Thursday, 31 July 2008

3 - The War On Curran

Captain Curran sat back in his favourite armchair, astonished. The Times lay open on the glass coffee table. It was spread wide, with several coffee rigns on its top corner. The offending mug now say empty and cold.

Captain Curran, who had finished serving for the US army almost a decade ago, was a bulky man. He was just a little bit over-weight, but with his broad shoulders, his height and his sharp jaw, no one noticed. He'd started to grow a dark brown moustache - one that suited his face in an uncannily stereotypical way.

Curran's hair had just started its retreat, weary from its 48 years of life service. This hair was dark brown and neatly combed back. Like the drooping, thick moustache it fitted so perfectly with his face and his sharp jaw that he seemed unreal.

Curran was a man just past his prime, a man easily identified in a crowd as an ex-US officer. He was in his comfy London apartment with his glamourous wife. His two sons were both at university. The younger of the sons was doing Sociology, the older was doing Mathematics at Harvard.

The Captain's life was relaxed and successful and comfortable. Until now, that is.

He slowly read the small article again. Police had acted on a tip-off...arrived at an apparently empty and locked house...there had been a break in...they had noticed smoke...the house had burnt...a charred body had been found...the body of Thomas Miller.

"Tommy" the Captain murmured. 'Private Miller' he thought, 'why have you done this to me? why have you been murdered now?'