Character Plus Conflict Equals Plot

There had been a plan. I was sure of it. That was part of my rôle in the story. Of course, I hadn't paid much attention to the plan, because the protagonist's plan must go wrong, somehow. Basic story-telling. Creative Writing 101. Still, just because the paper God had foisted the plan on me, didn't make it mine, did it? Sometimes I think these scribblers know nothing about real life. Not the real life that goes on between the covers.

Anyway, I was living in Port Talbot. Not through choice, you understand. Not my choice, at least. I think perhaps the inky-fingered puppet-master had decided to write about what he knew. I, and you, no doubt, would have preferred something more exotic. Aberystwyth, perhaps. Maybe there were too many P.I.s there already. See! Quite neat that, I thought. The man with his name below the title would have written :

'Dick Katzpaugh, a grizzled army veteran, prowled the mean streets of Port Talbot, tailing Merthyr hard men's mistresses and wives to hotels and bars.'

Luckily, I keep him in line. Most of the time.

Back to the plan, whatever it was. It was a June day. Rain and wind. The town smelled like fish. I was sitting in the saloon bar of the Peg Entwistle, admiring the five o'clock shadow on the transvestite landlord. (I know, I baulked at that, but what can you do? Sometimes they forget that it's the characters that make the story.) The door swung wide. She came in like a storm-blown plastic bag. The bin-liner dress was so passé. Water pooled at her feet, mingling with the sticky sap of the carpet.

'Dou-ble vodka and cran-ber-ry juice, Ri-ta!'

I winced at her Mountain Ash vowels. The bar-person - I wish he wouldn't put this PC stuff in my mouth, I suppose he thinks his editor likes it. What does she know? Bet she's never even been to South Wales.

Whatever. Rita poured too much licquor into a half-pint mug and growled,

'Cystitis, is it?'

Maybe she walked a little gingerly because her disruptive pattern leggings were soaked and chafing. I was at the bar, she sidled up to me like a crab and I thought it probably was cystitis. Rita continued polishing glasses, rubbing hard at the lipstick marks, too many of which were her own shade. (Read too much of this stuff and it'll rub off. Stop now, that's my advice).

The woman necked the drink and slammed the empty on the bar.

'Not cystitis, Rita. Just finished the night-walk around Tiger Bay.'

If it wasn't cystitis now, it would be.

I pulled out a Browning and shot the woman through the eye. Couldn't help it. I'd had enough of this obsession with a female urinary tract complaint. Besides, you've got to make the guy with the typewriter work sometimes.

Rita fainted. I tried to go through the dead woman's belongings, but she had no handbag and the bin liner had no pockets. Without quite knowing why I pulled down her leggings and saw she had a small purse duct-taped to her thigh. It made a sickly sound as I tore it away. There was some identification in it. A card from the Neath Public Library in the name of Clara Bow. I pocketed two fifties and a ten. I wondered who'd given her the 10p.

Rita stirred behind the bar and I found myself looking down two-barrels.

'It was a perfectly good story before you ruined it, Dick Katzpaugh! Why can't you follow the plot!'

I didn't answer, ever. She pulled the triggers. I heard two clicks like two keys on a Remington and the loud bang of a predictable denouement.