.”

Bee explained that she had been working late at a bar where she was a waitress several blocks, she thought it was three, but she didn’t know the bar’s exact address and especially she didn’t seem to know very clearly where the alleyway was in relation to it.  

Caxton knew the place by name, knew where it was, and how far it was from the alleyway, but said nothing, he let the young lady talk.

She said she’d left for the night when her shift had ended at midnight, she’d been working since the middle of the afternoon, and had been heading home when she’d encountered a young man walking in the opposite direction on the sidewalk, and had seen that he was staring at her, trying to get her attention.

“What time was this, about?” Caxton asked.

“It must have been twelve-ten, maybe twelve-fifteen,” Bee said.

She explained that before she and the young man had met, she had noticed him smiling.  She said she didn’t want any trouble from him, so she had turned aside before they reached each other, and had entered the alleyway, and that contrary to her expectation of avoiding him this way, he must have followed her in.

Caxton listened to this part of her story without comment, and without really any inward comment; he didn’t think it was especially believable that the young lady should enter the alley to avoid trouble with the young man, but long experience had trained his sense of attention and logic to simply absorb the fact, and to reserve judgement until all the available information was 

Bee had paused, looking expectantly at Caxton as if to ask if he believed her or not.  When he said simply “go on,” instead of continuing she first took a small gulp of the thick, bitter coffee, and made a face.

“I heard him behind me,” she said, “I mean his footsteps.  So I turned around, and I could see him in the light from the street.  I said what do you want, and he said he liked my purse, and I said so what, and then he pulled a gun on me.”

“You’re sure it was a gun?” asked Caxton.

“I could see the light on the barrel,” said Bee.

“Did he simply take it out or did he point it at you?” asked Caxton.

“He pointed it right at me,” she said.  “He was still smiling, like he wanted to talk.  But I wasn’t gonna talk with him, this wasn’t the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at me.  So before he could say anything else I threw my purse at him and grabbed for the gun.  This wasn’t the first time I’ve had a gun pointed at me.”  She was leaning back somewhat in her seat, as if trying to convey an attitude of lazy and indifferent competence in the face of danger.

“Is that right?” asked Caxton mildly.

“I’ll have to ask you about that later,” said Caxton.  “What happened after you reached for the gun.”

to be continued