Roslin Garnet's Random Ramblings

THE YOUNG WED

The sort-of-start of a book idea I had at the start of 2016! TWENTY-SIXTEEN! That's six years it's been sitting patiently in my drafts, so why not post it for you guys.

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Though abandoned and derelict, surrounded by thick, tall weeds, a rusting building stood proudly on a hill. Flaking paint and old wood panelling adorned the sides and eaves, camouflaging it among the grey, dark skies. The once stain-glassed windows were layered in a thick coating of dust and dirt that had travelled up the river and along the reeds to come to a final resting spot abed the cobwebs.

A car pulled along the cracked road, the headlights illuminating the old church to an audience of two. Men dressed in uniform with shirt sleeves resting on their upper arms in an attempt to cool down from the hot, humid heat. One sat on the driver's side of the white car; his silver hair shining brightly against the dull light of the overhead bulb. His sun-exposed skin was dark and painted in freckles. Draped over his shoulders was a light cotton blue shirt - the collar exposed and wide, showing off a few course bristles. His dull, experienced eyes were fixated on the road ahead of him. The fine lines of wrinkles which littered his face, especially around his eyes made him look older beyond his years - the excruciating pain of what all he had seen and experienced were somehow developed in his skin, making him look sullen and stern. Like his partner, the other man was dressed in the cotton shirt; although it was form-fitting around his arms and chest, unlike the other whose shirt barely managed to squeeze around his ever-growing beer belly. This man was young, barely out of mid-twenties with eyes that had yet to fully experience all the trouble in the world. A small crack in the window allowed the harsh wind to whistle itself into the car and through his dark thick hair.

Constable Michaels and Peters were an inseparable duo, with forensic and policing experience hardened from many years in the force. John Peters was a competent man who had more than twenty years his senior on young David Michaels. The Faroway police and fire department was a small crime investigation centre based in the hallowing village of Faroway, notorious for its unsolved crimes, unexplained deathly occurrences and untimely accidents which could result in horrible injuries or even death.

"What's the deal with this case? Unexplained movements and whispers in the night from up ol' Whites church. Was called in by the locals, I heard. Surely, it's just the Thompson children being up to no good again. It's a waste of our bloody time!"

Michaels feigned annoyance, his broad English accent echoing around the small inside of the white police car. John kept his eyes on the road. He let out a low nasal whistle, his stubby fingers tapping relentlessly against the steering wheel as they pulled ever closer to the old church.

"You a simple man, Michaels?"
He asked lowly, a slow lingering string of sweat beating down on his brow. Michaels looked over at the older man in confusion, his eyebrow raised.

"No?"
He replied simply, confusion laced on the single effort it took him to mumble out that one simple word.

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That's it, that's all I got too in six years!