The Write Way

Chapter 2: The Lark's Nest

My lawyer is waiting in the parking lot but I pause once the guard waves me through the final gate. I listen to the buzz of it clattering closed behind me, the smell of fresh tarmac, exhaust fumes and wet pine floating on the late morning breeze.

Freedom.

For most, this might be a special moment. A second beginning, perhaps. The next chapter. For me, it's hardly a change of scenery, yet both have their benefits.

A prison cell or a private cottage, they're both similar enough at their core. Basic in nature, streamline in structure. Both are environments I use as a vehicle to culminate all of my effort toward one goal: my writing.

A prison has fewer distractions.

Its disciplinary nature lends to my craft, generating long stretches of undisturbed silence. I get easily distracted outside, in the real world where so little is controllable, and my sleep is often interrupted by mundane events. A mailman pushing the daily paper through the mail slot, a neighbour dog chasing tires of passing vans, kids bouncing a basketball down the road. Inside, there's orderly patterns and disturbances aren't permitted. Inside, there's an alternative sense of freedom, but it's an acquired taste.

Yet, there's a sense of history in the walls of my little home. There's memories that are easily provoked and revisited, analyzed and recorded. Bookshelves of journals adorn the walls, a family library of struggle, of growth, of the trials of time.

They are the only family I have left. Speaking to me in fading ink on yellowing pages, bestowing forgotten wisdom, teaching cautionary tales.

My lawyer -

Sorry.

To you, he's been my literary agent. Flat faced, reputable yet hardly tolerable, well-trained and overpaid.

Yes, him. Mr. Bolarro.

My lawyer is standing next to his black sedan, its engine idling, sunlight flashing across tinted windows and chrome mirrors. He nods when I catch his eye and climbs stiffly into his car.

I follow the suit, getting into the back seat to keep my distance. This throws him off. He pauses momentarily, then kicks the car into first and gives me an awkward nod through his rear-view mirror.

"I guess it all worked out, hey?"

I don't reply. I'm watching the prison slip away as we turn out of the lot and head down a winding, newly paved road.

"Some new evidence came to light. Had been overlooked apparently," he continues, glancing back periodically as he speaks. "I'm working on getting all the details. Whole thing went down pretty fast. The evidence came from someone out of the province."

I give a grunt. I have an idea of who that somebody might be but I've got a suspicion I should keep it to myself. For now.

"I figured you could use a lift to the ferry. There ain't transit on these roads. Not for a few towns." He's being kind, but I'm not seeing that right now. There's always a condition with these sorts of minds and I'm curious to hear what he has to say. He's commenting on the weather now, trivial things, like he's gearing up to approach the real topic. I'm happy to let him get there on his own.

It takes him fifteen kilometres to get to the point.

"There's a new voice in town, asking lots of questions." Bolarro catches my gaze and holds it. "Questions that not a lot of people would think to ask."

So there it is.

Trees streak by, intermittently broken by great sweeping views of the ocean below. Then we turn away from the ocean, heading down steep slopes, into deeper forests with sprawling limbs that form a thick canopy above the road.