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The heron and the fish. (standard:Suspense, 6629 words)
Author: OJ AmbroseAdded: Dec 06 2002Views/Reads: 2202/1368Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The National Security Team find themselves in a situation with a sniper, and call in their expert prisoner. Whilst things seem routine, there are darker motives lurking. A powerful suspense story with classic double cross and suprise ending.
 



Foreword: This story was originally written for my GCSE coursework
creative writing. I'd wanted to submit a story to nicestories.com for a 
while, but hadn't had the time to write one. When this work came 
around, I felt it a great oppurtunity to submit a story, as I had to do 
the story even if I was pushed for time. My teacher said the first 
draft was professionally written, and I have only made few changes so 
hopefully it is still a good read. I hand in my final draft, which is 
this, tomorrow, which is the sixth of December 2002, so wish me luck! 
The original tone of the story was a lot darker and more mysterious, 
but my teacher complained that she could not understand most of our 
stories, so I have had to change some things to make them more obvious 
and/or simple. Also note that I have no spell checker, so there might 
be a few mistakes. The layout may also be a bit odd, but nicestories 
wouldn't let me have the speech indented on the next line, so I had to 
leave gaps. Please enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, 
and remember, if you ever see 'OJ Ambrose's The Heron and The Fish' in 
the shops, pride yourself on being one of the first to read it. 

The Heron and the Fish 

It was a bright summer's day in London, and Mickey O' Rourke smiled as
he observed the people milling like ants in the street below. He flared 
his nostrils and a took a deep breath from the sliver of open window, 
the air flowing into his nose like a ocean wave, then turned and walked 
slowly to the table that stood in the middle of the room. Unlike 
outside, the air in this small room was heavy and musky, making the 
four men inside feel uneasy. Despite the foreboding atmosphere, 
Mickey's smile broadened and he shook his head as he spoke in his 
friendly not quite English, not quite Irish voice, 

"Geez, it's been a while. Seven years ago Chiswick was no more than a
few shops and some houses." He gestured to the window, "Now look at the 
place!" He pulled out the available chair, and looked across the table 
at the man seated in the other. He sighed deeply, and his smiling face 
was replaced with a thoughtful expression. 

"Paul Dillon," he said slowly. "You crafty bugger. I'm guessing you
brought me here for something more than talking about my fair old town 
Chiswick?" The person he addressed as Paul Dillon was a man of about 
thirty. He had short dark brown hair and strong blue eyes. His face and 
overall posture conveyed the air of someone wise and powerful, like an 
emperor or god.  His held a slight smile. His accent was English. Not 
quite cockney, but you couldn't call it anything else. He spoke in a 
sly voice. 

"Ah yes. You are quite right Mr O' Rourke." He paused, and flicked his
head back. The two men standing behind him shuffled through a small 
door. Mickey and Paul locked eyes in silence, while the two men scanned 
the room with hawk like integrity, searching for possible weapons or 
escape routes. When satisfied they left and stood outside, leaving the 
door to close itself. The sound of the door swinging closed broke the 
silence like a judge's hammer. Mickey knew that when the man you are 
talking to sends both his bodyguards out of the room, something big is 
coming. His face showed interest and concentration,  like a cat 
watching a piece of dangling string, as Paul began to speak, 

"I have a..." He paused for a few seconds and nothing could be heard but
the faint and distant sounds of life from outside, seeming like 
secretive whispers. Paul's face was a potrait of seriousness as he 
continued, "Proposition for you." 

Graham and John stood outside the room, one on either side of the door.
They were both tall, wide men, dressed like executioners in morbid 
black suits. A morsel of white shirt was visible underneath, creating 
an ironic and contradictory image against the dark jackets, ties, 
trousers and even sun glasses. Graham had removed his shades, and waved 
them in the air as he peered through the small window set in the door. 

"I dunno man," he said in a deep American accent, shaking his head. "How
can that little Irish dude be this big mastermind criminal guy? I mean, 
look at him!" He was quite right. You wouldn't think he was in any way 
involved with crime. He had short, messy black hair and brown eyes. 
Nothing odd there. Like most Irish, he had a cheery face and was a laid 
back person. He wasn't particularly well built, but he was quite 
visibly strong and agile. So what? Most people like to work out. The 


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