Through The Fog

By Claire Hart

Chapter 1 - Upon Reflection…

Posted on Friday, 20 October 2006

The salt water hits me, another cold hard slap in the face and I'm awake. And boy when I look around I know this ain't the sort of place I wanna be waking up. My head feels groggy and I'm having trouble focusing. But even I can see I'm in a whole heap of trouble. Bound to a pier and the tide's coming in fast, it's already up to my waist and the next wave is only gonna get bigger.

My head lolls forward; I'm dog tired not least because of the sound beating they gave me. I wince with both the memory and the pain, running my tongue gingerly along my dry lips. The bottom lip is busted, a nice deep cut, and the taste of my own blood is oddly sobering, all sweet and tangy and painful.

I ache all over, my jaw feels like a dead weight, they broke my tooth I'm sure of it, and it's funny, right now it's all I can think about. How it's gonna be one hell of a dental job.

Right now it's all I wanna think about, because if my let my mind drift, and let my thoughts wander, I'll see her. That makes me grit my teeth, never mind my aching jaw, this hurts more. The last thing I wanna see before I die is the woman who betrayed me, the dame who played me like a fiddle, the reason I'm tied to a pier and spending the last ounce of my energy hating, hating her.

Bruised and battered but still I can't help but let out a low chuckle, thing is I let my guard down. Guess that won't be happening again.

I close my eyes, ready and willing to accept the inevitable, no use fighting, nothing more left to fight with. And then I smell it, a scent so faint it barely carries over the saltiness of the sea, but it's there I'm sure of it.
But it couldn't be, my mind's playing games with me, it couldn't be, the faint hint of strawberries and cream, the scent I told her I loved on her. It's just `cause I'm dying, that's why I'm imagining I can smell her, it's why I crave her and why I hate her.

Suddenly there's the nifty little hands working on the rope, and I can feel the knots slacken, a body pressed close to my back and voice next to my ear whispers.

'You should never have followed me Darcy…' the mouth pressed to my ear is familiar, I wasn't imagining the scent, and I'm not imagining the words. She really is here and God how I hate her for it…I'm not about to thank her, I wanna kill her… Elizabeth Bennet.

They say you ought never to trust a dame, well they're right. Never trust the dame with a smile like the sun, wide honey dew eyes, and legs that you only ever dreamt of. Nope don't trust those kinds of dames, the kind that waltz into your office on a sticky hot July afternoon, prop themselves up in front of your desk and ask you to help look for their wayward, lost little sister.

And boy does she know how to ask, never mind that it's about a 100 degrees outside and you're sweating and swearing like a pig, the way she's sat and the way she's looking you'd think she'd drifted in on the coolest of breezes. All unruffled, calm and collected, in her immaculate, expensive suit, large brimmed hat and dark glasses which she removes as she soon as she sits down, because she knows the power, the hold that gaze of hers can have on a man.

So there I am, shirt open at the collar, cursing at the fan because the damn thing just isn't working and it's as hot as hell, and wearing a vainly amused look at the woman who's sat opposite me. She smiles slightly and then of all things leans back and lights up a cigarette. The sweet smell of tobacco drifts seductively over to me and she sits a while watching quietly, sizing me up. After a good few minutes she leans forward and slowly drawing another cigarette from her pack offers me one, I take it.

But we both know she's doing more than just being polite, she's looking me over again, it's the state of my office that's caught her eye; the faded unimportant prints on the wall, the drought ridden plant in the corner, the numerous newspaper clippings littering the floor and the inconspicuous looking files spilling out of their cabinet.
What can I say? Housekeeping was never my forte. Mrs Reynolds my more than capable secretary had long given up on sorting the mess out, realising that the finer details of a filing system was a concept that for me had died a long time ago, or rather had never been borne.

The half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting rather proudly on my desk causes her to raise an eyebrow whereas my weapon, a Smith and Wesson barely concealed beneath a folder registers with the slightest of flinches, the only emotion she's shown since walking into my office… interesting.

Apparently satisfied she leans back and taking a long draw puffs out the smoke like a pro. Her voice deceptively smooth and clear carries through the air as easily as the wisps of smoke she's quickly filling my dishevelled office with.

`Mr Fitz Darcy. I need your help….'

© 2006 Copyright held by the author.

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