#robert ackroyd

[yourfavealbumisgender]

Dance Fever by Florence and the Machine is Transgender and Asexual!

requested by anon

[dovebuffy92]

[noah-luck-easterly]

I have a suggestion for your incorrect quotes.

[glassesmcfancyhair]

If you like Leverage you should go watch Sneakers. 1992. Robert Redford, Sidney Poitier, Dan Ackroyd, Ben Kingsley, River Phoenix, David Strathairn. It’s got hacking and jokes and suspense and on this rewatch I found myself going “this is like a precursor to Leverage.” So yeah. Go watch it.

[litmot-archived]

Act III — Titanic

Scene ii — The Crash

previous scene // overview // read on ao3 // next scene

Warnings: smoking, character death

Your hands were clammy as you flexed them, trying to shake the anxious feeling crawling up from your chest to your throat. Dove and Bashir were talking, bantering about something you could not pay attention to. You could see Ackroyd pouring himself another coffee. The world around you seemed more like a stage play you watched as a spectator. 

You felt strangely disconnected from yourself, futilely grasping at the strings of a world that had morphed into something unrecognizable — seeking out the familiar in another dimension. 

Dove had asked about Stockton as soon as you came in, Asirel close behind. Her eyes had bored into you, waiting for your reassuring words. You could hardly remember what you had told her, waving away her concern as more pressing issues weighed on your mind. 

The Quetza Hotel could crash and burn for all you cared. Vampires were real. That changed everything. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, hiding the gesture behind your hand as you rubbed against your forehead, feigning a headache. 

That was a lie. Quetza was important. If the hotel chain toppled, that would mean utter disaster — you did care about it. But you had faith in Tara. She would turn the situation around, as she always did. 

What worried you now were the mythics, and the mysterious group of lunatics running around and selling them. This was your priority. This was what you needed to take care of.

This was what made your chest ache painfully, your heartbeat reverberating through it and drowning out everything else. You needed to tell them — Dove, Bashir and Ackroyd. They needed to know about this, but as you sat in the red cushioned chair, surrounded by the ocean of blue in Atlantis, you found the words sticking to your tongue. 

How does someone go about explaining something as ludicrous as this? 

“—is more probable. Don’t you think?”

You hummed, blinking a few times before turning your gaze to Bashir. She was not looking at you, her deep brown eyes fixed on Asirel instead. 

“Asirel?”

He looked more spaced out than you, his head lowered as if transfixed by the blue tiles beneath the soles of his leather dress shoes. Remaining silent for a long moment, he eventually parted his lips to speak in a tone so distant it seemed like he was submerged in the ocean, “I disagree.”

Bashir frowned, but it was Ackroyd who asked, “How so?” 

“If Quetza takes the share, that will tip power in its direction further. It would be fatal, especially since Stockton has been so volatile recently. If we allow Kennedy to expand — as much as I dislike the idea — we run less risk of the real estate market swaying.”

You nodded to yourself, catching up to the conversation — the Incessant Inc. case and what would happen when Michelle's real estate company crashed to the ground. 

“In everything we do,” Dove began, glancing up from the computer open on her lap to look at the flashing lights — mostly white and green — on the screens at the far wall, “I never expected us to play cartel office as much as we do.”

Ackroyd chuckled, stirring his coffee. “There’s no limit to greed, it seems.” He looked towards you, the corner of his mouth drawing upwards slightly in suspicion. “You’ve been awfully quiet. Anything new in the press?”

Beshir and Dove turned their heads toward you expectantly. Asirel glanced down at the tiles again. 

Ackroyd cocked his head. 

You found your voice. 

“There is a grave matter,” you said, mouth dry, “a grave matter which I need to discuss  with you.”

This was the end of the world as you knew it. This would change everything, adding another link to the food chain and twisting their perception of reality. 

“You know Samuel Kennedy, I presume. A judge in the state court. He has been part of the Collective — general assembly — for about five years now. Brother of Robert, the one who owns the chain of bars you want to throw the scraps of the Zilk disaster to.”

“Yes, we know the man,” Dove said. “What about him?”

Bashir glanced at you curiously. Ackroyed continued stirring his coffee, face blank as he listened to you, looking like you were reciting yesterday’s news.

“He is part of an organization called the Trimedian. It— They hunt supernatural creatures, selling them to interested buyers. Vampires, werewolves. They exist.”

Dove blinked incredulously. Bashir chuckled, shaking her head fondly as she opened her mouth to congratulate you on the joke you had pulled before the words died in her throat as she saw your serious expression. Ackroyd froze, his spoon clinking against the porcelain of the mug as it slipped from his fingers. 

The room was silent. It was the kind of dense, deafening, deadly silence that is found in a tomb, lacking the peacefulness the bed of the deceased brought with it. This was only the beginning of something, and everyone felt it. 

The raindrops of fate had accumulated, increasing the pressure on the frail dam. It would break any moment. These were the instances before the flood would drown the world. These were the heartbeats before the tragedy, and the last breaths before the crash. 

“Are you quite insane?” Ackroyd whispered, his eyes wide. “Have you lost your mind?”

“There is proof,” Asirel said calmly, raising his head to stare at him. His voice dripped with cold indifference, and you wondered where he pulled the strength from to put up this uncaring facade when you felt like you were breaking apart under the pressure of revealing this information.

Ackroyd’s gaze snapped towards him. “You’re a part of this, too?”

“I was there when the information was presented,” he replied curtly. “The question now is what are we going to do about this?”

Bashir shook her head in disbelief, pulling out a full packet of Lucky Strikes still wrapped in plastic. She pulled away the wrapping, absentmindedly going through the motions that had become second nature sometime between her twentieth and twenty-seventh birthday. Once she crumpled the plastic in her hand — and the faint smell of the rich tobacco caught her attention — she looked down at the packet of cigarettes, as if only just realizing what she had done. 

There was longing in her gaze. 

“What do you mean?” she asked, turning the packet around in her hands, not quite daring to open it. She had quit, you knew. “There are things among us. We need to investigate, defend ourselves, and— and—! Are they organized? Do they plan to attack or— or—?”

“Not as far as we know,” you said, watching as she placed the cigarettes on the coffee table beside her. They lay there, unopened and looming, waiting for the moment she would break. “We know considerably little. This is all new information. We are still looking into things.”

“You cannot seriously be entertaining this delusion?” Ackroyd snapped, growing frustrated with the discourse. “There is no proof! This cannot be possible! Are you all forgetting that? Mythics don’t exist!”

“I mean the Trimedian,” Asirel said decisively, ignoring Ackroyd’s skepticism to address Bashir instead. “They trade these creatures. Their work is a threat to us. It undermines our control. I suggest we pool all our resources and focus our attention on crushing them!”

“They are a threat,” she conceded, eyes shining with what you recognized to be fear. “But we don’t know enough about them. How do they work? What do they want? An alliance might be better than a confrontation for the time being, especially if they control vampires.”

“A pact with the modern version of slave trader? You can’t be serious!” he snapped, tone suddenly sharp in anger. “What are we? Caesar returning from his campaign in Gaul? What use does the Collective have, if we stoop as low as the people we ought to tear from their high positions? These mythics are much more powerful than we are — physically and who knows in what other ways as well — and you would rather get on the side of the people oppressing them?”

“I see your point,” Dove said, leaning forward to snatch the packet of cigarettes from Bashir. She opened it, lighting a Lucky Strike for herself, and tossed it back to Bashir, who was glaring daggers at her, hands trembling now as she desperately fought the urge to give in. “These are vague discussions about alliances and morals. What do we do now, practically? Do we sacrifice Kennedy?”

You shook your head. “He’s too entangled. We leave him be for the time being and find out as much as we can about the Trimedian without alerting them. We need to know who we are up against.”

Bashir inhaled deeply, closing her eyes as the second-hand smoke filtered through the air towards her. “Fuck it,” she muttered, pulling out a cigarette. 

Old habits die hard. 

She lit it, then took a drag, immediately sinking into the cushions with a relieved sigh. “I have an acquaintance in New Orleans,” she said, taking another drag. “He talked about these creatures sometimes. I thought he was insane, but he is a good mouthpiece to the Far East, so I kept him. Perhaps we can establish contact with these mythics through him.”

“Are we really accepting this without as much as a scrap of evidence?” Ackroyd asked, setting his cooling coffee down harshly. “I cannot believe how naive you are. I mean, this is insane!” He stared daggers at you, but there was underlying worry in his expression. You could see it in the tightness of his jaw, his blazing blue eyes held a deep uncertainty beneath the layers of sudden anger. 

“Stranger things have happened,” Dove said, flicking ash into her empty mug before noticing the ashtray tucked away on the bottom shelf of the trolley next to Ackroyd. She looked at it for a long moment but did not get up. “What if we tell the Court?”

“That would alert Kennedy,” Asirel said. 

“So?” 

He opened his mouth to reply, but hesitated, considering her idea more carefully.

“We have acted on less information in other cases, and this seems like a bomb none of us have noticed ticking. Richard, is it so hard to believe that these creatures exist? Come one, now. You were all for it when Cain told us about the bottom of the ocean, but you draw the line at vampires?” Dove scoffed, shaking her head. “When has their information ever been false? I think ‘correspondent’ carries a certain weight, does it not?”

“Fine,” Ackroyd said. “I conceded. So what if these creatures are real — let’s pretend for a moment. What do we do now? Is it wise to reveal their existence to the general assembly? They can hardly keep up with us as it is.” 

“Not to mention it would reveal our knowledge about them to the Trimedian since Kennedy is there,” you said, absentmindedly looking at the blinking lights on the screens lining the walls — white, green, white, white, red, green, green. “They have infiltrated us. The general assembly is useless to our work for as long as Kennedy is there.”

Ackroyd shook his head, looking at his coffee. “How could this happen?” he muttered, pushing his glasses up before taking a deep breath and collecting himself again. “We kick Kennedy out. That solves some of our problems, no?”

“Not really,” Asirel said. “It could make them suspicious. Before we antagonize them, it would help us to know more about the mythics. Bashir—”

“Meryem,” she interrupted him, the corner of her lips twisting upwards in amusement despite the tension in the room. 

“Meryem. You said your acquaintance in New Orleans has connections to them. I’d say this is our best bet.”

“Suppose we infiltrate the Trimedian,” Dove said, typing on her keyboard. “We could do that. Mer, we have a few spies at our disposal, right?”

She nodded. “I know the right person for this. I’d have to pull them out of Stockton, though.”

“The gangs are on the verge of a truce,” Asirel said. “The city should be stable enough.” 

“A vote,” you said, adhering to the rules of the Collective. A unanimous agreement was needed before you acted on something with great outside importance. “All those in favor of investigating the mythics and infiltrating the organization‘Trimedian’ trading them?”

You raised your hand, knowing Asirel mirrored you. 

Even if he did not know as much as you did about the matter, even if his opinion should have differed, loyalty would have made him vote the same as you. A Faustian Bargain — corruption for knowledge. You did not dwell on the thought. 

Dova and Bashir raised their hands simultaneously, and you were about to call the notion unanimously agreed upon when your gaze settled on Ackroyd’s static figure.

He smiled faintly, almost pityingly as he watched your expression fall. 

“Four to one,” he said, picking up his coffee and taking a sip. “Pardon to put a halt to this, but you don’t have me convinced. Very dirty of you to shove two notions into a single vote, by the way. I think it is best if we leave the matter alone.”

“I thought we were in agreement,” you said through gritted teeth, the operating system of the Collective never felt as infuriating as it was now. “And I thought time was of the essence.” 

“Roger, seriously?” Dove sighed. “What do you want to do about this, then? Nothing at all? We have a spy in the general assembly and mythical creatures exist, and you want to pretend nothing has changed?”

Ackroyd looked torn, stirring his coffee again deep in thought. “I’m merely saying we should take more time to consider things,” he said, watching as the liquid swirled. “We need more time to figure out what to do.”

“The matter has been left alone for centuries already, and look where that got us,” Asirel said, a sharpness to his voice that made you glance at him. 

Disappointment burned in his eyes, together with fury and impatience. You could see his tight grip on the cushions, tensely willing to weather down Ackroyd’s arguments — unstoppable force meeting immovable object. You thought the passion searing through him might carve the guiding path he had been searching for since his father died. 

“The Trimedian are a threat to us if they are a threat to the mythics. Imagine the possibilities if we made an alliance with them, and destroyed the organization enslaving them. It would elevate our power to a new level entirely.”

Ackroyd’s jaw clenched. “You don’t work together with a rabies dog,” he said, words dripping with disdain. “You put it down.”

Asirel glared at him. “Are you truly so afraid of shattering the illusion of being at the top of the food chain, that you can’tlook past your own arrogance and accept—?”

Dove gasped a moment before you saw the blinking red lights. 

“What—?” she exclaimed, watching in horror as New York shook, plummeting into deep red numbers. She looked around at the other markets, seeing the dents increasing in those that were open and fearing the coming crash in those that were not. “Impossible! Real estate?” she said, typing furiously on her keyboard. “You said Stockton was fine!”

“It—” you began, trailing off as the image of the unopened folder Julian had given you flashed in your mind. 

No, it couldn’t be. 

Tara should have pulled things around. She should have stabilized the market, not led it to crash. “It can’t be Stockton.”

CRISIS IN TECH COMPANY CAUSES HOTEL-CHAIN TO TOPPLE

Hotel chain to topple…

No, it couldn’t be. 

Bahsir pulled out her phone, hissing at a dozen missed calls. “A bomb went off,” she said, reading through her messages. 

“We should get rid of the policy to keep outside communication off while we’re in here,” Ackroyd said hastily, typing on his phone. “Look at this mess!”

“A bomb?” Asirel asked, piecing together what was happening. “Where?”

There is a meeting in Fresno in a few days.

Your breath caught in your throat, a spike of panic slicing through. No, it couldn’t be. 

“A city not far from Stockton. Fresno.”

No, please. 

“Hey!” Dove snapped, gesturing at the sharply sinking Dow Jones. “Why did Quetza just crash? Look at me! We cannot afford this shake with the Zilk disaster still unfolding. Look at the damage! You said it was under control!”

Her words hardly registered. You pulled out your phone, the screen lighting up to reveal two dozen messages from Vic. Your heart sank as you unlocked it with shaking hands, reading what you knew had already happened. 

The words on the screen looked like ancient hieroglyphs, familiar symbols you stared at without understanding. They were words, but you could not make them out over the suffocating feeling in your chest, clouding your mind and dragging you down into the gaps of reality. 

It felt like a strange dream, like seeping through the cracks until nothing made sense. A glitch in your life, a hitch in rationality. 

Tara was dead. 

This could not be!

“No,” you breathed, letting the phone tumble onto the cushions as you leaned forward to bury your face in your hands. No, this could not be. Lead weighed down your heart. You felt it sinking in your chest, plummeting to the depths of the ocean below. 

You thought about little Elias, his unruly black hair littered with dust from a fallen ceiling, the star chart he would never again be able to look at without remembering his mother. You thought of James, his protectiveness eating him up from the inside, forever feeling like he failed his big sister, forever wishing it had been him instead — having less to lose, being less important, being more expandable — as he picked up the pieces of her shattered legacy. 

You thought of her husband, the calm tiredness he exuded now twisting into frantic desperation as he tore his skin open, shuffling away pieces of debris that had fallen on his wife while his heart broke further and further with every blood-stained piece he moved, his throat raw from screaming out her name.

A hand on your arm snapped you out of it. Asirel’s expression was carefully blank as he moved his thumb in circles against your skin, offering silent comfort. 

Dove was still talking, you realized, demanding explanations while she typed away furiously, pausing every once in a while to take a drag of her cigarette. She had lit another one. 

“Fucking Stockton! I knew this was a bad idea. I knew we should have taken on these goddamn gangs!” she hissed, breaking out in a coughing fit as she choked on the smoke. “Hell! Look what you’ve turned me into,” she heaved between coughs, giving you a pointed glare. 

You hardly noticed her, counting the beats from inhale to hold to exhale until the world stopped being so fuzzy and you could actually feel Asirel’s hand on your arm, each one of his fingers pressing against you a gentle weight, grounding you, distracting you from the spiral of thoughts. 

You wiped your eyes, slowly raising your head to look at the blinking red dots all around you. 

There was enough time to fall apart over this later — to drown in the overwhelming guilt and regret and sorrow. But you had to pull yourself together now and get back to business. The weight on your shoulders was too heavy to shrug off, even in the face of death. 

‘I don’t understand how you can switch off your heart like that,’ your father had said once, eyes overflowing with tears as they lowered your mother into the ground, a cold silver ring now glinting on your finger as you followed the proceeding with a carefully distant and cold gaze. 

You had needed to stay above water, fighting the sorrow and grief that worked vigorously to pull you down, down, downwards further until you would choke, and gasp and drown in the anguish that her loss left behind. 

But you had things to do. 

Business came first, she had said. Duty came first, and you had a duty to her — or her ghost — to carry on and make the most of the position she had left vacant. You had a duty to the world to keep it spinning, keep it safe. 

‘It’s better if you don’t,’ you had answered him, watching his face contract in sorrow at your cryptid answer, at the distance you were putting between him and you even then. 

Duty held you afloat when you felt like your heart was shattering.

The memory was a mere echo, a distant thought that burned in your chest as if a match had fallen into a glass of alcohol. 

Tara was dead. 

Yes, she was. 

But duty first. 

“She—” you croaked, clearing your throat and trying again. “She was married. Her husband will take over Quetza to carry on her work. I’m certain of that. Give them a few days to recover, and they will stabilize themselves.”

Dove frowned, her eyes darting around the room anxiously — fixing on the blinking red lights — before settling on you again. “And you’re sure you’re certain?” she asked, a desperate edge to her voice. “Don’t fool me. Don’t give me empty reassurances!”

“I’m certain, Dove,” you said, looking her in the eye. 

You would need to give him a push, but the righteous fury burning away in her husband’s chest could and would be channeled towards your goal. He would continue Quetza, if he wanted to or not. You would force his hand if he resisted. 

“Quetza is reliable, I promise,” you said, watching her relax minimally. “Trust me, Dove. When have I not kept my word?”

Julian’s unopened folder weighed heavily on your mind.

[lazzarella]

Top 10 Things

For some reason, I've decided to compile lists of my various top ten things, a completely pointless venture because I highly doubt anyone will read it, and I already know what they are, but I'm doing it anyway! lol

(I've included: bands; solo artists; albums; books; poems; graphic novels/comics; tv shows; BL series; murder mystery shows; movies; actors; actresses; directors; musicals)

BANDS

The Beatles

ABBA

Belle and Sebastian

Led Zeppelin

The Raveonettes

The Decemberists

Ramones

Blondie

Sparks

Judas Priest

SOLO ARTISTS

John Grant

Rufus Wainwright

Connie Francis

Kylie Minogue

Angel Olsen

Prince

Sufjan Stevens

Kate Bush

David Bowie

Keaton Henson

ALBUMS

Queen of Denmark by John Grant

69 Love Songs by The Magnetic Fields

In the Aeroplane Over the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel

Rubber Soul by The Beatles

Picaresque by The Decemberists

Houses of the Holy by Led Zeppelin

You Could Have It So Much Better by Franz Ferdinand

Purple Rain by Prince

Transformer by Lou Reed

If You're Feeling Sinister by Belle and Sebastian

BOOKS

The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

Grief is the Thing With Feathers by Max Porter

Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood

Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie

The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien

The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories by Angela Carter

The Charioteer by Mary Renault

The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler

POEMS

Having a Coke With You by Frank O'Hara

Every poem in Crush by Richard Siken

The Second Coming by WB Yeats (alternatively, The Mermaid)

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot

Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen

Love Sonnet XI by Pablo Neruda

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond by e.e. cummings

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

Tired by Langston Hughes

Perhaps the World Ends Here by Joy Harjo

GRAPHIC NOVELS/COMICS

Paper Girls

Ghost World

Persepolis

Bandette series

Delilah Dirk and the Turkish Lieutenant + sequels

The Fade Out

The Case of the Missing Men

The Less Than Epic Adventures of TJ and Amal

It's a Good Life, If You Don't Weaken

Nimona

TV SHOWS (that are not BLs or murder mysteries XD)

Spaced

Supernatural

The Hour

Buffy

Life on Mars/Ashes to Ashes

This is England 86/88/90

I Love Lucy

Pushing Daisies

Dark

In the Flesh OR The Young Ones OR Xena (I was going to choose but meh)

(A full list of my favourite TV shows on Serializd)

BL SERIES (MASTERLIST HERE)

Moonlight Chicken

My Personal Weatherman

KinnPorsche

Cherry Magic (Thailand)

Century of Love

Wandee Goodday

Old Fashion Cupcake

A Tale of Thousand Stars

Only Friends

Jack O'Frost

(I have a feeling Kidnap is going to take the place of one of these though)

MURDER MYSTERY SHOWS

Poirot

Marple

Rosemary and Thyme

Twin Peaks (it counts XD)

Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries

Endeavour

Beyond Evil

Murder, She Wrote

Jonathan Creek

George Gently

MOVIES

(if I do subcategories for this, we'd be here all day! But ftr my favourite genres are film noir, musicals, rom-coms, horror—mostly slashers and gialli, 50s/60s sci-fi...)

The Rocky Horror Picture Show

Clue

Strictly Ballroom

Charade

Velvet Goldmine

Hedwig and the Angry Inch

Call Me By Your Name

God's Own Country

Secretary

That Thing You Do!

(A full list of my favourite films on Letterboxd)

ACTORS

Robert Redford

Colin Farrell

James Spader

Keanu Reeves

Danny Kaye

Humphrey Bogart

Dirk Bogarde

Frank Sinatra

Jack Lemmon

Ben Whishaw

ACTRESSES

(only separating by gender to get more in XD)

Doris Day

Audrey Hepburn

Amy Adams

Lucille Ball

Jane Fonda

Kirsten Dunst

Marilyn Monroe

Nicole Kidman

Michelle Williams

Cate Blanchett

DIRECTORS

Gregg Araki

Alfred Hitchcock

John Waters

Sofia Coppola

Agnès Varda

Wes Anderson

Billy Wilder

Pedro Almodóvar

Stanley Donen

Dario Argento

MUSICALS

(only counting ones I've seen productions of myself)

The Rocky Horror Show

Little Shop of Horrors

Aladdin

Matilda

Cats

Chicago

Hairspray

Wicked

Singin' in the Rain

9 to 5 tied with Priscilla: Queen of the Desert

[jetiana]

thought about having heath read books in the fancomic like isaac in heartstopper but I couldn't find a way to make it work. but I still wanted to draw him reading because the idea of him loving reading is so important to me now. full list of books included in the drawings under the cut :)

first picture - heath is reading the picture of dorian gray by oscar wilde. the books on the bookshelf, from left to right:

top shelf: swimming in the dark by tomasz jedrowski, wuthering heights by emily brontë, this is how you lose the time war by amal el-mohtar and max gladstone, les misérables by victor hugo, arsenic for tea by robin stevens, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow by gabrielle zevin

middle shelf: the gentleman's guide to vice and virtue by mackenzi lee, hamlet by william shakespeare, the hobbit by j.r.r. tolkien, ace of spades by faridah àbíké-íyímídé, the count of monte cristo by alexandre dumas, pride and prejudice by jane austen

bottom shelf: my policeman by bethan roberts, the great gatsby by f. scott fitzgerald, this winter by alice oseman, giovanni's room by james baldwin, a man lay dead by ngaio marsh, the hunchback of notre dame by victor hugo

second picture - the stack of books, from top to bottom: the murder of roger ackroyd by agatha christie, death in the spotlight by robin stevens, I feed her to the beast and the beast is me by jamison shea, the song of achilles by madeline miller, heartstopper volume five by alice oseman

[shit-talk-turner]

Alexa/Louise Comparison. Here's the alleged tea. Keep in mind this was from around the time it was happening, I can't direct you to the place it was shared cos I don't remember the website or even know if it still exists. The members did post 'receipts' for the 'tea', I came across it cos I used to crush on Alex's younger brother Bill and enjoy Alex's acting. So Alexa fans, take a deep breath and if anything said here you can debunk or provide clarity on feel free to do so. I'd be interested.

After the Al & Alexa break up it was known that Alexa had various flings and relationships some speculated, some confirmed such as Theo from Hurts, Actor Douglas Booth, Guitarist Robert Ackroyd, the infamous insider LaineyGossip spilled 'tea' that Alexa and Chris Martin were having an affair before officially ending things with Gwyneth he 'allegedly fell for her'. I think there was also that guy Matt Hit, Loren Humphrey and James Righton from Klaxons. Girl, was clearly on the rebound. Of course there's also the speculation and rumours that Al and Alexa hooked up on & off inbetween. Fans & readers of her book 'IT' speculated Alexa was hurt by Alex's new relationship with Arielle and made some 'comments' alluding to it. Anyone got the book handy?

Onto the Skarsgard era circa 2015. Their relationship was publicly known to be very off & on, they seemed to end things officially around 2017/2018. The Skarsgard family have a known reputation for being private, low key and very close knit, I don't know if it's still the same today but it was back then. This is something to consider as Alex rarely spoke of and flaunted his relationships, he'd also try to avoid the paps but he did have a bit of reputation as social butterfly/party boy.

Most of you know Alexa is pretty public and visible, she likes to do the whole social media gig and has always been present in papparazzi and media especially with her relationships. Alexa was really disliked by his fans and one of the biggest reasons was that they thought she was thirsty for fame and she used to bread crumb, flaunt, often makes references & play games with followers during the Skarsgard relationship. Pretty much all of the 'tea' and information they had on the relationship was backed up by Alexa's social media activity and her friends. Sound familiar? Apparently it was Alexa and her social circle that hard launched her relationship with Alex, they used to post him on their socials and people believed Alexa called the paps numerous times throughout the relationship, this was Alex's most publicised 'romance'. He also did not like her to post him on her socials, I do recall seeing some pictures of 'him' like his hand and side profile but few and far between. Fans sometimes would speculate on the 'rockiness' of the relationship due to some of the things Alexa would post/put in her story and or like for example similar sayings Lou sometimes post/likes. One of the more notable periods came about when Alexa was doing a fashion show, can't remember if it was for her designs or she was the host but it was a big deal, allegedly it was quite disastrous/didn't get the turn out wanted and Alexa wasn't in the best mental state(an insider provided tea), fans thought/confirmed her and Skarsgard separated but later got back together.

It seemed obvious Alexa was head over heels for Alex and there was talk that she wanted to marry him. There was also some 'tea' about one of the reasons for their issues but I'm not going to discuss it cos it has to do with illness and I don't know if it's ever been talked about publicly. I also remember seeing a quote either from Alexa or a close source saying something along the lines that Alex was a fatherly figure to her as well as a lover he was protective and supportive (I'm sure there are quotes from Alexa giving comment on him) it was also rumoured that this was something that eventually bothered him, they had many fights hence the off and on. The biggest 'tea' was during the Tarzan promo, Alexa visited his family and seemed to post 'private' photos of his mothers family home/pictures; A fan did capture a screenshot before deleted. Allegedly, his family were so upset they didn't want her around them at the premiere/showing so she was not included in many of the family photos and 'red carpet' pictures, she was apparently spotted wearing an animal print dress, sitting alone for most of it. (I did not see proof of this so I don't know) This was considered a big part of why Alex was done with the relationship for good.

That's it! Like I said take it with a grain of salt and if anyone has anything to add please do. By reading in between the lines you should see why I compared Alexa and Louise.

this is very confusing because you refer to both men as Alex but I think we get your drift. I read Alexa’s book and all she really said was when you’re heartbroken it’s not good to stalk your ex’s beautiful new girlfriend. Or something to that effect

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

Hellsite's Only Bookshelf

Here are the Project Gutenberg links to all the public domain books we've posted this year. We'll update this list as we go.

March: The Time Machine by H.G. Wells April: Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne May: Little Women by Louisa May Alcott June: The Metamorphosis and The Trial by Franz Kafka July: hiatus August: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie September: The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson October: Frankenstein by Mary Shelley November: Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne December: TBD

[wyllzel]

omg also i have done some more reading yippee 😁

oblivion song (robert kirkman & lorenzo de felici)

the murder of roger ackroyd (agatha christie)

and then there were none (agatha christie)

and i've started "just like heaven" by julia quinn 😄

which brings me to a total of 22 novels and 28 graphic novel volumes read this year 🥳

[an-absolute-trainwreck]

The poll duration is set for a week but really I just have like 2 ish days to decide before I pick what I’m reading after this book

Pls help

[rifulofthewest]

List of my favorite works of literature. part 3

Media type: Murder mystery/detective books

1) Everything with Sherlock Holmes in it by Arthur Conan Doyle

I have to confess that I read them only until Sherlock's death, which was supposed to be the official end, but then the whole of Britain begged the writer for a sequel, so... before Sherlock's death,well... "death", I recommend it, after - 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

2) Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie

Just after midnight, a snowdrift stops the famous Orient Express in its tracks as it travels through the mountainous Balkans. The luxurious train is surprisingly full for the time of the year but, by the morning, it is one passenger fewer. An American tycoon lies dead in his compartment, stabbed a dozen times, his door locked from the inside.

One of the passengers is none other than detective Hercule Poirot. On vacation.

Isolated and with a killer on board, Poirot must identify the murderer—in case he or she decides to strike again.

3) The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie

The peaceful English village of King’s Abbot is stunned. The widow Ferrars dies from an overdose of Veronal. Not twenty-four hours later, Roger Ackroyd—the man she had planned to marry—is murdered. It is a baffling case involving blackmail and death that taxes Hercule Poirot’s “little grey cells” before he reaches one of the most startling conclusions of his career.

4) And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie

The plot centers around ten strangers who are invited to an isolated island under various pretexts. As the guests settle in, they discover that their mysterious host accuses each of them of committing murder in the past. Stranded on the island with no means of escape, the tension rises as the characters are systematically killed off one by one.

5) Eight Perfect Murders by Peter Swanson

Years ago, bookseller and mystery aficionado Malcolm Kershaw compiled a list of the genre's most unsolvable murders, those that are almost impossible to crack—which he titled "Eight Perfect Murders"—chosen from among the best of the best books.

But no one is more surprised than Mal, now the owner of the Old Devils Bookstore in Boston, when an FBI agent comes knocking on his door. She's looking for information about a series of unsolved murders that look eerily similar to the killings on Mal's old list. And the FBI agent isn't the only one interested in this bookseller who spends almost every night at home reading. There is killer is out there, watching his every move—a diabolical threat who knows way too much about Mal's personal history, especially the secrets he's never told anyone, even his recently deceased wife.

To protect himself, Mal begins looking into possible suspects...and sees a killer in everyone around him.

- The eight books that the author included in his plot are amazing and interesting. So you can additionally read (1.) Agatha Christie's A. B. C. Murders, (2.) Patricia Highsmith's Strangers on a Train, (3.) Ira Levin's Death Trap, (4.) A. A. Milne's Red House Mystery, (5.) Anthony Berkeley Cox's Malice Aforethought, (6.) James M. Cain's Double Indemnity, (7.) John D. Macdonald's The Drowner, and (8.) Donna Tartt's A Secret History.-

6) The Good Lie by A.R. Torre

The novel centers around the hunt for the Bloody Heart (BH) Killer, a serial killer responsible for the deaths of six teenagers in California.

Dr. Gwen Moore is a well-known psychiatrist. And in the world of criminology, she is known as the Doc Of Death for various reasons. For a decade, she has spent her time treating clients with violent tendencies.

Her expertise is sought after in the case of the BH Killer, particularly when a teenage victim escapes and points to Randall Thompson, a local high school teacher, as the captor. The evidence agains Thompson is overwhelming, and for the public and media, including Gwen, the case seems conclusively closed.

However, Robert Kavin, a defense attorney who is also a grieving father, having lost his son to the BH Killer, is convinced of Thompson’s innocence and takes on his case.

As Gwen and Robert grow closer and she dives deeper into the investigation, grave questions arise. So does Gwen’s suspicion that Robert is hiding something—and that he might not be the only one with a secret.

7) Broken Monsters by Lauren Beukes

Detective Gabriella Versado has seen a lot of bodies, but this one is unique even by Detroit's standards: half boy, half deer, somehow fused together. As stranger and more disturbing bodies are discovered, how can the city hold on to a reality that is already tearing at its seams?

If you're Detective Versado's geeky teenage daughter, Layla, you commence a dangerous flirtation with a potential predator online.

If you're desperate freelance journalist Jonno, you do whatever it takes to get the exclusive on a horrific story.

If you're Thomas Keen, known on the street as TK, you'll do what you can to keep your homeless family safe--and find the monster who is possessed by the dream of violently remaking the world.

8) The Spy Who Came In from the Cold by John le Carré

With unsurpassed knowledge culled from his years in British Intelligence, le Carre brings to light the shadowy dealings of international espionage in the tale of a British agent who longs to end his career but undertakes one final, bone-chilling assignment.

When the last agent under his command is killed and Alec Leamas is called back to London, he hopes to come in from the cold for good.

His spymaster, Control, however, has other plans. Determined to bring down the head of East German Intelligence and topple his organization, Control once more sends Leamas into the fray -- this time to play the part of the dishonored spy and lure the enemy to his ultimate defeat.

9) The Diviners by Libba Bray

Evie O’Neill has been exiled from her boring old hometown and shipped off to the bustling streets of New York City—and she is pos-i-tute-ly ecstatic. It’s 1926, and New York is filled with speakeasies, Ziegfeld girls, and rakish pickpockets. The only catch is that she has to live with her uncle Will and his unhealthy obsession with the occult.

Evie worries her uncle will discover her darkest secret: a supernatural power that has only brought her trouble so far. But when the police find a murdered girl branded with a cryptic symbol and Will is called to the scene, Evie realizes her gift could help catch a serial killer. As Evie jumps headlong into a dance with a murderer, other stories unfold in the city that never sleeps.

10) Rogue Lawyer by John Grisham

Rogue Lawyer is about a defense attorney named Sebastian Rudd who works out of a van because his office has been firebombed. Who firebombed his office? Who knows. Rudd has so many enemies it could have been an angry client, and the cops don't seem too interested in solving it because maybe they did it themselves?

11) Vanish by Tess Gerritsen

A terrified woman, presumed dead, suddenly awakens in the morgue. Very much alive, the woman is rushed to the hospital, where with shockingly cool precision, she murders a security guard and seizes hostages . . . one of them a pregnant patient, Jane Rizzoli.

Who is this violent, desperate soul, and what does she want?

Medical examiner Maura Isles, on whose table in the morgue the woman woke up, joins forces with FBI agent Gabriel Dean, to track down the mysterious killer's identity.

When federal agents suddenly appear on the scene, Maura and Gabriel realize that they are dealing with a case that goes far deeper than just an ordinary hostage crisis.

11) The Honjin Murders by Seishi Yokomizo

The novel takes place in 1937 in an unspecified rural village in Okayama. The anonymous narrator reconstructs the events surrounding the legendary double murder of a married couple, based on witness statements and various documents. The narrative centres around the wealthy Ichiyanagi family, living in a honjin.

The end

[dovebuffy92]

[riveroverthesky]

2023 Goodreads Reading Challenge Tier List!!!

Got The Hardback Special Edition - I don't like these books, I love them. It's not that I need the hardbacks, I need to devour the pages, so I can consume every bit of canon and then go diving into the fandom just to get my next fix (The Locked Tomb by Tamsyn Muir: Gideon the Ninth, Harrow the Ninth, Nona the Ninth)

Place of Honour on my bookshelf - I like these books and feel the need to display the paperbacks on my bookshelf, so guests know I have good taste :3 (Clive Barker - The Hellbound Heart, Agatha Christie - The Murder of Roger Ackroyd & The Thirteen Problems, China Mieville - The Scar, Terry Pratchett - Guards! Guards!)

Worth the E-Book - I'm happy I read these books, even though they were not necessarily in my top 10 this year. I will probably read them again in the future, so I'm happy to own them on my e-reader.

Borrow from your local library - I neither like nor dislike these books, they are perfectly serviceable, but I wouldn't spend money just to own then. (Yoon Ha Lee - Phoenix Extravagant, Frank Herbert - Dune, Dune Messiah & Children of Dune, Final Fantasy - On The Way To A Smile & Traces of Two Pasts, Clive Barker - The Damnation Game & The Coldheart Canyon, Stina Leicht - Persephone Station, Robert Jordan - The Eye of The World, Lily Mayne - Soul Eater, Terry Pratchett, Agatha Christie - The Mirror Crack'd From Side to Side, Terry Pratchett - Sourcery)

Burn for warmth - I actively disliked these books, or they were just so boring I had to take frequent breaks just to get through them (William Joyce - Jack Frost: The End Becomes The Beginning, Greg Weisman - The War of The Spark: Forsaken, Chuck Wendig - Double Dead, Diana Wynee Jones - House of Many Ways, Clive Barker - Weaveworld)

[litmot-archived]

Act IV — The Secret Eye

Scene ii — The Loss

previous scene // overview // read on ao3 // next scene

Warnings: (mild) canon-typical violence, smoking

“I insist you visit a hospital,” Julian said, bringing you a newly warmed heating pad to place on your back. “There is only so much I can do, and this won’t—”

“This will absolutely suffice, thank you,” you said, taking a large gulp of the tea he had made you — chamomile, by your request — and took the warm object out of his hands. You sighed contently as you placed it over your shoulder, the warmth seeping into your skin. It soothed the ache, relaxing the muscles that you had felt pull taut since crashing against the screen. “And I should insist you go home to your fiancé. I’ve got everything I need, Julian. Have a good night.”

The man looked unconvinced, wringing his hands in worry as he pressed his lips into a thin line. “I am hesitant to leave you like this,” he said.

You brought the mug to your lips once again, savoring the warmth of the soothing tea. It reminded you of Asirel, andvampires and death — but its sweet taste lingered despite the unpleasant memories. You would need to mend the rift, and you would start doing so tomorrow. 

Today, enough had happened. You could feel the light tremble of your fingers, and you longed for a moment of peace where you did not need to hold it together anymore. You had been hanging on by a thread since Mr. Rhoades' first phone call, nearly twenty-four hours ago. 

The roaring fire before you made you ease further into the cushions, thankful again for Julian’s observant nature. He knew that sitting by the fire — in the warmth of the twisting flames you could lose yourself in for hours, with a hot cup between your hands — was just what you needed after a difficult day. 

His expression of sly pride for knowing you so well had dropped, of course, when he had noticed you were hurt. 

“I promise you,” you said, glancing away from the crackling flames to look him in the eye — again with a promise, again with a word that would slip into a lie. Look me in the eye when you lie to me — “I am perfectly alright. Don’t worry about me, and get some rest.”

He searched your gaze. “Are you certain?”

Are you sure you’re certain?

Your heart ached. 

I’m certain, Dove. 

But Dove was dead now. All dead, all dead. 

You clenched your jaw, pouring all your remaining self-restraint into the effort not to snap at your secretary. He meant well. He was worried. It was not his fault you were on the edge of succumbing to the pressure, and chaos, and bloodbath of the day. 

“Yes, Julian,” you said, impatience creeping into your voice despite your best efforts. 

You could not wait to be alone. 

Your head was spinning, the day's events running amok in your mind. It was tearing you apart. Vampires. Werewolves! You could not believe the phone call that brought your world crashing down came a mere twenty-four hours ago. The Trimedian. Tara. Robert Ackroyd. That vampire. Dove. 

And Asirel, of course. The murder of his father that you had kept from him. 

You gazed into the fire, wishing more than anything to simply disappear. You gave Julian a small nod in farewell as he shut the door to the parlor with one final lingering glance at you. It felt like a million little strings were pulling you apart from the inside. 

Sighing, you allowed your eyes to fall shut, the warmth of the mug in your hands and the cracking of the fire keeping you from sinking too far into your mind. 

The Collective would endure this, you knew. Bashir was devastated, yes, but she would begin to pick up the pieces once her tears dried, the ache in her heart subsided — before the wound on her arm scarred over. You would have to collect the replacements of both Dove and Ackroyd, a task you did not particularly look forward to. 

And what would you tell the general assembly? The truth was out of the question with Kennedy still part of it. 

You would have to investigate the Trimedian soon, as well. It was a pressing issue now that it was brought to your attention. You would have to speak with Bashir. 

Despite the mess, you knew everything would fall back into place sooner or later. The Collective was structured. Things would be taken care of. The inner circle would gain two new members — perhaps from the general assembly, considering Dove had no children. She would have nominated someone in her will, you were sure. Then you would go about searching for a replacement for Ackroyd yourselves. You could not risk another spy sinking its teeth into the organization. 

Tara was more difficult to deal with. You had no chance to toil away and work out some clever scheme to get her back again, no. She was gone. Stage exit right. End of play. Exeunt — both her and your piece of mind. Tara was dead, and she was not coming back.

Stockton was in shambles, the shards digging deeper than the now stabilized numbers of Quetza’s crashed market value. 

You would work that out, too, with time. At least you hoped so. There was no safety net, as was the case with things in the Collective. There was no structure for the world, let alone for the city. Everything could come crashing down further, the precarious stillness now a mere illusion, a short moment of respite for the dust to settle before things got worse again.

But no, Warden would take over, and James would help him. They would turn things around. They would bring stability to the city again, or you would make them. 

Dove’s skeptical look weighed heavily on your mind, and you groaned, raising a hand to your forehead. 

CRISIS IN TECH-COMPANY CAUSES HOTEL CHAIN TO TOPPLE

You had not dared to look, afraid of what you would find. 

The mess with Incessant Inc. was over at last — or so you had hoped. You did not dare feel entirely reassured when Robert Kennedy swallowed Michelle’s hotel chain with his own. Samuel was a thorn in your side you itched to remove from power — currently to no avail — and you could not help but be weary of Robert’s son William and the person he would turn into. He had the choice of two poisoned legacies — his father’s or his uncle’s. 

Perhaps he would follow in his father’s footsteps, owning a myriad of bars and restaurants and a hotel chain, scattered across the States and Europe. Perhaps he would follow in his uncle’s, join the Trimedian, and release his pent-up rage on the prisoned mythics in an unequal fight. He would not join the Collective, that you would make sure. 

Perhaps he would find a path for himself, only time would tell. His life was not predestined. 

Time would tell. 

You sat up, wincing as you reached for the beige folder on the other end of the couch, resting against the cushions, unopened, mocking you with its presence. You wanted to throw it into the fire, destroy the evidence of what could turn out to make Stockton your fault. Warden’s pain your fault. Elias’ trauma your fault. Tara’s death your fault.

Hotel chain to topple.

If the article somehow knew of the bomb in Fresno — drawing a false connection between Incessant Inc. and Quetza, but foreseeing its market crash somehow — you did not know what you would do. Because you would have known, you could have warned her — if you had only read through it like you had promised Julian you would. 

There were not enough white roses on the earth to place on Tara’s grave to beg her ghost for forgiveness. There was nothing you could do to make it up to her remaining family. 

And Warden was sure to kill you. Perhaps you would let him. 

Opening the folder with a heavy heart, you began to read. Your fate was spread out on these pages, in the careful words some eager journalist had written full of glee.

—crumbling of the Tech-giant Incessant Inc. on Tuesday shook the stock exchange to its foundations, serving as a reminder of how quickly fortunes can change. The charge of embezzlement against CEO Sasha Zilk brought forth by the investigative journalist Patricia Kelley rattled many investors enough to jump ship, pushing the company to a freefall into next-to-nothingness. 

In our markets, evident when ships get stuck in the Suez Canal or we run short of microchips that hold up our entire production line, it is not easy to find the invisible threads connecting them. Often we are left wondering about a market’s sudden turn, a twist up- or downwards seemingly without reason. 

One such thread has just become apparent, and it has been shimmering in the light unnoticed for the better part of a decade now. It should not come as a surprise that the Zilk siblings — Sasha and Michelle — brought about the downfall of their respective companies (as CCO in Michelle Zilk’s case) together, which both warns and—

You shut the folder, tossing it aside. Hotel chain. It was not Quetza. You could not have known about Fresno. 

You could not have known. The loss was not your fault. 

“Small mercies,” you mumbled into the empty air, listening to the wood crack. You brought the mug to your lips, finishing your tea. At least that was a guilt you did not need to live with.  

A series of muffled knocks came from the front door. You frowned, wondering why security was bothering you at such a late hour. 

You got up regardless, gripping the edge of the couch in support as your back lit up in pain and the world spun. Another series of knocks followed, this time more insistent. You shuffled out of the parlor tiredly, opening the front door a crack. You shivered immediately in the cold night air.

“Ye—?” the word died in your throat. Your eyes settled on Warden, standing a few paces away from you, security flanking him with a tight grip on their guns. 

He looked tense but stood with an air of calmness that reminded you of the quiet before a storm, unrooting trees and bringing down lightning. He was calm in his anger. His hands were clasped together in front of him, waiting. You saw his wedding ring was stained red. 

“Sorry to bother but he said you had an appointment,” the security guard said — Sarah, you thought her name was — motioning towards Warden. “I’ve not been informed about it, but I thought it best to check.”

“An appointment in fucking Samarra,” Warden hissed, wrath burning in his eyes as he looked at you. The longer he stood in your presence, the more you got the idea that he wanted to pounce on you. 

His hands were balled into fists, the torn skin confirming what your mind had conjured up. Fingers digging into gravel, shuffling rocks to the side as his wife’s name tumbled helplessly from his lips. ‘She’s still under here,’ he had screamed, voice cracking with the force of his emotions. ‘She’s still buried. Someone, help! Help me! She’s still under here! She’s still—!’ 

Sarah shot him a dark glance, fingers flexing on her gun. “I’d be more than happy to take care of this,” she said. 

You cleared your throat, feeling how parched it was. “No need,” you said, opening the door wider. You motioned for Warden to come inside. “I’m bound to return your hospitality.”

He stepped forward carefully as if waiting for the security to tackle him to the ground. When nothing happened, he kept walking, shooting Sarah a glare which she returned wholeheartedly. 

You hardly had the time to close the door behind him, keeping the chill from seeping inside, before his hands were on you. He gripped your collar, ramming you against the wall. 

It knocked the air out of you, blinding your vision momentarily in white, hot agony as the pain in your back became all-encompassing. Your ears rang, but the scream trying to tear its way out of your throat came out as a choked, broken whimper. You did not have the air to scream. 

You knew Warden was talking. The deep cadence of his voice filtered through the silence like water rushing downstream, but you could not make out what he was saying. You were too focused on the pain, too concentrated on gulping down breaths with his hands crushing you against the wall and fighting your way back to full consciousness. 

“Are you listening?” he snapped, janking you towards him only to slam you against the wall again. 

This time you did cry out, gasping painfully as your hands shot up to grab his wrists, holding onto them tightly to ground yourself against the waves of pain dragging you under. “I didn’t know,” you choked. 

“Like hell you fucking didn’t!” His grip tightened. You were sure it took all his self-restraint not to smother you right then.

“I promise you,” you said quickly. Your vision cleared, the bright sparks dancing before your eyes slowly disappearing as you looked at Warden’s bloodthirsty expression. 

He had come here to kill you. It was plain in his fury. He had come to seek revenge. Why flee from Bagdad when the appointment with Death had been in Samarra all along? But it was not your fault. Tara’s death was not your fault!

“I had nothing to do with it. I would not have let her go if I had known,” you said. “It might not have been evident to you, but Tara was my—”

“Don’t you dare say her name!” he hissed, pressing you further against the wall. You bit back a low groan, your hands beginning to shake from the strain on your back. You gasped for breath. “Bullshit!” But you could see a sliver of hesitation in his eyes, the barest hint of doubt. 

Perhaps he remembered what his late wife had told him about you — ‘they’re dangerous, I know. I don’t like being a pawn in their game either, but they’re really not that bad, dear. They’re reliable, and I trust them, to an extent’ — and that was all you needed, latching onto his hesitation like a lifeline pulling you out of quicksand.

“I didn’t know,” you repeated, this time firmer. You squeezed his wrists to get him to ease up on the vice grip crushing you. “It is hard to imagine, I am sure, especially in the current situation, but there are more pressing things on my mind than Stockton, Warden.”

His expression contorted in pain. He squeezed his eyes shut against an onslaught of tears. His breath hitched and you could see his lower lip wobble. He looked struck by lightning, but instead of electricity scorching him in an instant, it was sorrow shooting through him, making his heart feel like it had stopped breathing the moment hers had. He drew away from you as if burnt.

You sagged against the wall unsteadily, reaching next to you to stay upright with a tight grip on the cabinet. The foyer spun. You blinked against the dizziness, exhaling deeply. Your chest deflated, and you felt a wave of exhaustion crash over you. 

Today had been too long.

Warden wiped his eyes. “How did you know?” he asked, voice choked. He gasped quietly. You noticed he was shaking like the last leaf on a tree in late October. He thrust a hand into the pocket of his suit jacket — blood-stained and dusty — and pulled out a crumpled packet of Marlboro red. Jame’s cigarettes. He lit one with trembling hands. “That I’m the Warden now. How did you know?”

Your gaze softened. “Who else would it be?” you asked, sagging further against the cabinet. You felt like a puppet with its strings cut, ready for the curtain call. “James? Little Elias? I don’t think he’s ready for the role yet. Besides, I could think of no one better to carry on in  her name.”

The truth was, you did not know, you had guessed. You were just lucky enough to guess correctly — your expectation (and the thing you had promised Dove to will into existence) had simply realized themselves. The man before you had exactly the position you needed him to have. Small mercies. Stockton was already steering onto the right path.

The Collective would soon follow. And so would the mythics. And the Trimedian. 

Warden took a long drag of his cigarette, leaning against the banister of the stairs leading up. He exhaled slowly. His shaking had calmed, and he looked at you through half-lidded eyes. He was appraising you in the low firelight streaming in from the parlor. 

“You should have done more,” he said, the agony at the loss he had suffered freezing over, turning into cold shards of ice digging into his heart. His eyes flooded with resentment. “I should kill you for this. For her.”

“And what good would that do?” you asked. Two attempted murders in one day. You needed a break.

You needed a gun.

“It’s justice. An eye for an eye,” he reasoned. “Revenge, but not in excess. I take what you have taken from me. A life for a life. It is only fair.”

You huffed, wincing in pain a moment later. “I have not taken anything from you, Warden. I did not know, and I was not the reason she founded the Wraiths. On the contrary, I kept telling her the gangs were dangerous. I kept urging her to strike a truce. She knew the dangers. Her death is no more my fault than it is yours.”

He flinched, playing with his wedding band absentmindedly. You knew he felt guilty beyond reason. It was only natural. If he could trade his life for hers, you were sure he would do it in a heartbeat. 

“But please, if it would make you feel better” — you raised your free arm, motioning to your chest — “do me the honor of making it quick at least. I’m sure you brought your gun.” You had given him free rein, presenting yourself like the sacrifice he wanted. 

A life for a life.

But it was not your debt to pay, and you could tell that he knew that. 

Warden considered your words, taking the last drag of his cigarette. He let it fall to the ground, grinding it with his heel until it was smothered. His right hand inched towards his belt. 

For a moment you thought you had miscalculated. A cold shiver ran down your spine, the pain in your back forgotten as you saw yourself staring down the barrel of his gun. Uncaring, apathetic eyes fixed on yours as he pulled the trigger, reaping his revenge. 

You thought you had misjudged his grief. His impulsivity. His wrath. 

But it stopped. He was doubtlessly thinking about Elias, refusing to let his son suffer the loss of both his parents a mere hours apart. He was not deluded enough to pretend to get out of your mansion after killing you without being shot himself. Sarah would make sure of that at least.

He pulled out the packet of cigarettes instead, offering you one wordlessly. 

You shook your head, declining. But you saw the gesture for the olive branch it was. 

“Given that you don’t want to kill me, as far as I can tell,” you said, releasing the cabinet to straighten to your full height. Your back protested. “How about we become allies instead?”

Warden sighed, lighting another Marlboro. He looked weary. “Do I have a choice?”

[phantom-le6]

Ramble of the month May 2025: Poirot fan-cast Part 4 of 4

Having spent last month dealing with a lot of stress and anxiety over all things autistic (and to be fair, I’m still dealing with it), it’s time to get back to something more universal as we return to my Hercule Poirot film fan-cast for its final instalment.  I had originally planned to start my Miss Marple fan-cast this month, but have opted to complete the Poirot one first.  As with parts 2 and 3, here’s a quick bullet-point summary of the points raised back in part 1, either as reminders to those following this run of rambles or as a catch-up for first-time readers;

Agatha Christie wrote 66 novels and 14 short story collections, most of which centred on either former Belgian policeman-turned-private detective Hercule Poirot or elderly English spinster sleuth Jane Marple.

Within in this run of literature, Poirot had 33 novels to Miss Marple’s 14, most of which remain un-adapted to film while British TV and radio have done better.

The Poirot fan-cast is based on the run of BBC radio dramatizations featuring John Moffat as the voice of Poirot; discounting those radio drama using other voice actors and those too short to make a decent film, this creates a 24-film run.

By starting with a first film release in 1980 and making a film every other year, this hypothetical film series would take until 2026 to complete and could include a single actor to play Poirot throughout, while also including other actors in key recurring roles.

Our initial key long-term actors were Brian Cox as Poirot, Anthony Head as Hastings and John Hurt as Inspector Japp.  However, Hastings was last seen in Dumb Witness and Japp’s last appearance was One, Two, Buckle My Shoe.  In this last round, we get two characters from previous films back to take up or continue recurring role positions while also getting a fresh recurring role as well.

So far, the run of films has been as follows;

1980: The Mysterious Affair at Styles

1982: The Murder on the Links

1984: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

1986: Peril at End House

1988: Lord Edgeware Dies

1990: Murder on the Orient Express

1992: Three Act Tragedy

1994: Death in the Clouds

1996: The ABC Murders

1998: Murder in Mesopotamia

2000: Cards on the Table

2002: Dumb Witness

2004: Death on the Nile

2006: Appointment with Death

2008: Sad Cypress

2010: One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

2012: Evil Under The Sun

2014: Five Litter Pigs

Now before we get into the films of this fourth and final round, a couple of quick reminders.  Firstly, I’m not specifying directors like I did in my alternate MCU and DCEU fan-casts, and the films have two dates; the first for production and the second for setting.  Second, we’re now getting into post-World War 2 era Poirot on this round, with Five Little Pigs being our last inter-war era film in terms of setting.  So, now to look at the last six films of this fan-cast…

Taken At The Flood (2016/1946)

Hercule Poirot = Brian Cox

Superintendent Spence = Colin Firth

Rosaleen Cloade = Dominique McElligott

David Hunter = Jonas Armstrong

Lynn Marchmont = Natalie Dormer

Adela Marchmont = Julie Walters

Rowley Cloade = Charlie Cox

Jeremy Cloade = Simon Templeman

Francis Cloade = Polly Walker

Dr Lionel Cloade = Marc Sinden

Katherine Cloade/Aunt Kathy = Imelda Staunton

Gordon Cloade = Mark Williams

Enoch Arden = Arnold Vosloo

Beatrice Lippincott = Bonnie Langford

Major Porter = Sylvester McCoy

Mrs Leadbetter = Stephanie Cole

Edna = Bonnie Wright

Sergeant Graves = Dan Stevens

Coroner = Tim McInnerny

Maid = Anna Popplewell

George = Robert Lindsay

Taken At The Flood begins during the Blitz of World War 2, as Poirot listens to a story told by the resident bore of his club, Major Porter.  It turns out that the wealthy Gordon Cloade has been the latest victim of the bombings, but more than that, he is survived by a young wife many years his junior, and who claimed to be a widow when she met Gordon.  However, the Major knew the woman’s first husband when stationed in Africa and hints his death may have been faked as an alternative to divorce.  The story is overheard by one of Gordon’s brothers, solicitor Jeremy Cloade.  Shortly after the war, the story becomes immensely valuable to the wider Cloade family as they begin to circle his widow Rosaleen.  However, Rosaleen is shielded by her brother David, who begins to present an obstacle to cousins Rowley Cloade and Lynn Marchmont, and when a South African stranger turns up dead at the local inn, Poirot is soon drawn back into the whole affair.

While Brian Cox continues to headline as Poirot and Robert Lindsay returns for a third time as George, Colin Firth steps into the recurring detective role as Superintendent Spence.  The rest of the cast is fresh, and except for working in Irish actors to play Rosaleen and David plus South African actor Arnold Vosloo, the cast remains largely English in line with the characters at hand.  Indeed, the post-war Poirot run tends to avoid going very international, or at least it isn’t including American characters much/at all.

Mrs McGinty’s Dead (2018/1948)

Hercule Poirot = Brian Cox

Ariadne Oliver = Zoë Wanamaker

Superintendent Spence = Colin Firth

Mrs McGinty = Sheila Hancock

James Bentley = Kit Harrington

Mauren Summerhayes = Karen Gillan

Major Johnnie Summerhayes = Luke Evans

Laura Upward = Sarah Douglas

Robin Upward = Tom Hiddleston

Guy Carpenter = Benedict Cumberbatch

Eve Carpenter = Alice Eve

Dr Rendell = James McAvoy

Sheelagh Rendell = Laura Aikman

Mr Roger Wetherby = David Suchet

Mrs Edith Weatherby = Sherrie Hewson

Deirdre Henderson = Romola Garai

Bessie Burch = Catherine Tate

Maude Williams = Billie Piper

Mr Scuttle = Steve Coogan

Michael West = Orlando Bloom

George = Robert Lindsay

An old charr woman has been murdered and apparently robbed, and the supposed culprit is sentenced to death, but there’s a problem; Superintendent Spence is not convinced they have the right culprit, and he’s tied up on another case.  As a result, it falls on Poirot to travel to the village of Broadhinney and endure the privations of the local guest house in a race to find the real killer.  Poirot’s preliminary investigation reveals that a local tabloid named The Sunday Comet had run a story not long before Mrs McGinty’s death about women linked to notorious murder cases, and it soon becomes apparent that this was the real murder motive.  Who in Broadhinney has killed to keep their past a secret?  This is what Poirot must learn.

In this film, we get Zoë Wanamaker back as Ariadne Oliver for the first time since Cards on the Table, in what becomes a more recurring role as she appears more often during this period as the would-be “sidekick” to Poirot in place of Hastings, just as Spence recurs in lieu of Japp.  This time, the cast is all-English, but we go all-star for much of it, featuring a great many actors of note both here in the UK and internationally, in large part due to roles in various franchise films and major TV shows.

After The Funeral (2020/1950)

Hercule Poirot = Brian Cox

Mr William Entwhistle = Ralph Fiennes

Inspector Morton = Rhys Ifans

Mrs Cora Lansquenet = Finola Hughes

Miss Gilchrist = Josie Lawrence

Timothy Abernethie = Ralph Brown

Maude Abernethie = Debbie Arnold

Susan Banks = Emily Blunt

Gregory Banks = Guy Burnet

George Crossfield = Matthew Baynton

Rosamund Shane = Felicity Jones

Michael Shane = Matt Smith

Helen Abernethie = Helen Pearson

Richard Abernethie = Ciarán Hinds

George = Robert Lindsay

“Oh, but he was murdered, wasn’t he?”  The day after these words are uttered by Cora Lansquenet after the funeral of her brother, wealthy businessman Richard Abernethie, Cora herself is brutally murdered.  Fearing that the words Cora uttered signed her death warrant, family solicitor William Entwhistle appeals to Hercule Poirot to investigate the matter.  This is the one film in the final six not to feather Ariadne Oliver or Superintendent Spence, so recurring roles are down this time.  In turn, the more notable acting names are sprinkled throughout the cast rather than being a major component as in the cast of the previous film.

Dead Man’s Folly (2022/1951)

Hercule Poirot = Brian Cox

Ariadne Oliver = Zoë Wanamaker

Inspector Bland = Leon Ockenden

Sergeant Frank Cottrell = Calvin Dean

Sir George Stubbs = Jack Davenport

Hattie Stubbs = Jasmine Trinca

Etienne de Sousa = Adam Rodriguez

Amanda Brewis = Kate Winslet

Amy Folliat = Rita Tushingham

Michael Weyman = Henry Cavill

Alec Legge = Tom Mison

Sally Legge = Hannah New

Marlene Tucker = Amelia Green

Marilyn Tucker = Ella Bright

Mrs Tucker = Maxine Peake

Merdell = Ron Cook

Italian back-packer = Matilda de Angelis

Dutch back-packer = Doutzen Kroes

“Turtle-shirt man” = Alec Utgoff

Dead Man’s Folly sees Poirot hasten down to Devon at the request of Ariadne Oliver.  She is staying at Nass House, the home of the wealthy industrialist Sir George Stubbs, having been invited to organise a “murder hunt” for a garden fete.  However, Mrs Oliver is uneasy and fears that someone may attempt to turn her murder game into a real murder.  When the fete arrives, her fears prove true, and the young girl playing the murder victim becomes murdered for real.  As Poirot aids local police in the investigation, it also appears that Lady Stubbs has vanished, and the parallels between the murder game and real events add to the confusion.  Poirot must carefully employ his little grey cells to learn the truth of the matter.

When it comes to murder mysteries, this story and its sequel aren’t the most likely to be adapted unless working in series, largely because people get squeamish about this kind of story being done with children being the murder victims.  However, I think that if a film can treat something like this with sensitivity, can show the characters feel as we do and will seek justice as we would, then it can be done and make a film great despite this aspect of the subject matter.  Casting-wise, I’ve tried as much as possible to find actors who hail from Devon for characters native to the area, and we have a few international roles again.  The most notable actor for these is probably Adam Rodriguez, better known as CSI Miami’s Eric Delko, while the English acting contingent includes such notable actors as Jack Davenport, Kate Winslet and Henry Cavill.

Hallowe’en Party (2024/1952)

Hercule Poirot = Brian Cox

Ariadne Oliver = Zoë Wanamaker

Superintendent Spence = Colin Firth

Elspeth McKay = Kate Firth

Rowena Drake = Ruth Wilson

Elizabeth Whittaker = Emma Rigby

Judith Butler = Jaime Winstone

Mrs Goodbody = Diana Quick

Joyce Reynolds = Indica Watson

Leopold Reynolds = Woody Norman

Ann Reynolds = Isabella Sermon

Desmond Holand = Milo Parker

Nicholas Ransom = Samuel Joslin

Michael Garfield = Matt Ryan

Miranda Butler = Minti Gorne

Mrs Reynolds = Michelle Dockery

Mrs Llewelyn-Smythe = Frances de la Tour

Olga Seminoff = Emily Baldoni

Janet White = Kara Tointon

Nora Ambrose = Sheridan Smith

Lesley Ferrier = Tom Felton

Harry Griffin = James Purefoy

Sandra Griffin = Tamzin Outhwaite

Miss Emlyn = Charlotte Gainsburg

Jeremy Fullerton = Daniel Craig

Harriet Leaman = Louise Lombard

George = Robert Lindsay

When Ariadne Oliver makes a friend during a Greek cruise, it is some month’s later when she finds herself a guest of that friend, Judith Butler, and in attendance at a children’s Hallowe’en Party.  When Mrs Oliver’s novels come up in conversation, a boastful girl named Joyce claims to have once seen a murder, but did not recognise it as such at the time.  By the end of the party, Joyce is found dead, drowned in the apple-bobbing bucket.  Poirot, with the aid of a now-retired Superintendent Spence and his sister who live in the area, begins to investigate, and soon finds that several past cases all connect with each other and the present one.  Can he find all the answers before anyone else is killed?

This story was the partial basis for Kenneth Branagh’s Poirot film A Haunting in Venice, but I would want to see it brought to the big screen more in keeping with the original story.  I get why it was changed; playing on Poirot’s tendency to travel abroad and trying to skirt the squeamishness around dealing with children being murdered in fiction.  However, as noted with Dead Man’s Folly, I think you can have children be murder victims in fiction and still make a good piece of fiction if those involved treat the subject with the sensitivity and humanity that is appropriate.  This is partly why the film is relatively low on major actors with wide international appeal, to avoid any sense of sensationalising the subject matter at hand.  That and after 22 previous films, you wouldn’t need to do much to advertise at this stage.

Elephants Can Remember (2026/1953)

Hercule Poirot = Brian Cox

Ariadne Oliver = Zoë Wanamaker

Superintendent Garroway = Mark Strong

Superintendent Spence = Colin Firth

Mr Goby = Jonny Lee Miller

Celia Ravenscroft = Daisy Ridley

Desmond Burton-Cox = Matthew Lewis

Mrs Burton-Cox = Cherie Lunghi

General Alistair Ravenscroft = Tom Ellis

Margaret “Molly” Ravenscroft = Georgia Tennant

Dorothea “Dolly” Jarrow = Georgia Tennant

Mademoiselle “Maddie” Rouselle = Carole Bouquet

Mademoiselle "Zélie" Meauhourat = Jemima West

The Honourable Julia Carstairs = Saskia Reeves

Mrs Matcham = Kristen Scott Thomas

Mrs Buckle = Geraldine James

Mrs Rosentelle = Anne-Marie Duff

George = Robert Lindsay

In the final film of this Poirot run, Ariadne Oliver attends a literary luncheon to be honoured for her work.  However, during the mingling thereafter, she is cornered by a woman whose son is engaged to a god-daughter of Mrs Oliver’s, and the woman poses to Mrs Oliver a strange and audacious question.  Did the girl’s father kill her mother and then take his own life, or was it the other way around?  It turns out Celia, Mrs Oliver’s god-daughter, is the daughter of a married couple who, years ago, were found death together near the sea somewhere in Cornwall.  They had both been shot and both their fingerprints were on the weapon, but there was no conclusive evidence to indicate who was the instigator.  As such, Poirot and Mrs Oliver each seek to gather information about this cold case, searching for anyone linked with the case with a sufficiently elephantine memory to explain the mystery of the Ravenscroft case.

Here again, we’re not going that big on acting name, though we do get a little international variation due to the addition of Swiss governesses linked with the Ravenscroft family in Celia’s youth.  As the radio dramas used to pick the Poirot stories for this film run didn’t get into doing Curtain, this film would probably get a bit more padding to give this version of Poirot his own ending.  As a rule, I don’t like to stray much from source, but based on what I know of the Curtain plotline, I think a bit of artistic license concerning the end of Poirot is not unwelcome.

This concludes my Poirot fan-cast, and my Miss Marple one will begin in June; at present, I plan to do something else for my July ramble and then conclude the Marple fan-cast on my August post.  Anyway, until the next ramble, ta-ta for now.