Text Transformation- Prose
A Terribly Strange Bed- Wilkie Collins
House of Spades
It was only 3:30 but it felt like it was already 10:00. Gus texted me over an hour ago to explain how he’d fallen down the stairs, which meant that I would be running the morning report for him this week. I had less than two days to try and research and learn some background knowledge of the week’s top stories for the new six o'clock Panorama programme on Thursday, I thought that they must be desperate. It had been a while since I’d done a live broadcast, but it was about time that I got back up there, since the last time I mean. I’d been keeping under the radar. I would finally get to be back on television, and I wasn't about to ruin it again simply because I didn't know my stories properly.
Damon had just dumped the pile of papers on the wooden oak desk, next to my almost empty coffee cup, thanks! I started looking at the previous write-ups of the main story this week. They were all about a bunch bodies that had been found in the Seine. It was noted that these people had committed suicide and written a note found in their pocketbooks to prove this. It all seems a little strange if you ask me. All of a sudden you have all these people who have supposedly committed suicide, and they've all written suicide notes. I couldn't let this one go, it all sounded terrible but I had to know more.
As I fired up my laptop I searched for more information about these incidents. People committing suicide in the Seine was not a recent thing; I found out, it was something that had been going on for a long time. Over the past few years there have been many hundreds of people who committed suicide there. My search only led to more questions; did they actually commit suicide or was it part of something more gruesome? And why haven't the authorities suspected anything? I came across an article about a man who experienced with the strangest story I had ever heard, a bed had almost squashed him to death in a gambling-house near the Seine that was in Palais Royal. I just had to speak to this person, there wasn't a lot written in the article, perhaps it was far too shocking for him to say, but I knew I just had to speak to him.
I tried hundreds of numbers and got through at least three more cups of coffee before someone finally put me through to the man’s friend. His friend said that Thomas would agree to speak to me on the grounds that I did not publish anything with his name on it and that the conversation was to take place over the phone, this I agreed to. So, I was put on hold yet again and waited until finally a deep husky voice spoke.
“Thomas McLane, what do you want?” The voice sounded annoyed.
“Hello Mr McLane my name is Tamara Raine and I work for the BBC, I am calling regarding your strange encounter at the gambling-house near Palais Royal where a horrible incident took place, I have a few questions to ask you if wouldn’t mind answering.” There was silence on the other end. Truthfully, I was starting to get worried that he would put the phone down on me and I would have no story left. But surprisingly his tone changed.
“Please, call me Thomas, Miss Raine and may I say it is a pleasure to hear such a lovely voice, I do wish my friend had put you on sooner as I would be honoured to answer some questions for such a beautiful woman, ask away.” His change in attitude was surprising, but I quickly adjusted myself.
“Mr McLane, would you mind explaining to me in as much detail as possible what happened on the night you decided to go gambling?”
“Of course I can my dear; you see my friend and I decided that a change of scenery was needed so I thought it might be nice to go somewhere where we could see a little genuine blackguard poverty-stricken gambling. As we entered the “House of Spades”, I believe they called it, the scene was a mess, the men were horrific and the sight was truthfully just tragic. So, I took refuge at the game Rouge et Noir ,I had played in every city in Europe and found that I was winning at such a rate that even regular gamblers couldn't resist gathering round to marvel at my winnings, long story short I broke the bank with the support of an old soldier.
“Not to be too intrusive, Mr McLane, but you do not strike me as a man of greed or risk, what drew you into the game?”
“Ah, well I’m not too entirely sure, a bit of winners luck had me going; a rush of energy and that was it. I was in the game alright!”
“What happened after you won?”
“Well it was a bit bleary past that point, I guess I’d had quite a bit to drink or something. That guy, he got me a coffee to sober up and was persistent that I should take a bed at the gambling-house to avoid being robbed on the way home. This sounded like a fair thing to do and so I took the bed upstairs, making sure I put my winnings under the pillow for safe keeping and barricaded the door just in case. I just lay down for a while, it all seemed pretty comfortable and I was drifting off. But just then, the bed-top seemed to be moving closer and closer to me, at first I thought maybe it was all the drink I had probably downed, but the canopy was going to collapse on top of me and in that final moment I was able to quickly roll myself off the bed and with a thump onto the cold floor. Well, at first I was practically frozen in fear and lay on the floor trying to compose myself. After a few minutes everything stopped.” He paused for a moment, almost expecting a question, so I followed up, in shock myself.
“My God, how did you manage to escape? You locked yourself in didn't you?” I realised there was a worry in my voice that sounded a little too needy.
“Well, I got out of there that second, didn't call for anyone, I grabbed the money and shoved it in my satchel, I could hear voices whispering next door, or was it just in my head, I didn't know anymore. I worked out that my best bet would probably be out of the window. Thankfully this area was not one that had been refurbished; there was a cross-bridge to the next building, I snuck all the way out, still swaying around as I balanced on the edge. If anything the coffee had made it all worse. I saw a café that was still open and dragged myself in. I don’t know why but I ordered a coffee, as I took a sip, I soon came to realise that I must have been drugged. In that coffee! It had tasted odd now that I thought about it. I needed to get out of there.” I was so involved in listening to his story that I had forgotten to even make any notes I quickly started scribbling it all down.
“How crazy!” that’s all I could say. After composing myself, I thought of something more suitable, “That must’ve been an unbelievable rush for you I assume, how are you now?”
“Yes, well looking back at it, it was unbelievable.” He seemed in his own world, like he was still remembering it all.
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, what did you do with that money that you won, Mr McLane?” I asked curiously, I half expected him not to tell me, but it seemed that Thomas McLane was a man full of surprises.
“Well, only two people know where I've hidden it, but if you promise not to tell anyone I’ll tell you, do you promise?”
“I promise not to tell anyone” I really did mean it; it was only for my own curiosity.
“I managed to hide the money under the----“The line went dead.
“Mr McLane? Mr McLane? Are you there? Thomas?” Oh I thought, to myself maybe my phones died, but when I looked at the battery it was still on 90%. I tried to call him back, but his number went straight to voice mail. That’s rather peculiar, I decided to call his friend instead, but that number went straight to voice mail too. I hadn’t even got to a point of asking him about his thoughts on the previous, so called, “suicides”. I began to panic, but then realised maybe there was a problem with the reception. I looked over at the clock, it read 15:02. I thought it would be easier to leave it for the day and head home, I hoped that he would call back later. But he never did.
It was only later that night, while I was watching the seven o’clock news, when I realised why I never got a call back. Thomas McLane and his friend Mark Spencer had been found dead in their apartment together, it was suspected that they had both committed suicide.
I was in shock.
Only four hours ago I had been speaking to him, he seemed perfectly healthy, perhaps even a bit flirtatious. Just then, Sid walked in, I knew it was him, but I hadn't looked away from the television screen yet, he came and sat beside me, but I still did not tear my eyes away from the blue page on the screen. He was now staring at me.
‘Hey, Tamara what’s wrong?’ He grabbed the remote to turn off the screen. After a minute or two I looked away, then it all just started spilling out,
‘I was just talking to him I can’t believe he’s dead, he was fine it couldn't possibly be a suicide, what are they doing? What if it was something that I said, I need to get down there right now.’ I was already on my feet, ready to leave.
‘Hold on, slow down, Tamara who are you talking about?’
‘The supposed suicides at the gambling house, I contacted the man who survived, and I spoke to him, Mr McLane. He is now dead.’ I was ready at the door now, the shock had now transformed into drive, I had to find out what was going on.
‘Just wait a while Tamara, I’ll wash up and drop you off before my next shift at the office.’
‘No I need you to stay here for a while in case I get called.’ I walked out at this point I didn't know where I was going. I thought that my best bet would be to go the office, but I couldn't be seen, I would be questioned and I had promised McLane to publish everything anonymously.
It was already nearing eight o’ clock when I reached the office, the only people in were a few of the cleaners. I went over to my desk, Damon had left the documents everywhere, I sifted through them quickly, looking for names, addresses, anything that I could find. It was hours before I found something. I decided that it was probably best not to call anyone, especially from the work line. The supposed address for the gambling house was right here.
At this point I knew that there was only one thing that I could really do to get to the bottom of all of this, I didn’t have much to go on. I thought I would follow the address that I came across, and head south on the train.
It was nearly eleven o’ clock by the time I reached the address. At first the town seemed quiet, almost eerie. The house was in fact a tragic sight. I realised the only way I was going to get in was by acting like a gambler. I had never gambled in my life!
I knocked on the door; the old man looked at me up and down, before telling me to get lost. I showed him the money. That got me in. As I walked down the dingy hallway all I could smell was the damp walls and the stale ale. They sat me down at a round table with a single lamp, brightening the dim, room. It was Rouge et Noir, just like McLane had told me. Luckily, Sid and I had spent last summer playing it, so I guess I was pretty good.
I had managed to hold on to the drink I had been handed as soon as I had walked in. However, I hadn’t taken a sip as I couldn’t risk getting drugged like Mr McLane. After a few successful games, I had gathered quite a crowd who kept cheering me on. Amongst the noises of the crowd, I heard a familiar voice. I peered across the room and through the crack in the door I saw a glimpse of a guy. I gasped, “That looks like…”
I got up ready to leave, but the old man kept telling me to carry on. I knew better than to take my winnings with me. Now I was scared and had to anything to get out of there. I told them to keep the money I had won and ran back down the dingy hallway to the silence of the night. I ran to the station, the train seemed to take forever but I finally got home and it was only around one. But what if I’m wrong? But my eyes can’t deceive me. I rushed to the study room, there were papers scattered all over the desk. After looking around for what seemed like years, I decided that I was perhaps getting ahead of myself. But I couldn't think of why he wouldn't tell me where he worked. I slumped into the leather chair and stamped my foot on the wooden floor. One of the floor boards suddenly flipped out, revealing even more documents. I pulled out something that had McLane’s name on it. It was a suicide note just like the others; there were also maps with markings around the river Seine and lots of packages. One of the packages was torn open to reveal a pack of tranquilisers. Why did he have all of this? I was right all along, they weren't suicides. How could I have been so stupid this whole time?
Just then I saw this handkerchief, I was pretty sure that I had seen it before. At this point I had tears in my eyes. He had to have been a part of the whole thing; I would never have thought that he would be capable of something like this. Who was he really? I had seen this handkerchief in his pocket a few months ago, I remembered now. I’d seen it, ‘House of Spades’, was written in a cursive font, right in the corner. I had had everything right here but I had known nothing.
I held up the handkerchief now and there he was standing in the doorway. It all made sense now, looking at him I could see it. It was Sid! He was running the entire thing, robbing these innocent people of their winnings and lives; this was his new “job”. I had already been convicted under wrong accusation last time, it had nearly ruined my career, but he’d used that against me, thinking that I would never suspect him. How could he do that to me?
It was only 3:30 but it felt like it was already 10:00. Gus texted me over an hour ago to explain how he’d fallen down the stairs, which meant that I would be running the morning report for him this week. I had less than two days to try and research and learn some background knowledge of the week’s top stories for the new six o'clock Panorama programme on Thursday, I thought that they must be desperate. It had been a while since I’d done a live broadcast, but it was about time that I got back up there, since the last time I mean. I’d been keeping under the radar. I would finally get to be back on television, and I wasn't about to ruin it again simply because I didn't know my stories properly.
Damon had just dumped the pile of papers on the wooden oak desk, next to my almost empty coffee cup, thanks! I started looking at the previous write-ups of the main story this week. They were all about a bunch bodies that had been found in the Seine. It was noted that these people had committed suicide and written a note found in their pocketbooks to prove this. It all seems a little strange if you ask me. All of a sudden you have all these people who have supposedly committed suicide, and they've all written suicide notes. I couldn't let this one go, it all sounded terrible but I had to know more.
As I fired up my laptop I searched for more information about these incidents. People committing suicide in the Seine was not a recent thing; I found out, it was something that had been going on for a long time. Over the past few years there have been many hundreds of people who committed suicide there. My search only led to more questions; did they actually commit suicide or was it part of something more gruesome? And why haven't the authorities suspected anything? I came across an article about a man who experienced with the strangest story I had ever heard, a bed had almost squashed him to death in a gambling-house near the Seine that was in Palais Royal. I just had to speak to this person, there wasn't a lot written in the article, perhaps it was far too shocking for him to say, but I knew I just had to speak to him.
I tried hundreds of numbers and got through at least three more cups of coffee before someone finally put me through to the man’s friend. His friend said that Thomas would agree to speak to me on the grounds that I did not publish anything with his name on it and that the conversation was to take place over the phone, this I agreed to. So, I was put on hold yet again and waited until finally a deep husky voice spoke.
“Thomas McLane, what do you want?” The voice sounded annoyed.
“Hello Mr McLane my name is Tamara Raine and I work for the BBC, I am calling regarding your strange encounter at the gambling-house near Palais Royal where a horrible incident took place, I have a few questions to ask you if wouldn’t mind answering.” There was silence on the other end. Truthfully, I was starting to get worried that he would put the phone down on me and I would have no story left. But surprisingly his tone changed.
“Please, call me Thomas, Miss Raine and may I say it is a pleasure to hear such a lovely voice, I do wish my friend had put you on sooner as I would be honoured to answer some questions for such a beautiful woman, ask away.” His change in attitude was surprising, but I quickly adjusted myself.
“Mr McLane, would you mind explaining to me in as much detail as possible what happened on the night you decided to go gambling?”
“Of course I can my dear; you see my friend and I decided that a change of scenery was needed so I thought it might be nice to go somewhere where we could see a little genuine blackguard poverty-stricken gambling. As we entered the “House of Spades”, I believe they called it, the scene was a mess, the men were horrific and the sight was truthfully just tragic. So, I took refuge at the game Rouge et Noir ,I had played in every city in Europe and found that I was winning at such a rate that even regular gamblers couldn't resist gathering round to marvel at my winnings, long story short I broke the bank with the support of an old soldier.
“Not to be too intrusive, Mr McLane, but you do not strike me as a man of greed or risk, what drew you into the game?”
“Ah, well I’m not too entirely sure, a bit of winners luck had me going; a rush of energy and that was it. I was in the game alright!”
“What happened after you won?”
“Well it was a bit bleary past that point, I guess I’d had quite a bit to drink or something. That guy, he got me a coffee to sober up and was persistent that I should take a bed at the gambling-house to avoid being robbed on the way home. This sounded like a fair thing to do and so I took the bed upstairs, making sure I put my winnings under the pillow for safe keeping and barricaded the door just in case. I just lay down for a while, it all seemed pretty comfortable and I was drifting off. But just then, the bed-top seemed to be moving closer and closer to me, at first I thought maybe it was all the drink I had probably downed, but the canopy was going to collapse on top of me and in that final moment I was able to quickly roll myself off the bed and with a thump onto the cold floor. Well, at first I was practically frozen in fear and lay on the floor trying to compose myself. After a few minutes everything stopped.” He paused for a moment, almost expecting a question, so I followed up, in shock myself.
“My God, how did you manage to escape? You locked yourself in didn't you?” I realised there was a worry in my voice that sounded a little too needy.
“Well, I got out of there that second, didn't call for anyone, I grabbed the money and shoved it in my satchel, I could hear voices whispering next door, or was it just in my head, I didn't know anymore. I worked out that my best bet would probably be out of the window. Thankfully this area was not one that had been refurbished; there was a cross-bridge to the next building, I snuck all the way out, still swaying around as I balanced on the edge. If anything the coffee had made it all worse. I saw a café that was still open and dragged myself in. I don’t know why but I ordered a coffee, as I took a sip, I soon came to realise that I must have been drugged. In that coffee! It had tasted odd now that I thought about it. I needed to get out of there.” I was so involved in listening to his story that I had forgotten to even make any notes I quickly started scribbling it all down.
“How crazy!” that’s all I could say. After composing myself, I thought of something more suitable, “That must’ve been an unbelievable rush for you I assume, how are you now?”
“Yes, well looking back at it, it was unbelievable.” He seemed in his own world, like he was still remembering it all.
“So, if you don’t mind me asking, what did you do with that money that you won, Mr McLane?” I asked curiously, I half expected him not to tell me, but it seemed that Thomas McLane was a man full of surprises.
“Well, only two people know where I've hidden it, but if you promise not to tell anyone I’ll tell you, do you promise?”
“I promise not to tell anyone” I really did mean it; it was only for my own curiosity.
“I managed to hide the money under the----“The line went dead.
“Mr McLane? Mr McLane? Are you there? Thomas?” Oh I thought, to myself maybe my phones died, but when I looked at the battery it was still on 90%. I tried to call him back, but his number went straight to voice mail. That’s rather peculiar, I decided to call his friend instead, but that number went straight to voice mail too. I hadn’t even got to a point of asking him about his thoughts on the previous, so called, “suicides”. I began to panic, but then realised maybe there was a problem with the reception. I looked over at the clock, it read 15:02. I thought it would be easier to leave it for the day and head home, I hoped that he would call back later. But he never did.
It was only later that night, while I was watching the seven o’clock news, when I realised why I never got a call back. Thomas McLane and his friend Mark Spencer had been found dead in their apartment together, it was suspected that they had both committed suicide.
I was in shock.
Only four hours ago I had been speaking to him, he seemed perfectly healthy, perhaps even a bit flirtatious. Just then, Sid walked in, I knew it was him, but I hadn't looked away from the television screen yet, he came and sat beside me, but I still did not tear my eyes away from the blue page on the screen. He was now staring at me.
‘Hey, Tamara what’s wrong?’ He grabbed the remote to turn off the screen. After a minute or two I looked away, then it all just started spilling out,
‘I was just talking to him I can’t believe he’s dead, he was fine it couldn't possibly be a suicide, what are they doing? What if it was something that I said, I need to get down there right now.’ I was already on my feet, ready to leave.
‘Hold on, slow down, Tamara who are you talking about?’
‘The supposed suicides at the gambling house, I contacted the man who survived, and I spoke to him, Mr McLane. He is now dead.’ I was ready at the door now, the shock had now transformed into drive, I had to find out what was going on.
‘Just wait a while Tamara, I’ll wash up and drop you off before my next shift at the office.’
‘No I need you to stay here for a while in case I get called.’ I walked out at this point I didn't know where I was going. I thought that my best bet would be to go the office, but I couldn't be seen, I would be questioned and I had promised McLane to publish everything anonymously.
It was already nearing eight o’ clock when I reached the office, the only people in were a few of the cleaners. I went over to my desk, Damon had left the documents everywhere, I sifted through them quickly, looking for names, addresses, anything that I could find. It was hours before I found something. I decided that it was probably best not to call anyone, especially from the work line. The supposed address for the gambling house was right here.
At this point I knew that there was only one thing that I could really do to get to the bottom of all of this, I didn’t have much to go on. I thought I would follow the address that I came across, and head south on the train.
It was nearly eleven o’ clock by the time I reached the address. At first the town seemed quiet, almost eerie. The house was in fact a tragic sight. I realised the only way I was going to get in was by acting like a gambler. I had never gambled in my life!
I knocked on the door; the old man looked at me up and down, before telling me to get lost. I showed him the money. That got me in. As I walked down the dingy hallway all I could smell was the damp walls and the stale ale. They sat me down at a round table with a single lamp, brightening the dim, room. It was Rouge et Noir, just like McLane had told me. Luckily, Sid and I had spent last summer playing it, so I guess I was pretty good.
I had managed to hold on to the drink I had been handed as soon as I had walked in. However, I hadn’t taken a sip as I couldn’t risk getting drugged like Mr McLane. After a few successful games, I had gathered quite a crowd who kept cheering me on. Amongst the noises of the crowd, I heard a familiar voice. I peered across the room and through the crack in the door I saw a glimpse of a guy. I gasped, “That looks like…”
I got up ready to leave, but the old man kept telling me to carry on. I knew better than to take my winnings with me. Now I was scared and had to anything to get out of there. I told them to keep the money I had won and ran back down the dingy hallway to the silence of the night. I ran to the station, the train seemed to take forever but I finally got home and it was only around one. But what if I’m wrong? But my eyes can’t deceive me. I rushed to the study room, there were papers scattered all over the desk. After looking around for what seemed like years, I decided that I was perhaps getting ahead of myself. But I couldn't think of why he wouldn't tell me where he worked. I slumped into the leather chair and stamped my foot on the wooden floor. One of the floor boards suddenly flipped out, revealing even more documents. I pulled out something that had McLane’s name on it. It was a suicide note just like the others; there were also maps with markings around the river Seine and lots of packages. One of the packages was torn open to reveal a pack of tranquilisers. Why did he have all of this? I was right all along, they weren't suicides. How could I have been so stupid this whole time?
Just then I saw this handkerchief, I was pretty sure that I had seen it before. At this point I had tears in my eyes. He had to have been a part of the whole thing; I would never have thought that he would be capable of something like this. Who was he really? I had seen this handkerchief in his pocket a few months ago, I remembered now. I’d seen it, ‘House of Spades’, was written in a cursive font, right in the corner. I had had everything right here but I had known nothing.
I held up the handkerchief now and there he was standing in the doorway. It all made sense now, looking at him I could see it. It was Sid! He was running the entire thing, robbing these innocent people of their winnings and lives; this was his new “job”. I had already been convicted under wrong accusation last time, it had nearly ruined my career, but he’d used that against me, thinking that I would never suspect him. How could he do that to me?
Northanger Abbey-Jane Austen - Base text
Transformation Text- Val McDermid
Analysis of transformation:
Northanger Abbey, the base text seems to have a clear structure, with a clear division between the narration and dialogue. The setting and time period are suggested by the terms used to address the characters such as, 'sir' and 'madam', this shows how the formalities are considered to be highly regarded as they show the proper etiquette which should be maintained during conversation. Also, this could allow us to get a sense of the hierarchy and status between characters. However, the transformation text seems to be not as clearly structured as it has more description within the actual dialogue rather than being separate. Additionally, the transformation text seems to be more informal than formal, this is shown by the way the characters call one another by their first names or nicknames. For example, instead of the name 'Catherine Morland' or 'madam'' the character is called 'Cat'. Also, the use of more recent ideas are used such as 'Facebook', 'Twitter' and 'iPads', which suggests a more modernised updated approach to this story.
Both texts are told in a third person narrative. However, the difference seems to be that the transformation text has a more personal and intimate relationship with the characters in relation to the distant narrator of the base text. There seems to also be a change in the implemented values between what was expected at the time. For example, there is an underlying flirtation between the two main characters in the base text, but in the transformation text this flirtatious manner is more open, for example 'I'll be gentle with you'. This suggests that the time periods of these texts seem to have an impact on the way in which the characters act towards eachother, she 'giggled' and he 'teased', which shows that their is more of an intimate interaction between the characters.
The form and genre of the texts has remained the same, even to an extent that the story line is the same, it is just the formality of the story that has been changed. The time periods of both the texts are different as the base text focuses on maintaining the etiquette and class between the characters, whereas the second text seems to be more recent as in incorporates recent ideas such as the 'BBC' and 'fizzy water' and both characters seem to take a lighter more openly flirtatious approach to one another, that seems to be inappropriate in the base text.
Both texts are told in a third person narrative. However, the difference seems to be that the transformation text has a more personal and intimate relationship with the characters in relation to the distant narrator of the base text. There seems to also be a change in the implemented values between what was expected at the time. For example, there is an underlying flirtation between the two main characters in the base text, but in the transformation text this flirtatious manner is more open, for example 'I'll be gentle with you'. This suggests that the time periods of these texts seem to have an impact on the way in which the characters act towards eachother, she 'giggled' and he 'teased', which shows that their is more of an intimate interaction between the characters.
The form and genre of the texts has remained the same, even to an extent that the story line is the same, it is just the formality of the story that has been changed. The time periods of both the texts are different as the base text focuses on maintaining the etiquette and class between the characters, whereas the second text seems to be more recent as in incorporates recent ideas such as the 'BBC' and 'fizzy water' and both characters seem to take a lighter more openly flirtatious approach to one another, that seems to be inappropriate in the base text.