[Gareth84]

He sat at his desk bewildered. Confusion and quite often bewilderment were emotions that tended to visit him at this time of day increasingly of late – and on days such as today the pair were accompanied by a slight twinge of fear.

From his hunched position at his small pine self-assembly desk he gazed up at the clock - moulded into black bakelite style plastic - mounted above his door. He gazed upwards and he mused.

“12.24” mumbled the man to himself.

The clock's hands carried on their never ending journey around the face, and the time in question passed seemingly without event. His eyes moved from the clock, downwards towards the open window in his office. His desk was positioned purposely near the window for two reasons. Firstly, he like to be able to gaze at his pleasure down at the high street below, especially on hot summer days. The sunshine seemed to act as natural disinhibitor to people and as such, they were far more interesting to watch on days like this. The second and more functional reason for the desk being so close to the window was that people walking past on their day-to-day business sometimes caught themselves being watched by a rather large, balding, middle-aged gentleman with black horn rim glasses that didn’t appear to quite fit on his round face and a cheap brown suit. The aforementioned rather large man found his job extremely stressful at times, and when stressed he had a rather unfortunate affliction: he began to sweat.

It's probably wise to note at this point that the kind of sweating I’m trying to describe may well be out the range of your immediate imagination, unless of course you know this person. If this is not the case I highly doubt you have ever borne witness to anything like it. This degree of sweating is not like a person who has fallen asleep in the sun, or a very unfit person who in one sudden burst of energy sprints an entire marathon. Nor, in fact is this the kind of sweating you may have viewed in a heavyweight boxing match that has gone past the normal 12 rounds into extra time. The subject of this writing has the ability to exude perspiration on the level of a person who has undertaken all the above sweat-inducing activities in quick succession while adorned with a full lamb’s wool body suit/balaclava combo riding on a comet headed directly into the sun.

And at 12.24 daily for the past three weeks he had felt great stress and anxiety, causing his strange and original curse to go into full effect. This problem was making the man's job even harder than he normally found it, which incidentally was very, and of course as a result of this added stress he was sweating at record levels even by his standard. This problem led him to buy extra shirts for work as he was being forced to change them four times a day now, up from the regular two. These extra costs brought more strain on his already very thin budget, the renting of this office was barely covered by the money he managed to bring in every month, and again this equated to more stress, and thus more sweat.

You may at his point be asking why it is that the number 12.24 would cause any sane, normal person such a degree of distress. You could also of course be asking as to why any normal person would sweat even half as much as our subject. But that is a very personal point and neither here nor there for the time being, and the number is by far more interesting I think and also less intrusive.

Three weeks prior to the beginning of our subject's story, the day was in fact very similar, bar the fact that instead of a pleasant sunshine there was a heavy rain cloud that appeared to the man to be centralised above his office. The rain also meant that there was very little to look at outside, so again hunched over his small desk our subject was attempting to get some work done.

This was quite difficult as he had very little work to do that week – or the previous month for that matter. Our man bears the self given title, "‘Undercover Operations and Secretive Matters Specialist," or at least this is what the sign on the door reads. The sign itself strangely was readable only from the inside as he could not understand the point of, having paid the money for the transfer to be made and put on his door, that he himself shouldn’t be able to see it. The fact that what few customers he had then found it infuriatingly difficult to locate his ‘sign less’ office - and more than that some potential customers who had just given up wondering the large building full of similar rented offices and decided to find an alternative solution to their current problem – didn’t really occur to him. He could see the sign. Once found and inside the office you might have found yourself disappointed if, like many before you, it had taken considerable time and effort to locate it.

It was a small, modest affair – it consisted really of just his small pine desk with two non-matching chairs on either side, a green filing cabinet in one corner and a tall standing plant that resembled a tropical tree in the other. He noticed that day that he hadn’t watered the plant in over two months but yet it seemed to have suffered no ill effects. That same day he also came to the conclusion that the plant was in fact plastic and his previous attempts at watering it might now explain the strange odour in that corner of his office. Given the title on the door, more commonly spoken of as a private investigator to people not in the field – it is probably some surprise that it took him this long to realise the plant was plastic, as I’m not aware of many tropical plants that can flourish in the borough of hackney, South London and even less so in an office with only one window which the plant was nowhere near.

Other than those few pieces of furniture, only a black moon shaped clock that hung on the wall above the door and a small plaque on his desk that read "Thomas Lane – P.I" are worth noting.

A sharp knock startled Tom and drew his eyes to the door, in turn also to the clock above it – 12.24.

"Come in."

He huffed at the door, Tom always tried to give off the impression of a serious professional – even if he himself didn’t quite believe it. He sat up straight, quickly shuffling the loose papers on his desk into a more organised pile, then turned his body to the side slightly, blocking out most of the incoming light from the small window. He felt being in a silhouette gave him an air of mystery that all good private eyes should have. Tom’s knowledge of ‘good’ private eyes only encompassed those he had read about in crime novels and seen in old black and white movies however.

Despite always being keen to impress new clients he did not like them to just arrive unannounced, he didn’t like to be rushed. He could almost feel the pores on his body start to open, ready to loose the floods. The doorknob turned and a figure entered. The small frame of an elderly woman creaked in synchronisation with the equally old door.

"Mr Lane, I presume?"

Her voice was like gravel, she was clearly a very heavy smoker Tom deduced with quiet satisfaction.

"Yes, Thomas Lane. Private Eye," he replied in his unknowingly cheesy voice. Tom was now in full swing trying to create his ideal of the classic first impression. In his heart he knew he should stand, get the door, offer a seat and possibly a hot beverage accompanied by a biscuit – there was an opened pack of bourbons in his desk after all – to a lady of his client's age. But to do any of these things would mean he would have to stand, thus ruining the silhouette and with it the mood he thought had now been set.

Unfortunately for his clients, Thomas Lane’s desires to appear to be a first class P.I. far outweighed both his desires to be a good employee and in fact also a good person. He had yet to manage a clean run of the classic first impression but in Tom’s mind this attempt was going fairly well so far.

The lady closed the door behind herself and pulled a chair. As she sat she screwed up her nose and shot a look towards the corner of the room that contained the tropical plastic plant. Tom tried to catch her eye. The plant was ruining the moment – it would have to go.

The non matching chairs in Tom’s office were not victims of his lack of money or taste; they also formed part of the ever illusive classic first impression which now included psychological warfare. All the detective books he read had very handsome, charming leading men – Tom didn’t think that either of these terms applied to him and to compensate this fact the two chair system was invented. The chair set for the client was much smaller and lower than his chair – this then meaning he would always tower above his clients. Also the client's chair had no arms, making them sit in a rather subordinate pose. In this case it was quite unnecessary as the client was very short already and the difference in height, size, the fact that she could barely see his face, the hostility of not being offered tea, and the rather pungent odour coming from somewhere in the room actually made Thomas Lane’s first impression appear quite menacing.

“Well Mr Lane, I would like you to find something for me.”

Her gaze bore into Thomas, despite her outwardly frail and old appearance her eyes and manner were as sharp as any other.

“A painting was stolen from my possession. It holds both great financial and emotional value to me – I simply must have it returned.”

The confidence she was exuding so effortlessly was now beginning to unnerve Tom. He could almost see his psychological edge fading rapidly and with the same haste his back was beginning to moisten. Thomas shifted uncomfortably, the intense heat flushes that were the precursor to his sweats had now begun to reach his face. The classic first contact was falling apart, again and Tom feared beyond any possible salvation. He rubbed his temples as his anxiety grew – she would have to go.

“Perhaps madam, this would be a case better suited to the regular channels? My talents are extremely specialised and somewhat expensive.”

Tom was now trying to retain any small dignity he could scrape from this unfolding disaster.

“They will not help,” the woman said very bluntly. Tom wondered if what he had taken for confidence was actually arrogance.

“Although you may find this hard to believe Mr Lane, you were not my first port of call. All my previous attempts to secure help have been unsuccessful.”

Tom's instincts were now on full alarm to get away from this woman. Not only had she completely ruined the moment for him, as well as causing him to have a sweat attack, she even had the nerve to now also insult him! But her problem had twigged the curious streak needed in even the most unlikely detectives, why were other people shunning such a mundane sounding case? There had to be something she wasn’t telling him.

“Is there any particular reason that my talents would help were others cannot?” Tom asked, purposely ignoring her previous comments as he mopped his now dripping brow with his sleeve. The no longer so tiny lady sighed a sigh that told Tom she felt she was wasting her time.

“I believe Mr. Lane that it may be due to the fact that the painting was stolen on the 24th December 1936, some 71 years ago.”

Tom managed to stifle the laugh that threatened to burst out at hearing this. 71 years ago! Oh how the tables had turned! The woman was clearly insane. No wonder the police had refused to take the case of a crazy old lady. Solving a crime committed 71 years ago would be next to impossible, even with modern DNA methods. Tom could physically feel the waves of sweat receding as he felt control return. He leaned forward, elbows on desk, with renewed confidence.

“Why is the painting important now, after so long?”

He kept his voice calm and professional despite his own hidden amusement, the situation could be recovered! A victory against a clearly deranged old woman was a victory none the less. At the same time however the client's age made Tom feel inclined to humour her proposition; he would turn down the case after she had given her reasons.

“Mr. Lane, I am getting old. I fear my time may soon be at an end. The care of the painting was a responsibility I shirked for all of my life but now I worry I will not be able to rest until this problem is resolved.”

[Ambrose]

Some things I liked..

The sunshine seemed to act as natural disinhibitor to people and as such, they were far more interesting to watch on days like this.

I could just see people shuffling around with their hands glued to their face from the glare. I got kick out of it.

The sign itself strangely was readable only from the inside as he could not understand the point of, having paid the money for the transfer to be made and put on his door, that he himself shouldn’t be able to see it.

I thought this was pretty funny too. He's a real ego this guy? Or perhaps just self-involved...

The chair set for the client was much smaller and lower than his chair – this then meaning he would always tower above his clients. Also the client's chair had no arms, making them sit in a rather subordinate pose.

I like how Tom clever devises way to make himself feel good about himself with regard to others.

“I believe Mr. Lane that it may be due to the fact that the painting was stolen on the 24th December 1936, some 71 years ago.”

Hmmmm... intriguing!

Some things I didn't like...

The way you talk about his acute sweating problem and then go nowhere with it. If you're going to make that big a deal about his perspiration then make it have a point. Otherwise it just sounds glaringly sensationalistic.

I also didn't like how the story wandered for awhile, with you giving overt author commentary throughout. It disrupted the feel of the story in my mind. Try keeping it closer to the character, his actions and his thoughts, rather than your own.

And finally, I wonder what the deal was with the time 12:24. Seeing as this is Chapter 1, I imagine you have more explaining to do. In any case, I thought it was slightly weird that the exact time the lady came into his office should have been marked and stowed away in Tom's mind. You did hint that he looks at the clock a lot though, so perhaps it makes since that the time would seem significant to him for no good reason.

[RENA HANDS]

It’s a pet peeve of mine, but when you speak or write about time could you actually write out 12:24 as opposed to 12.24? It looks improper.

,the intense heat flushes(or heat flashes? )that were the…?

Why would you add a period after Mr. Lane in the last five paragraphs/sentence but not before in the previous writings?

For me, the action(s) and description(s) were a bit rushed. You don’t really give time for the reader to digest what you are illustrating.

You are going some where with Mr. Lane’s perspiration problem? You could possibly write a past event with the time of 12:24 being significantly important to Mr. Lane. Describe why it makes him feel so uncomfortable. Years and years or days and days of 12:24 and what happened?