A New Start

I woke with the sun, the throbbing behind my eyes eased as I sat up and took some deep breaths, it wasn’t a hangover, I don’t get those, I don’t drink, my demons are different.

Yesterday went on forever, after nearly three hundred miles of motorway driving, most of it in rain, I got as far as Exeter. Driving as fast as I dared, it felt like I was fleeing from Manchester to Cornwall, just like I escaped my past life in Reading.

Some poor souls holiday plans and life had ended on the A38. The road closed, I had to negotiate moorland roads. Side roads were largely single carriageway, narrow, with steep banks on both sides, with an occasional passing place.  Later I was to understand that these were “hedge banks”, typical of the Devon Countryside. Some of the roads here have grass in the middle, and plenty of mud. Once I found weather conditions had flooded a low spot, and since my car had a low ground clearance, it meant a lot of reversing. If you have ever driven a soft top with a slightly opaque rear window, you know how tricky that can be. I was heading across the moors down through Princetown to Widecombe, my home, and my resting place for the next year.

My six am alarm drove away my sleep, dragging my aching body to the window, I wondered not for the first time, whether my classic Z3 really the right car for me, my six-foot two body struggled at times, to wedge itself in with any semblance of comfort. It did pull though, in so many ways. I tugged open the curtains, gazed in wonder at the Autumn leaves and bright sunshine across the open field in front of me, turned to see the old stone church a little way up the road. So different from when I arrived in the cottage last night.

I stooped to my suitcase, yet to be unpacked, and pulling out some jogging bottoms and smart Adidas running shoes, psyched myself up for a few miles along some country lanes, at least this, morning there was no rain to contend with. I was going to explore the village and surroundings, the day looked so very inviting. My phone started playing a riff from Led Zepplin “the immigrant song”, this must be work, I consider ignoring it, since I haven’t actually started yet, and not meaning to until later in the week, but I think better of it.

Working with Devon and Cornwall Police reviewing cold cases on a free-lance gig, I am Psychological Profiler. With Greater Manchester Police, I held down a full-time position, until I lost my senses and screwed the Chief Constables 20-year-old daughter, I guess it might not have been too big a deal, but it was the two nights before her wedding to some politician’s son, the mayors son I think, nobody told me who he was, and frankly, I didn’t care. I just do not know why women have hen do’s, she was worse for wear, looking quite slutty and came onto me, I don’t resist well.

Devon and Cornwall couldn’t afford me full time, so they suggested ten days a month, at five hundred a day plus expenses. Not brilliant but it would pay for necessities, food, rent and fuel. I would have time to write as well. At least that was my original plan, little did I know what was coming.

Picking up the phone it read “Richard Attlee” I pressed accept, and there it all began.