Lost Property: The complete story (at last!!)

For those that have already read parts 1-3, I've kept the "part" dividers in so you can easily scroll down to Part 4 (the final part - woo hoo - sorry by I've grown to really dislike the main character, she's what my work colleagues would call "a mole")

Otherwise, here is the full story, all in one place, so you don't need to go through the archives to track them down and get up to speed. After all, if I make it all too hard, you may decide you have better things to do with your time.

I hope you enjoy it! If not, I'm sorry but admit it, you've wasted more time watching some truly awful dross on TV


Part 1: The Hangover

Morning light leaked insipidly through gaps in the curtains, the tendrils of pale sharp-edged white hinted at the cold lurking outside. An arm emerged from the sanctuary of the duvet and felt around blindly for the source of a hostile ringing noise. Failing in its mission, more of the body emerged into the cold “barley white” morning revealing Michelle in the company of one hell of a hangover.

Splitting open crust-sealed eyes Michelle looked around only to be reminded that in the spirit of drunken malice the night before, she’d placed her alarm clock on the other side of the room. This left her with two equally unpleasant alternatives: she could either leave the warm bed cocoon or put up with the continued clang of her alarm. Given its continued insistence she get up, she opted for the former and moved with the grace of a semi-frozen gazelle across her room where she violently took her frustration out on the noisy inanimate object. Once she was sure it was dead, she stood shivering in her rather dilapidated night shirt, not awake enough to make a quick decision regarding her next move.

As the wheels of her brain squeaked reluctantly into her action, she reached for her dressing gown. An annoyingly officious nagging voice squatting in the back of her mind reminded her that alcohol fuelled bitchiness hadn’t been the only reason for the cruel positioning of the alarm clock. She looked wistfully at her bed but the voice would not be quieted, pointedly reminding her that she had a meeting first thing and she couldn’t afford to be late.

Dragging her hangover with her Michelle showered, brushed her teeth, and moisturised while she struggled to maintain a state of out-of-body numbness. She jabbed contact lenses that felt like they’d soaked in acid over-night, into her angry, red eyes. Blinking blearily around the bathroom the full scale of her hangover finally hit. She was in a world of pain and her body was screaming for water. Guzzling rusty tasting water directly from the tap did very little to alleviate her raging thirst. This was going to be a truly shitty day.

Once fully dressed, Michelle examined herself in the full length mirror. She wasn’t convinced the blue top went with the brown trousers, but she couldn’t find the energy to care, let alone change. She rubbed her eyes delicately and peered more closely at the mirror, it misted gently with her sour mint breath. She decided she must still be drunk because she looked positively blurry. It wasn’t just her red eyes, damp tangled hair or pale face that made her look the worse for wear. She felt and looked translucent. Surely she was imagining that she could see the books on the shelves directly behind her? The more she stared the more she realised that the words “Great Expectations” were aligned uncannily perfectly with her nose, or through her nose, or behind her nose..... Her mind balked as she tried to work out the relationship between Dickens’ book and her nose.

Closing her eyes and breathing slowly she decided to move on. No good was coming of her staring through herself in the mirror. Her mind was clearly playing tricks on her and she needed to pull herself together and brave the commute to work. Tardiness was not an option and London Transport waited for no man or woman or hangover.

Part 2: The Commute

Despite her green duffle coat, red woolly hat and 10 miles of blue scarf wrapped around her throat, fingers of morning cold still found vulnerable areas to tickle and nip. Shivering, Michelle blew her warm breath up towards her nose in a vain attempt to defrost it.

Standing at Earlsfield Station was never the highlight of her day. The combination of pain, cold, thirst and tiredness made the whole commuter battle seem impossible. The thought of cramming herself onto an overcrowded train made bile rise to the back of her throat. She’d already let three trains go without joining the herd fighting their way on-board. Unfortunately for every person carried away on the train, another two seemed to appear at the station to take their place. It was now or never, she psyched herself up, ready to muscle her way in.

The next train to pull in was uncharacteristically empty. Although all the seats were taken there was actual standing room, this was a miracle of biblical proportions. Michelle sent a quiet “Thank you” to the god of commuters as she wedged herself in the corridor between the seats. They formed a natural barrier that limited the number of people that could stand or lean on her. Despite this, she still found herself uncomfortably close to an armpit on her left and a newspaper on her right. Couldn’t they stop reading for the 12 minutes it takes to get to Waterloo? She resented being made to feel like a human coffee table. It would have been less obnoxious if the business man reading the paper didn’t glare at her every time she moved her head and it rustled the pages of his Times. She preferred Guardian readers anyway.

Rushing out of the train at Waterloo, Michelle moved with the other commuters, pulled along like water going down a drain. Propelled in to the bowel s of the underground she headed for the Northbound Northern line platform for part 2 of her torturous morning commute. Fortunately Michelle was a seasoned professional and knew exactly where to stand to line up with the doors of the tube train when it arrived.

1 minute later and she had secured herself an actual seat on a train rocking and shaking its way northwards. Michelle briefly closed her eyes and enjoyed the ability to relax. Re-opening her eyes she watched a girl in the far corner carefully applying make-up. As the girl pulled out a mascara wand Michelle shuddered at her bravery, but looked away as she didn’t think she could stomach witnessing an accidental impaling.

She realised that she probably looked pretty shocking. Inspecting her reflection opposite she was startled to discover that she had what looked like stubble all over her chin. Reflexively she stroked her face but there was nothing. No stubble under her fingers and no answering movement in the window opposite. Michelle blinked her eyes firmly to dispel the rather uncomfortable sensation that she wasn’t looking at her own reflection. On re-opening her eyes though nothing had changed. Either she had morphed in to a 30-something ginger haired man in need of a shave or she was sitting opposite the wrong reflection.

Looking desperately along the far window, she couldn’t find herself anywhere and all of the other reflections matched the person sitting opposite them. “Of course” Michelle thought bitterly “I’m the one with an out of whack reflection.” As if to add insult to injury her ginger companion winked and smiled at her. “Brilliant and he’s a comedian” she’d muttered to herself as she scuffed her shoes together violently in confused irritation, stopping only when a maternal looking lady gave her a pointedly concerned look.

Getting off at Warren Street, Michelle moved in autopilot out of the station along her normal route to the office. She was worried that her work colleagues might notice that she had a man’s reflection and she’d never hear the end of it. Surely it was considered a major no-no in client meetings? Feeling rather persecuted, Michelle felt it was just typical something like this would happen to her! Taking a deep breath she stopped and turned to stare in the window of a news-agency. There she was, distinctly transparent but also quite clearly neither ginger nor male. Heaving a big sigh of relief she’d resumed her walk to work.

Maybe everything was going to be OK after all.

Part 3: Eclipsing the dog

Michelle could have hugged her boss when he told her their morning meeting had been cancelled, she doubted she could have survived without seeming completely incompetent. Her gratitude was short lived as he dumped piles of data on her to collate into spreadsheets. It was one of the necessary joys of being the most junior in the team but sometimes she had the paranoid feeling management had meetings to make up mind-numbingly boring tasks for her to do for their own sick amusement.

As it was going to take a while for her geriatric computer to stop complaining and actually start, Michelle decided to go and make a strong medicinal cup of tea. Just as the kettle chorus reached its climax, Rav their creepy CFO ambled in mug in hand. Not in the mood for small talk, Michelle busied herself with the art of tea making, using all her concentration on ensuring that the tag on the tea bag didn’t get dragged in to the swirl of poured boiling water. Looking up to reach for the milk she realised that Rav was staring at her. Feeling guilty for hogging the kettle she offered it to him. Taking it absently from her fumbling fingers before she could scald him with splashes of hot water, Rav continued to stare.

Self consciously pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, Michelle put on her brightest smile. “Big night last night, think there are going to be a lot of sore heads today” she chirped attempting to deflect attention from her own sore head. She wasn’t sure what the Finance department attitude was to week-day hangovers. They were always the wildest at the Christmas party, but that was only once a year and it was probably allowed in their contracts.

“Michelle, once you have finished preparing your tea, please pop round my office, there’s something I need to discuss with you” Rav answered. Michelle’s heart sank; the distinct lack of inappropriate banter surely meant she was in trouble.

After taking as long as possible to ensure she’d squeezed every ounce of juice out of the tea bag, Michelle headed to Rav’s office, clasping her mug like a weapon between her fingers. As she walked into the office, Rav expressionlessly indicated she should sit before settling in his own seat behind his uncomfortably tidy desk.

“When I was a boy, we used to play a game called “Eclipsing the Dog”. My parents played it, my grandparents. It goes back generations.”

Michelle looked up with surprise from her mug, unclear where Rav was going with this, and confused to find him looking at her with patent concern.

“You wouldn’t be able to play it in London, too much artificial lighting reflected off the sky. But where I grew up, there wasn’t this problem. The days were bright and the nights was pitch black except for a ceiling of stars During the day the sun used to make our shadows stretch out beside us and on cloudy days you could watch the shadows of the clouds dust over fields and buildings. It was on those days that we’d play. I still remember how we used to giggle and scream”

Sighing Rav paused to take a sip of his tea, reminding Michelle to gulp down some of her own.

“It was a serious business. You couldn’t let the shadow of a cloud cover your shadow. The rules stated that, once covered, you’d lost. The theory being that the cloud would steal your shadow. I was terrified that it would really happen to me one day.”

Michelle could eyes were riveted on Rav, she’d never seen him so solemn and there was something in the slow way he was unwrapping his story, his eyes misted over with nostalgia, that soothed her.

“It’s ironic that it’s when I moved to study in the city, that I became exposed to the real threat. In a place where shadows have no room to breathe, where they live on top of each other and are reduced to pale, insipid forms in the glaring lights and teasing half-lights.”

Rav stopped for another sip of tea, Michelle still transfixed could feel a growing knot of unease in her guts. She didn’t want to ask but knew she had to “why are you telling me this?”

“Michelle, you’re a bright, sensitive young lady, you know that something’s wrong. That you’re not yourself”

“Well I’ll admit I’m a tad hung-over today, last night was a little on the crazy side” she tried to joke, while swallowing down the golf ball sized lump in her throat as her mind chose that moment to run an action replay of winking ginger reflections.

“That’s not what I mean. If that were it I’d have the whole office in here. Are you telling me you haven’t noticed anything strange today?”

“Well maybe” Michelle mumbled quietly, reluctant to open up to Rav and embracing her inner petulant six-year-old.

“There’s no maybe Michelle, you’ve lost your shadow and if you don’t get it back soon, you won’t care enough to!” Rav leant forward over his desk to lend addition emphasis to his words “Do you understand? Too long without it and your spark will be gone! Forever!”

Michelle wished that Rav would stop over-doing it with the exclamation marks and the overly dramatic eyebrow lifts. All she wanted was sleep, anything beyond that required superhuman strength. Now he wanted her to worry about tracking down lost shadows.

“Ok so I’m not feeling very sparky today, but I’ve learned my lesson, tequila shots are a stupid idea. I don’t know what else you expect me to do? I just want to get through today and go to sleep, I feel rotten”
“Think beyond the hangover Michelle, this is on top of the hangover”

“Rav, no offence but I really can’t cope with anything on top of the hangover and I really should be getting back to my desk, I have a mountain of data to get through”

“Michelle, please” The earnestness of Rav’s plea stopped her as she moved to get up. She slumped back awkwardly into the chair and turned to look at him. His brown eyes were darkened with worry. “I’ve seen what this does. I don’t want this to happen to you. You must find it, it can’t wait. I’ll tell your boss that you’re unwell and I sent you home. Go and look please!”

Intimidated by the urgency in his voice, Michelle cracked “but I don’t know where to start” she protested as a tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away, sniffing loudly over the injustice of this happening to her.

“Try the lost property office at Waterloo. It’s in a corner in the corridors near the entrance for the Bank train. It’s easy to miss if you aren’t looking for it. The man who works there may be able to help you, his name’s Jenkins”

Part 4: What did you expect?

“What am I doing?” Michelle muttered to herself as she staggered wearily through Waterloo. The static whine of the death-glow lighting was making her head buzz. She’d never been gracious when sick so being hung-over and shadow-less wasn’t helping her demeanour one bit. She trundled along oblivious to the looks other commuters were shooting her while giving her a wide berth, reluctant to be dragged into her circle of gloom.

Shrugging her over-loaded handbag to balance more comfortably on her shoulder, Michelle squinted at the options ahead of her. Deciding that this “Lost Property” office was probably lurking on the most inconspicuous looking corridor she headed semi-purposefully to her far left, to an entrance that seemed to be trying its utmost to be ignored. Within seconds she was rewarded with a dilapidated sign saying “←Lost Proper##”, the last couple of letters obscured by what looked like engine oil.

Following the arrow Michelle found herself facing a dimly lit staircase that smelled strongly of urine. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Michelle held her breath as she tripped awkwardly up stairs which curved upwards and round for a lengthy flight.

Her destination resembled an old fashioned coat check area, nothing more than a glorified hatch with a shadowy room behind. She would have thought it completely deserted if it weren’t for “Careless Whisper” playing on a retro eighties style boom box, perched incongruously on an otherwise completely empty shelf.

Clearing her throat Michelle called out “Um hello is anybody here?”

Other than George Michael’s singing there was no response

“Hello I’m looking for someone called Jenkins?” she tried again after a brief pause, feeling semi-relieved that it looked like she’d be able to call this whole thing off and head for the refuge of her bed and the welcoming arms of oblivion, where she belonged.

She almost jumped out of her skin when a face popped up from directly below the hatch, as if he’d been lying on the floor.

“Yes, what do you want?” The face was followed by a lanky body, pulling itself up from behind the counter, before finally towering over her, complete with scowl and thick layer of dust.

“I’m looking for Jenkins” Michelle repeated in her most helpful, efficient office voice, which was her standard default when uncomfortable.

“I heard you the first time, I’m not deaf. I’m Jenkins”

He wasn’t what she’d expected. In her mind’s eye Jenkins had been a Dickensian character with tufts of haphazard white hair, a letter box mouth and a tendency to repeat phrases like “aren’t we in a pickle”. He hadn’t been a 20 something scruff who clearly couldn’t be arsed to deal with her.

“Is there another Jenkins?” She asked hopefully, peering behind into the empty room behind. At least she thought it was empty but the more she looked, the more it seemed to churn with life. Feeling queasy she looked away and back towards the unsmiling face of hopefully the wrong Jenkins.

“I’m sure there are plenty of Jenkins’, but I’m the only one here. I see you’ve a little problem”

He nodded his head to indicate the conspicuously empty space behind her where her shadow should have been squatting obediently at her feet.

“Yes, I was told you might be able to help” So he was the right Jenkins after all, well maybe he’d warm to her. In her mind she was already concocting romantic scenarios where he’d save her shadow and turn out to be the love of her life. She had a bit of a thing for tall skinny men.

“Depends on where you lost it, I haven’t seen any shadows matching your description today”

“But I haven’t described it yet” Michelle answered pleadingly, only to be rewarded with a look that spoke volumes about just how stupid her last remark was.

“Oh right, I see what you mean” she answered lamely. “Sorry, it’s been a weird day. So, if my shadow isn’t here, any ideas of where I should look next?”

“Well it depends” he answered, chewing on a rather well worn pencil. “Either it got took, or it left. What were the circumstances of its disappearance?”

“I was out with work colleagues, just the usual crowd, drinking too much. I woke up this morning with a hangover and without a shadow. That’s the long and the short of it.”

“Ah I see. What do you do?”

“I work in advertising, well the planning side, I don’t actually make ads. I just make sure the right people see them.”

“And is this what you always wanted to do?”

“Not really. I’ve never really known what I want to do. I just stumbled in to it. I got offered the job and I took it. But I’m not sure what this has got to do with anything?”

“Let me be the judge of that” Jenkins responded before plunging into an interrogation that the Inquisition would have been in awe of. Michelle answered his questions as best she could with a bruised brain, feeling a wash of relief when he eventually stopped quizzing her. Suddenly silent he seemed fascinated by a spot about a metre over her head.

“Well?” she prompted.

“Well? What did you expect?” Jenkins responded tetchily, his eyes snapping back to look critically at her. “You don’t create anything. You don’t help people. You don’t seem to serve any real function in life. Seriously what did you expect?”

“Being a judgemental bastard isn’t helping me feel any better.”

“I wasn’t being a bastard, I was explaining the situation. Your life is aimless. Chances are your shadow’s decided to go off and do something a bit more rewarding with its time on the planet.”

“But shadows can’t do that” Michelle spluttered, not knowing whether he was being serious or if he was just trying to upset her even more.

“Really, you’re an expert are you? What’s to stop them? It doesn’t sound like you really need it. Your life is pretty two dimensional. You seem happy enough, you’ve no major goals, no ambition, what are you worried about? You can function perfectly fine without it.”

“But I want it back” Michelle was astounded by just how blasé Jenkins was being

“And I want a multi-million pound house with river views, but life’s shit that way. “

Michelle gaped at Jenkins. She couldn’t think of a single good retort. Her head hurt. “Holding out for a hero” was now playing on the radio and it was way too hectic for her.

“So you’re saying I don’t need it?”

“Nah, not for what you do. You’ll probably do better without.”

“Oh. Wll in that case...” Subdued Michelle stifled a yawn, her eyes aching under the weight of un-used sleep. Mumbling a half-hearted “thanks” she turned, too tired to argue anymore. She slowly trudged away, drawn inexorably bed-wards.

Once home she slept a deep, dark sleep. She didn’t dream. She didn’t move. When she woke up the next morning, she felt fine. She didn’t waste time wallowing in the events of the day before. She got up, washed, dressed, commuted, worked (avoiding Rav), drank and came home again. Again and again she followed the same cycle, interspersed with weekends and sporadic holidays to exotic places with friends and lovers.

Cradled in the comforting arms of routine, Michelle was happy. While she quickly forgot all about him, it turned out Jenkins was right; she never did miss her shadowy hanger-on.

IOU an ending to lost property.....

....and this ending will come soon! But not today.

I've been focused on other writing related projects, so it isn't slackness delaying Part 4 going up. The weekend before last I spent 3 days doing storytelling bookcamp a la Robert McKee. I learnt a lot but over 11 hours each day doing my best impersonation of a sponge while sitting in a cramped cinema seat was exhausting. It was definitely worth doing though.

This past weekend I wrote a short story that I'm going to enter in the Guardian weekend short story competition (deadline this Friday scary!). I can't pop it up here as that would disqualify it (as would mean previously published, you have to laugh!). Once the judging has passed though I'll pop it on here (unless by some miracle I win, but I don't fancy my chances, I just need the goal to write towards). I thought I would explore a different genre (a sort of "who done it") for me, but really it's an exercise in character development. I've really enjoyed doing it. It is called Pathetique, and is on the nose 2000 words lol. I've re-drafted the story today following some really helpful feedback from my small critics circle (thanks guys, you know who you are!). It's really interesting what they picked up on. If anything, while I may not directly followed all the feedback, it has prompted me to re-think elements, given the readers perspective. Which has been great fun. My problem is that I know the characters far too well, so some things that are obvious to me needed spelling out more.

So once I have a final version of Pathetique sent out to the Guardian I'm planning to write up the final installment of Lost Property. It is all finished in my head, but I need to put pen to paper so that you can read it. Saying that, it is interesting writing in installments, as it limits you ability to go back & revise. I would probably tweek elements of the first 3 parts if I could, but won't as they are out there now warts and all. Plus for me this is all practise, which make you poor souls my willing guinea pigs. Obviously there's nothing good on TV.

My next project is a short story for the Tonto short story competition. I've got a couple of ideas that are at draft concept stage. I'm going to let them ferment while I finish up Lost Property. So this weekend will be about fleshing up the concepts and seeing if I get really excited about any of them. The joy of the Tonto comp is that you can write as much as 5000 words or as little as a bit of flash fiction, so I'm less restricted on form. For the discipline of writing and constructing I'm going to go for a longer form. I'll leave my flash fiction for this blog, just for you special folk.

Well it is passed midnight so I'd better go to bed. Louis has already turned into a pumpkin on the chair, cutest pumpkin I've ever seen though : )

Happy dreams, whatever they may be