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Authors: H Ryder

Pearced

BOOK: Pearced
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Mrs H Ryder.

 

Helen Ryder grew up in Essex
without
a pony until she was 12, it was
tough
. Luckily she had a younger brother to torment, so all was not lost. Good at art and English at school, not surprisingly then, her career began as a fashion designer, though she'd really fancied designing record covers, but plans don't always work out how you expect do they? Her Design job involved travel all over the world, designing and developing denim, very cool, I'm sure you'd agree. But, like most women, with many passions: horses: (she has 2 Trakehners now), boys: (and a husband), clothes: (150 pairs of jeans: true story), cats, gardening, reading, tea, sleeping, curry amongst others, this career was never going to be enough to satisfy her over-active imagination and love of words (real and imagined).  Good at writing and prone to eloquence on the page (and screen), she decided to write a book just to see if she could.

Our heroine Tharie Charles, in this new series of 'Pearced' books, has much in common with the real Helen Ryder, and this slightly amusing,
jabbering rant of this
weird
mind from Barking, Essex, needed to be shared. Plus, it’s got ponies in it, and it really doesn’t get better than that.

Put the kettle on and...

Enjoy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thank you:

A few people have helped bring this work to form, to make it tangible, to enhance the characters therein with close friendships and keep me sane, with encouragement whilst writing it.

To them I offer a sincere thanks, but none more than J, he kept the cats off my laptop and plied me with tea the whole time. 

I love you babes x.

 

 

 

 

 

 

PEARCED

A classic tale of 'Boy meets
Designer
'.

By Mrs H Ryder.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Published by Misty Manor Publishing

www.MistyManor.co.uk

 

Copyright © Mrs H Ryder and Shelley Rand 2013

Tharie Charles and Daniel Pearce are characters belonging to H Ryder.

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the sole author of this work.

 

This book is a work of fiction, names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used here fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

 

ISBN
978-1-909746-00-8

eBook ISBN 978-1-909746-01-5

 

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form, or by any means: electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior and written permission of the publishers and author.

 

This book is sold subject to the condition that it should not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired or otherwise circulated without the publishers or authors prior consent in any form of binding or cover than that in which it is published and without a
similar condition including its condition being imposed  on the subsequent purchaser.

 

 

 

For Dad.

 

 

Part one:

 

The bit before chapter one
, last Thursday
:
17thoctober2013, 4pm

 

There's an old Chinese proverb that says: ‘the nail that sticks up, gets hammered down.’  People seem to like uniformity in behaviour and appearance, it makes them comfortable somehow, well, I have my own proverb: ‘
let them try
.’  Nonconformists like me relish our difference, we feel sorry for the masses who flock together, because they lack imagination.

The story that follows is an account of a young woman journeying through life in the way normal people do, without plan or thought.
But
with strong instinct and creativity to live life extraordinarily, a life lesson?

Dear reader, it's time to put the kettle on.

 

“Write drunk,
edit sober
” Hemingway.  Good advice.

 

 

 

 

 

Bloody phone.

Note to self, learn to ignore inanimate objects, it's the vibration, I must respond, I’m only human (and a woman).

HC: “Aaaarrrgh!” That’s about right.

TC: “
Hung-over?” You should be.

HC: “No, it’s wine flu” stupid boy.

Another note to self, Henry
is
inanimate.

 

It’s October bright, very bright, the sun is hot on my face, but like ice in shadow, a still and a sharp type of cold that permeates inside.  The air is quiet, my brain is not. My favourite time of year, I like the contradictory nature of autumn. The sky is a deep Mediterranean turquoise blue, without any white vapour spoiling its perfection, paler at the horizon ombreing into a deeper blue as it rises into the lower atmosphere. Half the moon is visible, with its craters, mountains and shadows adding texture to the part circle. 

A vibration alerts me to an incoming message:

PF: “Good luck today” that’s nice.

TC: “On my way” can’t type well whilst I’m going along.

PF: “Good, try to concentrate” cheeky bugger.

TC: “The cheek!” Indeed.

PF: “Friends can be that way T, it’s our job” true story.

TC: “See you later” you betcha.

PF: “Did you at least remember to brush your hair?” Not you too, traitor.

TC: “Shame you can’t see what finger I’m holding up! Love you Tx” I’m so amusing.

My phone goes away, on silent.

As I look up my cab is turning another corner taking me further into a maze of back streets, all looking strangely familiar, as the last street we turned into looked exactly like this one.  As if we were driving some sort of weird temporal loop, like a déjà vu.  If I had any sense of direction at all I would be completely lost, but I don’t, so it doesn't concern me when I glance around I recognise nothing, it's a feeling I’m well used to.

Another vibration, when did I become a slave to my phone?

EC: “I don’t hear from you in weeks” here we go.

TC: “Sorry Mum, I’ve been busy” true story.

EC: “Always busy, will I see you soon?
…She asks herself fully knowing the answer…”

Note to self, make time to see Mum.

TC: “Mum, I’ll call you later” hope I don’t forget.

EC: “I’ll not hold my breath” she knows what I’m like.

Deep sigh, phone away, note to self: call Mum.

The area is closed, very closed, Ennio Morricone is playing in my head as I imagine an urban version of a tumble weed blowing and rolling down the street, which would be a crisp bag or chip paper, but there is nothing here at all. Shut away curry houses, a key cutting narrow frontage and take away shops, metal grilles and security fascia’s.  Narrow, clean streets.  Someone looks after this deserted neighbourhood. And that feels odd to me, my brain hums, a disquiet, it's not happy at juxtapositions or odd contradictions.

I apply some lip balm, it's a calming mechanism, plus it makes my lips soft and kissable.  Who am I kidding, I’m single. 

Who am I talking to when I do that? Mum's right, I
am
weird.

Is this the right place? I wonder as I stare hard out of the cab window.  I check the address I have been given saved i
n my iPhone, twice, check the GPS too and we're right on top of it.   My black cab pulls over. It looks like an unlikely place for any business that doesn't fix old cars and in all likelihood hasn't fixed anything in years.  Large fronted metal shuttered doors, padlocked shut as if no one had any cars to be fixed today. The padlock is shiny and galvanised, large and new, not rusty and breakable, that's the tell someone is paying attention, on the lookout, it's a fake kind of old film set where it seems like one thing, but on closer examination it’s something entirely different. There’s a camera set high on the front wall pointing directly at the black London cab.

Worried? A little nervous, yes.

Enter at C in a sitting trot, stop at X salute. Feel better now? No. Usually the complex nature of dressage which is equal parts art and clever riding, plus remembering which way the hell to go next, helps clear my  mind, it helps me focus.

I flick the slider bar on my phone to check it’s on silent, yes, proceed.

The cab driver sits idling outside the address.  A deserted looking building.  He looks at me questioningly in the rear-view mirror. "You
sure
this is right?" His voice betraying a little concern, perhaps he’s a father. The tick, tick, tick of the cabs slow engine rhythm. What song does that remind me of? 'Feel you', Depeche mode. Yep.

"I hope so." I smile.  Smiling disarms people with bad intentions. It puts off anyone wishing to destroy me. It has the added benefit of demonstrating I know more than they do, about what it doesn't matter, that I’m confident is key.  Off guard a confrontationist will simply stare as if he doesn't quite understand this creature in front of him. Yes, a smile can be very helpful tool indeed. It gives me a little courage.

I pay the man, I give him a tip: not the 'don't talk to strangers' type of tip, but the monetary kind, and drag my portfolio and laptop case up to the closed concertina metallic fascia of the large dull square  of a grey brick warehouse.

There’s a door in the great frontage shutter with a buzzer.  I wonder whether prisons have this kind of set up, door-wise. An old manky looking unit with a feint light, the bulb either needs changing or cleaning as it blinks on and off, it belongs in Blade Runner, but the dark Tokyo rain is missing, my impression that this is also fake crawls into my brain, what is this place?

Proceed at sitting trot to A.  Feel better now.

One name is handwritten on a slip of card and slid into a buzzer slot, a swirly creative hand, unusual, masculine, I press the obvious button, and get a tight feeling across my chest as my heart pumps blood round so fast I actually hear it swoosh through my ears. I watch as my cab turns the corner out of sight and my exit plan becomes more complicated, it's too quiet now.

Canter at F. where in the arena is F?  Bloody hell.

My phone vibrates and I ignore it.

I press the buzzer again, was that impatient?  Half expecting no answer, and already planning my escape...I Try to recall which way did I come and how close is the main road?

A loud crackle from the buzzer unit...".....ell...o.....lp you?" It splutters.

The camera hums above as it moves to point at me, I am tempted to smile and wave, so I do.

"It's Tharie to see Daniel, I have an appointment."

...very loud
screech
!! "...kay, push the door..." I hear a buzzer around the frame and a loud click from within it, and push the door hard, I expect it to malfunction because that's the whole illusion of the place. To a casual observer you'd to taken in, you think what you’re meant to, what the place is designed to, but to an observer? I’m not fooled, but I
am
curious. My brain notices things, it can't help it, and it tells me
everything
, sometimes noisily.  

BOOK: Pearced
5.6Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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