This is part of the #MAYnia challenge run by the Hive account@freewritehouse. Today I have written 1785 words. Some of them were written using the following prompts

Today's Maynia prompt: leather satchel
@freewritehouse/maynia-day-eleven
The Daily Freewrite prompt: water tower
@mariannewest/day-932-5-minute-freewrite-sunday-prompt-water-tower

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_{_{If you have nothing better to do you can read my previous “chapters”: _{One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten}}}
…

Jack Painter slept badly. The telephone conversation with Ernie, the murders, Penny Draper going round and round his head. He often had nights where Penny wouldn’t leave him alone. He had failed her. He’d thought that at the time. And if Ernie wasn’t pulling his plonker - and Ernie wasn’t the time to play cruel tricks on his friends - then he was right. He shouldn’t have let them close the case. He should have done more for Penny when she was alive. And he should have investigated her death more thoroughly.

He finally got out of bed at half-past five and watched the day brighten sitting on his porch, wrapped in a blanket, sipping coffee from his favourite mug.

At seven he took a shower and got some papers together, stuffing them and a notebook into an old battered briefcase, and stood by the door. He suddenly felt like he a boy again. Waiting by the door, his leather satchel over his shoulder, chomping at the bit to go to school.

His mother always laughed and said if it were up to Jack he'd live at school. That might not have been entirely true, but Jack loved school. He was an odd child, he thought now as he stood at the door. Strange in many ways.

At five past seven, he would kiss his mother on the cheek and run out of the door down the lane, past the water tower, to the main road, where the school bus would arrive around seven-fifteen. He liked to time it so he would arrive at the bus stop just as the bus rounded the corner.

He never liked waiting too long at the bus stop.

His father worked in the forests surrounding their family home. Jack didn’t like the forests. The creak of the trees, the rustle of the leaves. Something about it sent shivers up and down his spine. Much to his father's obvious disappointment Jack prefered sitting in his room reading to running around the forest.

“You’ve spoiled that child,” his father would grumble. “Reading him all those fairy tales about children being pursued by witches and wolves and the like.”

“Don’t be an arse,” his mother would say in her thick Irish accent. “The child knows the difference between fact and fiction.”

That much was, of course, true. Jack did know the difference. But he did have a wild imagination. Years later, when working murder cases as a policeman, he wondered if his imagination was the thing that made him such a good investigator. When faced with a dead body, he didn’t immediately jump to the obvious conclusion, he liked to imagine all the different scenarios and possibilities. Sometimes they were so ridiculously far fetched that he would never speak them outloud for fear of being “carted away by the men in the white coats”, as his mother would have said.

But as a child, his imagination tormented him as much as helped him. The bus stop backed on to the forest. Jack always felt as though the trees were watching him. Mocking him.

It was silly. He knew it was silly.

But it didn’t stop him from imagining it.

He still distrusted forests. But he no longer thought the trees were alive, watching him or mocking him.

He thought about taking the car, but it could be difficult to park in Humpbucke-on-Sea, although that was mostly during the summer months when the population swelled due to the tourists. He would take the bus. After all, he was old enough to have been issued a bus pass. He might as well make use of it.

He walked down the gravel path, the crunch beneath his shoes loud in the still morning air. The bus service up here was erratic, but it was much better now with the app on his phone. When he had first moved up here with Valerie they had decided to take the bus into town one afternoon. They had checked the bus timetable and there was supposed a bus every forty minutes. They waited almost two hours before giving up and taking the car. With the new app you could check before you left the house that the bus was on its way, if it was delayed, or canceled.

Thanks to technology Jack only had to wait at the stop for three minutes before it rounded the corner. He raised his arm to signal he wanted it to stop (he was never sure if this was something he was supposed to do or not) and then smiled at the driver, showed his bus pass and said thank you.

There were a few other passengers but none of them raised their eyes from their phones, so Jack didn’t bother saying good morning to them. He sat down near the back and stared out of the window as the bus winded its way down to Humpbuckle-on-Sea.

The bus terminated at the small bus station on the east side of the town. There was another bus service that took you from the bus station and up along the coastal road, but it was only a ten minute walk so Jack walked out of the station, pausing to pick up a paper from the kiosk just outside, and headed off towards the sea.

He was early, he realised, checking his watch. Far too early. Ernie wouldn’t be open yet. There was a café not far from Ernie’s shop, not far from pier. A cup of coffee and a bacon sandwich would do him no harm at all.

When he pushed the door of the café open, Tricia the owner looked up and gave him a nod. He used to spend a lot of time in here when he was working. Valerie used to jokingly refer to it as his second office.

“Jack!” Tricia said. “Great to see you! It’s been a while.”

“I retired,” Jack said. “I don’t come down here as often as I should.” He looked at his feet for a moment and then back up, deliberately making eye contact. “Valerie died.”

“Yes,” Tricia said. “I know. I’m so sorry. I was at the service. But I didn’t stick around to give you my condolences.” She looked embarrassed. “I had to reopen.”

“Thank you,” Jack said. “Thanks for coming. It means a lot. People have been kind. It takes some getting used to. Her not being here.”

“I can only imagine,” Tricia said. “Take a seat. Coffee? Bacon sarnie?” Jack nodded. “I’ll bring it over.”

He took a seat on the table next to the counter, took out his paper and began to read.

“Here you are,” Tricia said, placing a plate in front of him, and a large mug beside it. “You got everything you need? Ketchup and brown sauce?”

Jack thanked her and began to eat. The door opened and a young girl walked in. She ordered a coffee and sat down at a table next to the window. She looked like a student to Jack. She put her coat over the back of the chair, and her bag next to it, and then came back to the counter to collect her coffee, exchanging a smile with Jack.

Jack finished his sandwich and his coffee and chatted about old times with Tricia. The door opened again and an older couple came in. They were greeted by the student. Family. Jack thought. Parents perhaps, coming to spend a day at the seaside and sea their daughter at the same time.

Jack looked at his watch. Ernie said he would be in a bit early. Around nine-thirty. He stood up and took his wallet out.

“Your money is no good here,” Tricia said. “It’s on the house.”

“I’m not a charity case,” Jack said.

“I know. It’s not charity. You spent enough money in here over the years, Jack. Go on, bugger off. And don’t leave it so long, next time.”

Jack smiled, said goodbye and turned. He almost colided with the man who had come to meet the student.

“Sorry!” the man said.

“No problem,” Jack said.

“I’ll have three coffees,” he heard the man say as he left. “And some cake. What cake have you got?”

Outside, the wind was blowing in from the sea. Jack stood and took a deep breath. He had missed the sea air. Silly to live so close to the sea and not come and see it. He promised himself he would do that more often.

As he neared the pier he could see the shutters on The Old Man And The Sea were half up. He waited for a break in the traffic - he didn’t have to wait long, there were very few cars - and ran across the road. The door was closed behind the half-closed shutters. Jack rapped on it three times. He heard Ernie shout something and then heard the rattle of a key in a lock. The door opened and Ernie's hand came out, beckoning him in.

“You can’t expect me to crawl under there!” Jack said.

“Come on, old man,” Ernie said. “If I can do it, I’m sure you can. If I raise the shutter any more the punters will think we’re open and then we’ll never get any peace.”

Jack looked up and down the road. He didn’t see anyone who looked like they would be in desperate need of a second hand book.

“Come on!”

Jack sighed and bent down and squeezed himself through the gap.

“Bloody hell,” he puffed as he straightened up. There facing him, standing next to Ernie was a young girl, a slightly older boy and a woman. “Sorry,” Jack said. “Excuse my french.”

“That’s not French,” the girl said. “That’s swearing.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack said again. “My name is Jack Painter. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to.”

“My name is Heather,” the girl said. “This is my mummy. And this is my brother, Billy.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” the boy said, stepping forward to shake Jack’s hand. “I’ve never met a real author before.”

“I’m not sure you have, now,” Ernie said, winking at Jack.

“Hello,” the woman - Heather’s mother said. “My name is Cynthia. I’m not sure if you can help us. My son seems to think you might.”

The boy, Billy, nodded and the girl, Heather, stepped forward. As she did so Jack noticed something about her face that he hadn’t seen at first.

“I met Mr Poppery,” she said. She pointed to the mark on her face. The colour drained from Jack’s face as he was suddenly reminded of Penny Draper’s face. “He did this to me. I don’t think he is a very nice man.”