JACK OF DIAMONDS, REDUX

CHAPTER 11 EDITING PROCESS

The roads were a boggy mess. Niles was glad to have taken he rode the Triumph out rather than using Charlie’s Austin—under the circumstances. There were times he’d had to get off the bike and push it out of the mud, which reminded him of his time at the Front, serving as a motorcycle courier. It had been much the same as was pretty much like this on a good night, he told himself. He couldn’t imagine what the trip out would’ve been like in the Austin. He hoped the doctor didn’t have any trouble. made it out safely.

The man’s far too old to be standing his auto out of in the mud, he told himself.

Still, the night was clear, and any threat of the rain they’d had for the past three days had been blown out to sea by a with calm but steady wind, coming up from the south. A waning moon hung above the horizon, lighting his way as if it was like a dull street lamp in the distance. The soft moonlight enabled helped him to see  enough to avoid the larger puddles and potholes, which made him wonder how long it would take the current government to deliver on their promise of an extensive roadway through all of England. It was a project that would literally be years in development, and would cost millions—if not billions.

But a cost well worth it, he thought.

He crested a low rising hill and saw the manor house standing in the distance swathed in a pool of pale moonlight that just at that moment broke through the scattered clouds. How anyone could even consider calling such a monstrosity a home was beyond him. He shut the motor down for a moment—shaking the machine out of habit and listening to the petrol swish about the tank. He sat back, taking his muddy goggles off just to take in the sight.

The silence was noticeable. It was the kind of silence you only find in the countryside, he realized, where a murmur is nothing more than the humming of cicada, or the beating of one’s own heart. The lights in the manor were on, and he supposed that whatever clues he may have hoped to find, would be gone by the time he got there.

I should’ve told her not to let anyone touch anything.

He kick-started the Triumph again, feeling the vibration of the machine through his arms before he sat down back in the saddle, pulling his muddy goggles down and readjusting his hat. He wondered if the vibration in his arms was a factor leading to the motoritis the medical journals were clamouring about. And it was all brought on by riding motorcycles, of course.

Of course.

It was a totally, ludicrous. proposition, as far as he was concerned. Where were all the medical specialists when he was out riding during the war?

All the same, I’d like to ride these hills when the weather clears up.

The countryside was wide open, much like the fields of France had been before the big guns desecrated the landscape. The trees that skirted the horizon appeared to be dark shadows leaning against the moonlit sky behind them; the stars a brilliant cascade of light that ran as far away as forever. There was something enchanting, almost romantic—(as if he knew anything about romance) looking up at the night sky.

It was beyond enchanting when one you considered how the ancients had mapped out the night sky, filling it with gods and goddesses; it made one wonder. All the myths of Man are in the night sky, his father used to say, teaching as he taught him how to read the stars. He’ Nigel had used the stars once when he was alone at night and lost in the fields, looking for some obscure location to deliver a message.

It My life always seems to come back to the War, doesn’t it?