STORY COMP
M
alcolm Todd’s story
Tritos of Penthene
Asks his Question of
the God Amunoun in
the Camel-boat is a masterclass
in characterisation, from
the opening line to the fi nal
paragraph where Tritos
decides how he will deal with
the knowledge that his son
may be his brother’s child.
All through the story I
accepted Tritos as a real
person with genuine concerns.
Here was someone who was
doing the best he could for
his family. I believed I had
gone back in time to a place
I’d never been but knew
i n t i m a t e l y.
The pain of his insecurity
rings loud and clear. As a boy,
wanting reassurance of his
father’s love, he forgot to ask
a simple yes or no question.‘Am I my father’s favourite
son, or is it Xeno?’ – ‘No.’ It
was an answer, but to which
half of the question I could not
tell. I did not go with my father
the following year; he took Xeno
instead, and I thought that a
clearer answer than any the god
could give me.‘Ill-favoured’ in looks,
Titos’s fear of his good-
looking brother eclipsing
him in his wife’s and son’s
aff ections is distracting him
from framing the correct
question to ask of the god.Suddenly, I am plagued by
the vision of my brother on
the morning of my departure,
standing in the doorway of my
house, holding my son in his
arms as he raises one hand in
farewell, my wife standing close
behind him below the lintel of
the door. I remember how he
urged me to leave sooner, to be
away longer.Even though he tries to
put the thought out of his
mind, the doubt over his son’s
parentage rises to the fore at
exactly the wrong time.As the Camel-head disappears
behind the pillar, I focus my willand ask the god that protects my
house:
Is Xenophilen truly my son?
Oh no.
Oh no.
What have I done?The confusion he suff ers
after this dreadful moment
leads him to take one wrong
street after another while
trying to fi nd his way out of
the city. But this, in turn, also
allows him to come to terms
with what he now believes to
be the truth.
He has found acceptance
and will keep his own counsel.
This is wonderful writing
which allowed me to
inhabit Tritos’s head. At
fi rst I sympathised, then
I empathised, and fi nally
agreed with his decision to
remain silent.L
et me say upfront that
I am not a massive
fan of writers writing
about being writers.
All too often there isn’t
enough in the plot to make
the telling interesting. It’s all
in the Plotting by Dora Bona
is an exception. This is a
delightfully humorous story
of revenge, the art of plotting
and, ultimately, murder.
The opening contains some
lovely black humour which
comes as a surprise in the
second paragraph.So... do you... think you
could take the cuffs off? My
circulation’s not great. No, no,
I’m not whining, but I’m already
tied to the chair – it’s not like I’m
going anywhere.We soon get the picture of
a narrator whose arrogance
stops her from coming to
terms with the enormity of
her predicament. We only
hear one side of the dialogue,
but are able to picture the
scene from what is being said
by the narrator.So what do you think is the
fi rst factor in writing a murder
story?
No, not the murderer. See?‘Tues-day.’ The word came in two parts. Something straddling
another bizarre milestone. Before Neive’s voice cracked and after.
He could hear her taking gulps of air. ‘He must have gone straight
from the hospital to you. I haven’t seen him since. I’m back home
now,’ she added.
There was another silence. Not comfortable, but at least familiar.
A moment shared with someone else who’d been let down. And for
that moment, he felt close to Neive. Then it passed and they were
just two people connected by a betrayal. She said something and he
had to ask her to repeat it. Did he have any idea where Liam might
have gone?
‘Back to the helter-skelter, I imagine.’
He laughed without knowing he was going to and there was
another familiar silence as he fl ushed with shame.
Liam had returned again, to Filey-on-Sea. He’d been there some
time before he was found. Though Eamon wondered if found was
the right word; it implied someone had been looking for him. The
hard points of absence and disappointment, so long a feature of
Eamon’s landscape, had eroded his ability to worry. Worry became
anger, became impatience, became just waiting.
Sitting where Liam had sat two weeks before drinking decaf
coff ee, the policewoman assured him the injuries had been
consistent with a painless passing. Her awkward phrase was
oddly comforting. The practised blandness of ‘he didn’t suff er’
would have sounded like a lie. But her words, made of corners and
refusing to roll smoothly, had an ugliness that, in Eamon’s experi-
ence, only came from truth.
The fall was estimated at thirty feet and a verdict of death by
misadventure was delivered. A security fi rm that should have done
more to keep the public off the pier paid a fi ne and lost its contract.
They’d found no narcotics in Liam’s system. It seemed, for his
last touchdown, the freefall of the helter-skelter had been enough.
About the author Holidaying as a child at Clacton-on-Sea
introduced Russell Day to the joys of the helter skelter. Reading
an article about the decline of the ageing seaside resort put the
idea for The Complexity of Simple in his head.The Complexity of Simple continuedHighly commended
There were six other shortlisted stories this month:Witness by Peter Johnson
Gone the Match by Dan Thompson
Mike the Bike by Ruth Edwardson
Mightier than the Sword by Pamela Gough
A Lesson for a Fairy by Luke Dane Gray
Oranges and Lemons by Lucy Nichol