Stream of Consciousness Tuesday: The Accumulator, part forty…

01 Aug

Well fancy that; I’ve got a couple of days off work and SoCS is a couple of days late, what a surprise. Another burst of activity in the garden at the weekend meant that I didn’t have time for any writing, but I thought I should continue this story with help from Linda G Hill and her prompt from Friday;

โ€œ “limb.โ€ Use it any way youโ€™d like “

Right then, let’s go…

The Accumulator, part forty.

Scene: The beer garden of a busy riverside pub. It is two days later.

Several families are enjoying a meal on the scattered tables and picnic benches, children and a few dogs play in the shallow river, while the sounds of lively conversation and laughter drift across the garden in the summer sunshine.

On the pub’s terrace, where customers can enjoy the view in a more peaceful setting, tables with parasols are far enough apart to allow diners some privacy and the conversation here is more muted; a group of businessmen on a working lunch break, a group of elderly ladies with a cream tea and a few couples relaxing with drinks.

And in the corner, one man sits alone; the remains of a salad and an empty coffee cup on the table in front of him, he is maybe fifty, grey haired, smoking a small cigar and gazing at the picturesque view like any other tourist, occasionally glancing at cars coming over the small stone bridge which crosses the river just upstream from the pub.

As the camera glides closer to his table, the man leans forward, grinds out the cigar on his plate and rises from his seat, obviously about to leave. Then something catches his attention and he looks up, suddenly alert.

The camera follows the direction of his gaze and the shot tightens on a car, panning left to follow the dark saloon with tinted windows, as it crosses the bridge and turns into the car park on the other side of the building, at which point it disappears from sight.

The shot continues a slow pan around the terrace until it stops at the sliding glass doors, wide open in the heat, through which we see a tall young man in a dark suit walking quickly through bar towards us. He steps out into bright sunshine and shades his eyes from the glare with one hand as he scans the tables, a relieved look of recognition on his face as he heads our way.

The camera now completes its smooth circuit of the terrace and returns to face the grey haired man, who has turned to welcome the late arrival with an impatient frown, pointedly tapping the crystal of his expensive watch as the man approaches, hand outstretched, smiling nervously.

“I’m most terribly sorry, Mr Dorn, I got held up behind some sort of…agricultural vehicle, I think it was, couldn’t get past it for several miles, I’m sure the driver was intentionally…”

The man’s voice trails off when he sees Dorn’s expression, looks down at his unshaken hand and lowers it self-consciously, then moves to the chair opposite as the older man sits down, takes out another cigar and lights it, puffing a cloud of smoke straight across the table into his face.

When the smoke clears, the young man waving a hand in front of him with a look of distaste, Dorn is smiling at him, albeit without humour.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say you don’t get out in the country very often, Chief Inspector Paddick. More of a city boy, are you?”

“It’s not exactly my patch, you’re right there, sir.”

“But nevertheless, you’ve gone to the trouble of driving here to seek me out in my rural hideaway, delaying my attendance at a pheasant shoot I might add, due to your tardiness, so I take it you bring me news of some considerable import.”

Dorn gestures encouragingly with his cigar at the other man, sitting back and fixing him with an appraising look as he clears his throat and begins to speak.

“We have been monitoring any unusual communication traffic in the areas you specified and last night we got lucky. Some civilian called in a report of a burning vehicle out at the old cotton mill and when a fire crew went out there, they found the black van, completely burnt out. Looks like it was torched, no trace of your man or either of the target subjects, but get this; the body of the woman, that missing nurse, was discovered by a couple of my lot when they checked inside the building.”

“The woman, she’s dead?”

“Yes, it made the men who found her pretty sick, by all accounts, quite a mess apparently.”

“And no sign of where the other three might have gone?”

“No sir, not at the scene, but there was one more thing…”

“Well, spit it out, man!”

“This was delivered to Scotland Yard yesterday evening by bike courier, no return address.”

The Detective Chief Inspector, who had been secretly reporting to The Department for the last five years, reaches into his jacket and passes an anonymous brown envelope to Dorn, who takes it from him with a questioning frown as he sees it remains unopened.

“It’s addressed to you, sir, we didn’t want to open it before you read it.”

“Very good, you did the right thing, well done.”

Dorn starts to tear open the envelope, then pauses.

“Tell you what, you probably want a bite of lunch after your long drive, why don’t you go and order a snack from the bar and I’ll join you for a drink in a minute or two. Charge it to my table, I have an account here.”

Paddick looks slightly uncertain for a moment, then he nods and gets up, walking back into the pub before Dorn tears the end off the envelope and tips out the single sheet of paper.

Only six words are printed on the page, obviously torn from a notebook, with ragged perforations along the top edge;

“We’re going to make you famous”

After staring at the paper for thirty seconds or so, Dorn places it on the plate next to the cigar butt and picks up his lighter. With a click, the flame touches one corner of the paper and Dorn watches until it shrivels into ash, then he takes out his phone and dials a number from memory.

His face now a blank mask, he waits for an answer.

“It’s me…The woman is dead…Yes, that’s what I thought, but now we have a bigger problem…We need to meet.”


To be continued (using next weeks prompt {which can now be found HERE})…


Pingback to Linda G Hill.


Tags: , , , , ,

14 responses to “Stream of Consciousness Tuesday: The Accumulator, part forty…

  1. willowdot21

    August 1, 2017 at 19:41

    I was wondering where this was ๐Ÿ˜ฑ

    • dalecooper57

      August 1, 2017 at 20:26

      Sorry, life keeps getting in the way. ;~}

  2. willowdot21

    August 1, 2017 at 20:30

    I know it’s so inconsiderate!!

    • dalecooper57

      August 1, 2017 at 20:32

      I shall make up for it by posting some nice photos of the work in the garden, how about that?

      • willowdot21

        August 1, 2017 at 20:41

        Oh! Excellent I shall look forward to that ๐ŸŒน๐Ÿต๏ธ๐Ÿค”๐ŸŒน

      • dalecooper57

        August 1, 2017 at 20:48

        Compiling a post as we speak, stand by…

      • willowdot21

        August 1, 2017 at 20:54

        I am hanging by a thread
        Compile : a stack of steering devices. ( As in Startrek Mr Data you have the com) ๐Ÿ˜–

      • dalecooper57

        August 1, 2017 at 21:26

        Aaarrrrgh, just found out I’ve run out of blog media storage space!
        Working on the problem now.

      • willowdot21

        August 1, 2017 at 21:27


      • willowdot21

        August 1, 2017 at 21:28

        Delete, delete

      • dalecooper57

        August 1, 2017 at 21:44

        But then I’ll lose post content.
        I might have to post all my photos on Photo Sans Frontiers and link to it from now on. I’m waiting to hear from Support now.

      • willowdot21

        August 1, 2017 at 21:46

        I know my delete delete was a tad ambitious!! It all sounds very complicated!

      • dalecooper57

        August 1, 2017 at 21:50

        Each free plan is allocated a limit for media storage and I’ve obviously reached mine. I may have to start a follow-on blog, which would mean having to pay for two domain names and hoping that all 800+ followers would know to follow me over to the new one.

      • willowdot21

        August 1, 2017 at 22:13

        We would of you told us what you were doing ๐Ÿ’œ


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Running with the Pack

An American Gypsy

Chet Desmond Has Vanished

But Where Did He Go?

48 before its too late

48 states in an RV in 6 months.


French magazine - art & visual culture


The online presence of dark fiction writer C.M. Saunders


"We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect"

Little Fears

Tales of humour, whimsy and courgettes


The ramblings of a very troublesome haemorrhoid on health, travel, art, sport, bad dogs, good cats and other stuff at

The Lessons

that time forgot to teach


The Best of British Bullshit

Homeschool To UnSchool

Teaching Our Kids to Wonder Again


words and scribble.


hedy bach original photography mixed stories and music

Isabella Morgan

Opinions not otherwise specified

Author Kyle Perkins

The latest and greatest of my documented daydreams

Rereading Jane Eyre

Author Luccia Gray

Luca Sartoni

Protector of Asynchronicity at Automattic

Pages That Rustle

The journey from words to stories.


For your mind only!

Waruni Anuruddhika

Film and photography

Tyler Charles Austen

Foul mouthed, Queer and Angry


The facepainting and balloon twisting lady

Art by Rob Goldstein

Reject Nihilism

Kristin King Author

True Story...

The Paper Kind

Creative living.


To Share, To Connect, To Create, To Inspire.

unbolt me

the literary asylum


Music means something and art is right up there too

Broken Castles

Shattered long ago...

Joshi Daniel Photography

Photoblog of Joshi Daniel


Every day I'm jugglin'.

The Write Project

"The answer is to write." - Richard Rhodes

b e t u n a d a

I'm interested in THE GLUE BETWEEN THINGS. "Back on planet URTH" i search for and study desert wombats and inukThingies (they're like inukshuks) while rambling in the high desert of western Colorawdough.

Sam Seabornen

Photography, Movies, Books

Stop Yearning, Start Earning

Sass and Sauce

A dash of sass, a dollop of sauce!

%d bloggers like this: