conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Arkansas, April, Rosa with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Sorrow Bound'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Sorrow Bound
  Tremberg rarely troubles herself with the politics of her job or the social background to the crimes she investigates. She does what she's asked, and enjoys catching villains. She's good at it, too, even if she is currently feeling less than happy in her work. As one of four detective constables on the Serious and Organized Crime Unit, she has little say in which of her senior colleagues she is paired with, but she enjoys her working days considerably more when helping McAvoy or Pharaoh. At the moment, she is working for Detective Inspector Shaz Archer, and loathing every moment of it. Archer and DCI Colin Ray are effectively leading the unit's investigation into the spike in organized crime. Pharaoh is overseeing, but her day is so filled with paperwork and budget meetings that Ray and Archer are running the show; reveling in being top dogs.
  This morning, Ray had told Tremberg to accompany Archer to Hull Prison because there was a better chance that the man they were seeing would warm to two women more than he would to Ray himself. Tremberg had seen the logic in that. It is impossible to warm to Colin Ray. He's a walking sneer, all yellow teeth and nicotine-stained fingers; all curses and spittle and ratty little eyes.
  Tremberg had accepted Ray's orders with good grace, even though she had despaired at the thought of spending the morning with the snotty detective inspector who seems to be the only female that Colin Ray has any time for. The two are pretty much inseparable, though they make for unlikely friends. Archer is part of the horsey crowd and spends her free time playing polo and knocking back Pimm's with people called Savannah and Sheridan. Ray coaches football in his spare time and spends his money on greyhounds, lager, and ex-wives.
  Tremberg is not the sort to be jealous of her female colleagues and does not object to the fact that Shaz Archer is extraordinarily attractive. It's Archer's personality she bridles at. She puts Tremberg in mind of a California high school bully in a film for teens. She holds everybody and everything in open contempt, and uses her looks to manipulate colleagues and crooks alike. Her arrest record is impressive, but Tremberg finds the way she flaunts herself distasteful. While Tremberg admires Trish Pharaoh for just being herself, for being sexy and mumsy and hard as fucking nails, with Archer it's all strategic. Every time she purses her lips or blows on her perfect fingernails, she's doing it to get a reaction out of somebody. She keeps miniskirts and crop tops in her desk so she can get changed into something exotic if she's interviewing some easily led pervert, and there are rumors she has traded her affections for confessions in the past. Tremberg knows police stations to be termite mounds of malicious gossip and had originally decided to ignore such slander about a female colleague. Then she got to know Archer herself, and decided the woman was, if nothing else, a bitch of the first order.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Caneva pulls a face. "I did a little better than Seb," he says almost guiltily. "I was a good psychiatrist. Got a job with a respected London firm straight out of university and specialized in several elite fields. I ended up as a partner in a practice in Bloomsbury. I married. Had two children. The right kind of life, or so they tell me."
  Caneva stares at the flame. "He had his problems. I don't think he put himself back together really. He did okay in physiotherapy. Worked for a decent practice, met some interesting people. But there was a bit of him missing. That spark. We stayed in touch, of course. He spent a couple of Christmases with us. He was my son's godfather, though it took some persuading to get him to take the job."
  McAvoy clicks his tongue inside his mouth. Thinks again of the crimes Hoyer-Wood went on to commit. "You didn't think he was dangerous?"
  Caneva pinches the bridge of his nose. "You have to remember that Seb was only ever charged with one incident. Despite the investigations of Humberside Police, there was no evidence he carried out any other crimes. So, when I heard about him breaking into a house in Bridlington and being viciously beaten by the homeowner, I had a very different picture in my mind from the one you currently hold. To me it was a cry for help. In my mind, he was the victim. Seb underwent surgery. He nearly died. And while he was under the knife, the police tried to build a case against him that would have put him in prison for a very long time. I visited him in hospital. He could barely speak. He couldn't move down one side of his body. They tried him with physiotheraphy and he collapsed after every step. He had to defecate in a bag. This was not a man who needed prison. He needed help."
  Caneva breathes in, holds it, and then lets the air out of his lungs. "For a while my firm had been looking to provide a facility for the mentally ill. We wanted to set up a place for calm, quiet study that would be a relaxing, soothing place for the patients. I brought that initiative forward. I found premises in East Yorkshire. At that time, there was a high demand on existing provisions for the criminally insane. It seemed obvious that there was money to be made for the company by getting Home Office approval to also take mental patients referred by the courts. Thankfully, one of our other partners had some old-school connections that were able to fast-track the application. I was managing director and chief psychiatrist. I planned to maintain the Bloomsbury practice and provide a certain number of days at the premises in East Yorkshire."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: "I did a little better than Seb," he says almost guiltily. "I was a good psychiatrist. Got a job with a respected London firm straight out of university and specialized in several elite fields. I ended up as a partner in a practice in Bloomsbury. I married. Had two children. The right kind of life, or so they tell me."
  Caneva stares at the flame. "He had his problems. I don't think he put himself back together really. He did okay in physiotherapy. Worked for a decent practice, met some interesting people. But there was a bit of him missing. That spark. We stayed in touch, of course. He spent a couple of Christmases with us. He was my son's godfather, though it took some persuading to get him to take the job."
  McAvoy clicks his tongue inside his mouth. Thinks again of the crimes Hoyer-Wood went on to commit. "You didn't think he was dangerous?"
  Caneva pinches the bridge of his nose. "You have to remember that Seb was only ever charged with one incident. Despite the investigations of Humberside Police, there was no evidence he carried out any other crimes. So, when I heard about him breaking into a house in Bridlington and being viciously beaten by the homeowner, I had a very different picture in my mind from the one you currently hold. To me it was a cry for help. In my mind, he was the victim. Seb underwent surgery. He nearly died. And while he was under the knife, the police tried to build a case against him that would have put him in prison for a very long time. I visited him in hospital. He could barely speak. He couldn't move down one side of his body. They tried him with physiotheraphy and he collapsed after every step. He had to defecate in a bag. This was not a man who needed prison. He needed help."
  Caneva breathes in, holds it, and then lets the air out of his lungs. "For a while my firm had been looking to provide a facility for the mentally ill. We wanted to set up a place for calm, quiet study that would be a relaxing, soothing place for the patients. I brought that initiative forward. I found premises in East Yorkshire. At that time, there was a high demand on existing provisions for the criminally insane. It seemed obvious that there was money to be made for the company by getting Home Office approval to also take mental patients referred by the courts. Thankfully, one of our other partners had some old-school connections that were able to fast-track the application. I was managing director and chief psychiatrist. I planned to maintain the Bloomsbury practice and provide a certain number of days at the premises in East Yorkshire."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The smell hits her. The tank may have been emptied but it still stinks of accumulated gases and shit. She looks down into the darkness. Almost vomits at the stench. Sees a stagnant pool of brown, scummy liquid, about a foot above the bottom of the tank.
  Maria closes the cover over the fetid blackness and turns back to Hoyer-Wood. She picks leaves from his pajama top and smiles into his terrified eyes. "They said there was no way to punish you. They said that letting you live as you are is punishment enough. Let's see if they were right, eh?"
  Maria scoops Sebastien up and carries him back toward his room. As she lays him back in his bed, she feels his body trembling like a frightened puppy.
  As she slips out of the room and into the cool of the night, a shaft of moonlight spears through from the hazy clouds. She looks at her hands. They are covered in dirt and leaves and filth that makes her want to gag.
  Finally, thanks to you, dear reader. I'd feel a right fool if nobody gave a damn about McAvoy and me. Hope you stick around.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Hope you stick around. The tank may have been emptied but it still stinks of accumulated gases and shit. She looks down into the darkness. Almost vomits at the stench. Sees a stagnant pool of brown, scummy liquid, about a foot above the bottom of the tank.
  Maria closes the cover over the fetid blackness and turns back to Hoyer-Wood. She picks leaves from his pajama top and smiles into his terrified eyes. "They said there was no way to punish you. They said that letting you live as you are is punishment enough. Let's see if they were right, eh?"
  Maria scoops Sebastien up and carries him back toward his room. As she lays him back in his bed, she feels his body trembling like a frightened puppy.
  As she slips out of the room and into the cool of the night, a shaft of moonlight spears through from the hazy clouds. She looks at her hands. They are covered in dirt and leaves and filth that makes her want to gag.
  Finally, thanks to you, dear reader. I'd feel a right fool if nobody gave a damn about McAvoy and me.The smell hits her.