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In a word: Incline

When you first think of this word, it is with a slippery slope in mind.

I’ve been on a few of those in my time.

And while we’re on the subject, those inclines measured in degrees are very important if you want a train to get up and down the side of a mountain.

For the train, that’s an incline plane, the point where traction alone won’t get the iron horse up the hill.

Did I say ‘Iron Horse’?  Sorry, regressed there, back to the mid-1800s in the American West for a moment.

It’s not that important when it comes to trucks and cars, and less so if you like four-wheel driving; getting up near-vertical mountainsides often present a welcome challenge to the true enthusiast

But for the rest of us, not so much if you find yourself sliding in reverse uncontrollably into the bay.  I’m sure it’s happened more than once.

Then…

Are you inclined to go?

A very different sort of incline, ie to be disposed towards an attitude or desire.

An inclination, maybe, not to go four-wheel driving?

There is another, probably more obscure use of the word incline, and that relates to an elevated geological formation.  Not the sort of reference that crops up in everyday conversation at the coffee shop.

But, you never know.  Try it next time you have coffee and see what happens.

Featured

Writing about writing a book – Day 2

Hang about.  Didn’t I read somewhere you need to plan your novel, create an outline setting the plot points, and flesh out the characters?

I’m sure it didn’t say, sit down and start writing!

Time to find a writing pad, and put my thinking cap on.

I make a list, what’s the story going to be about? Who’s going to be in it, at least at the start?

Like a newspaper story, I need a who, what, when, where, and how.

Right now.

 

I pick up the pen.

 

Character number one:

Computer nerd, ok, that’s a little close to the bone, a computer manager who is trying to be everything at once, and failing.  Still me, but with a twist.  Now, add a little mystery to him, and give him a secret, one that will only be revealed after a specific set of circumstance.  Yes, I like that.

We’ll call him Bill, ex-regular army, a badly injured and repatriated soldier who was sent to fight a war in Vietnam, the result of which had made him, at times, unfit to live with.

He had a wife, which brings us to,

Character number two:

Ellen, Bill’s ex-wife, an army brat and a General’s daughter, and the result of one of those romances that met disapproval for so many reasons.  It worked until Bill came back from the war, and from there it slowly disintegrated.  There are two daughters, both by the time the novel begins, old enough to understand the ramifications of a divorce.

Character number three:

The man who is Bill’s immediate superior, the Services Department manager, a rather officious man who blindly follows orders, a man who takes pleasure in making others feel small and insignificant, and worst of all, takes the credit where none is due.

Oops, too much, that is my old boss.  He’ll know immediately I’m parodying him.  Tone it down, just a little, but more or less that’s him.  Last name Benton.  He will play a small role in the story.

Character number four:

Jennifer, the IT Department’s assistant manager, a woman who arrives in a shroud of mystery, and then, in time, to provide Bill with a shoulder to cry on when he and Ellen finally split, and perhaps something else later on.

More on her later as the story unfolds.

So far so good.

What’s the plot?

Huge corporation plotting to take over the world using computers?  No, that’s been done to death.

Huge corporation, OK, let’s stop blaming the corporate world for everything wrong in the world.  Corporations are not bad people, people are the bad people.  That’s a rip off cliché, from guns don’t kill people, people kill people!  There will be guns, and there will be dead people.

There will be people hiding behind a huge corporation, using a part of their computer network to move billions of illegally gained money around.  That’s better.

Now, having got that, our ‘hero’ has to ‘discover’ this network, and the people behind it.

All we need now is to set the ball rolling, a single event that ‘throws a cat among the pigeons’.

Yes, Bill is on holidays, a welcome relief from the problems of work.  He dreams of what he’s going to do for the next two weeks.  The phone rings.  Benton calling, the world is coming to an end, the network is down.  He’s needed.  A few terse words, but he relents.

Pen in hand I begin to write.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view

It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.

John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.

What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.

The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.

All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.

…

Available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

If I only had one day to stop over in – Venice – what would I do?

A Day in Venice: Making the Most of Your 24-Hour Stopover

Venice, the City of Water, is a place that has captivated the hearts of travellers for centuries. With its stunning architecture, rich history, and unique culture, it’s no wonder that Venice is a top destination for many. But what if you only have a day to spend in this enchanting city? Is it possible to make the most of your 24-hour stopover and create unforgettable memories? The answer is yes, and it all starts with visiting one iconic place: St. Mark’s Square.

The Heart of Venice: St. Mark’s Square

Located in the heart of Venice, St. Mark’s Square (Piazza San Marco) is the city’s most famous landmark and a must-visit destination for any traveller. This stunning square is surrounded by breathtaking architecture, including the magnificent St. Mark’s Basilica, the Doge’s Palace, and the Campanile di San Marco (St. Mark’s Bell Tower). As you step into the square, you’ll be struck by the sheer beauty and grandeur of your surroundings.

Why St. Mark’s Square is a Must-Visit

So, what makes St. Mark’s Square the perfect place to visit during your one-day stopover in Venice? Here are just a few reasons:

  • Unparalleled Architecture: The square is home to some of the most stunning examples of Byzantine architecture in the world, including the intricate mosaics and golden domes of St. Mark’s Basilica.
  • Rich History: St. Mark’s Square has been the centre of Venetian life for centuries, with a history dating back to the 9th century. You can almost feel the weight of history as you walk through the square.
  • Cultural Significance: The square is a hub of cultural activity, with street performers, musicians, and artists adding to the lively atmosphere.
  • Accessibility: St. Mark’s Square is easily accessible by vaporetto (water bus) or on foot, making it a convenient destination for travellers with limited time.

Tips for Visiting St. Mark’s Square

To make the most of your visit to St. Mark’s Square, here are a few tips to keep in mind:

  • Arrive Early: Get to the square early in the morning to avoid the crowds and enjoy a more peaceful atmosphere.
  • Dress Modestly: Remember to dress modestly when visiting the basilica, as it’s a place of worship.
  • Take a Guided Tour: Consider taking a guided tour of the square and its surrounding attractions to get a deeper understanding of the history and culture.
  • Enjoy the Views: Don’t forget to take in the stunning views of the square from the top of the Campanile di San Marco, which offers breathtaking vistas of the city.

Conclusion

In conclusion, St. Mark’s Square is the perfect destination for travellers with a one-day stopover in Venice. With its stunning architecture, rich history, and cultural significance, this iconic square is sure to leave a lasting impression. By visiting St. Mark’s Square, you’ll be able to experience the essence of Venice and create unforgettable memories of your time in this enchanting city. So, make the most of your 24-hour stopover and head to St. Mark’s Square – you won’t regret it!

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t.  It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room.  It was quite large and expensively furnished.  It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917.  At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring.  Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years.  She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity.  She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined.  After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month.  There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited.  She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends.  She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy.  Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful.  In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit.  She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine.  She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend.  That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue.  It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour.  It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms.  When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report.  After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report.  She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen.  Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room.  She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit.  She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival.  It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality.  A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 20

Day 20 – Writing exercise

You are just passing a doorway, and you hear, “the dumb bastard doesn’t know his arse from his elbow”, then “Richards, Monday, I can barely wait to see you.  Bye.”

20 years of blissful marriage just evaporated.

…

I wondered whether all parties were the same, with over 200 invitees, people with more wealth than the national debt, who all knew the person for whom the party was for.

Isabella Rowena Elizabeth Walthemphere.

I had the distinct honour of knowing that exact person for the last 20 years, and of course, it was the one who had a team of 20 organisers make sure it went off to perfection.

And after a quick waltz around the ballroom, specially built and opened for the occasion, she told me it was the best party she had ever had in her honour.

For the rest of the time, I had watched her weave her magic among the guests, stopping here and there, a quiet word in a war, a gentle hand on an arm, a hug where it was needed.

She had no enemies.

But, a little before midnight, before the fireworks, she disappeared.

Well, not disappear, I had seen her look around first, an expression appearing on her face as it briefly hit the light, an expression I hadn’t seen before.

One of pure joy.

And she had insisted in her hand, just barely visible, a cell phone, one that she promised she would leave in the anteroom along with all the others.

One I saw her put there.

She then stepped back into the house through the summer doors of the morning room, just as I approached on the other side of the pillar.

And the hushed coversation”

“I bet you say that to all the girls…”

“Of course, I adore you.”

“He doesn’t, he couldn’t, he doesn’t know his ass from his elbow…”

“I can’t wait, Richards Cafe, Monday.  See you then.”

It was a conversation that no husband ever wanted to hear, and a conversation, at the very least, not to be having at a party your husband was throwing for you.

If it actually meant what I thought it meant, which didn’t make any sense at all.  Why wait 20 years to cheat on your husband?

The first fireworks exploded, and I just saw her which by, almost running.  She would be missed.  I would not.

…

Being married to Isabella Raisa Elizabeth Walthemphere was the opportunity of a lifetime, and somehow, out of a mass of very worthy and far more suitable candidates, she picked me.

It was, even for me, an odd choice.  It wasn’t the cut of the tuxedo, it wasn’t my ability to dance like a ballroom professional, it wasn’t the fact I was neither rich nor poor; perhaps it was because I cared.

We met incongruous, I did not know who she was, but just a girl called Margaret on holiday with a friend.

Someone had called out ‘Isabella,’ and in a moment, I saw this poor girl stumble, get up and run, and then completely knock me over.

I cursed her in four languages.

She cursed me back in five.

I helped up.  “If you want to be helpful, get in those people’s way.”

“Why?”

She cursed me again and then ran down a lane, then disappeared.

I got in the way.

“Do you know who that is?”

“No.  Should I?”

“The Countess Isabella… oh, forget it.”

And they took off down the lane much too late to catch her.

A week later he face was plastered all over the newspapers, the Countess was marrying a Prince something or other.

Good luck with that.  The Prince looked like he was a hundred years old, but one day would be king.  She didn’t look like queen material to me.

A week after that, in a dumpy hotel in Paris, at the end of my sojourn from the real world, I ran into her again.

Literally.

She was hiding from the media, and apparently, her mother and the soon-to-be king.  For a reason, her mother wanted her married into the rich and famous so that she could keep the Counts’ castle, after being left penniless when he died.

She had a plan, one I think she formulated after running into me again, testing to brush off runny eggs and greasy bacon, my only clean set of clothes I had to go back home in.

Would I marry her for a week, then get unmarried so she couldn’t marry the prince?  She could not be divorced.

I would get a hundred thousand dollars for my cooperation.

Who would turn down an offer like that?

We married in a quaint church in Paris, her mother married the Prince, the daughter became a princess and wasn’t allowed to divorce.

It was the oddest start to a relationship i ever had, and for a year I was basically a cardboard carpet turning up at events, being the dutiful husband, having promised to go quietly at the end of a contract.

Except here we were 20 years later, doing what I had expected her to 20 days later, but didn’t and hadn’t, until now.

…

I guess the deciding factor had been the title, and the pile of stones in a wet but beautiful county in
The middle of England.

My father always moaned about the fact that death duties had destroyed the family finances and our ability to pay for the estate’s upkeep.

My older brother consumed a lot of the wealth with gambling debts and got on the wrong side of the loan sharks and my father drank himself to death, leaving my sister and I with a broken mother who lasted six years before dementia took her away from us.

I finished school, went on a gap year holiday to consider what I was going to do, and then it was all decided for me.

Isabella came and conquered; her mother and the prince bailed me out of a very deep hole, and now I was Lord of the Manor.

I didn’t want to be, but for appearances, I had to be.  It became part of Royalty Inc.

20 years playing the game, 20 years of not producing an heir of my own, but Anthea found herself a nice boy and had 6 of her own, one who could take the title if I didn’t reproduce, which seemed unlikely.

20 years after which the train was about to run off the rails.

…

“Where have you been?”  Anthea was holding the fore, looking every bit the princess herself.

Not quite as famous but every bit as stunning.

She hadn’t believed my luck. 

I hadn’t believed my luck.

Now my luck had run out.

“You know I hate these things.”

“Four times a year, then you can go and hide in the summer house.  Or wherever it is you go.”

I made a face.  “You love this pompous.”

“Of course.  Rubbing shoulders with the cream of society, having every move I make documented for the world at large, taking a platoon of bodyguards in what amounts to a motorcade.”

Last week, meeting an old school friend, male, saw her under a headline ‘stepping out … not with her husband’ and a picture of an innocent kiss.

“Discretion dear.  Discretion.”

Isabella suddenly appeared at my side.  “Where were you?”  It was an innocent question with four barbs attached.

“Looking for you.  The party glow had disappeared.”

“I didn’t disappear.”

“I know you didn’t, dear.”  And smiled in a way that was not usual.

“You’re being strange.  Too much champagne.”

And then caught the eye of a guest and dashed off as she does in the middle of a conversation.

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.”

“You think she’s having an affair “

I nearly choked.  How could she possibly think that?

“No.”

“Would it matter if she did?”

Did she know something I didn’t?”

“Everything has a use-by date.  Mine was 19 years ago, but someone rubbed it off.”

She elbowed me in the ribs.  “You’re a fool.  Always was, always will be.  Go and mingle.  They’ll be going home soon.”

…

“You were acting strange tonight.”  Isabella had flipped into a large lounge chair and kicked off her shoes.

I poured a bottle of beer into a glass and took a sip.  It was uncouth to drink from the bottle.

“You disappeared.  Poof!”

“I did not.  I was probably in the restroom.”

“With your cell phone?”

She glared at me in a manner that could be called disconcerting.  Would she lie?

“I was expecting an important call?”

“Who could be so important that it transcends your birthday party?”

She didn’t answer.  Not immediately.  Instead, I got the, I’m working through a thousand scenarios to find one you will believe.

“No matter,” I said.  “It’s none of my business.  I have an early morning with the horses.”  I went over and kissed her on the cheek.  “Have fun down in London.”

As I stood back up, she took my hand and gave me the most intense look I’d ever received.

“How do you know I’m going to London?”

I gave her my I don’t care what you do look, smiled, and said, “You hate Mondays here, always have, and like always, you will simply leave me a note and flit off on some new adventure.  I know you so well.”

She looked miffed.

“What if, for once, you are wrong?”

“I’m always wrong, dear, it’s part of my job.”

She let go of my hand.  “I love you.  And thank you for a wonderful party.”

“You should thank the 20 event planners you employed for me.”

“Are you deliberately trying to annoy me?”

“After 20 years?  I’m sure I have annoyed you many times before now.”

She stood, brushed the imaginary creases out of her dress and looked me straight in the eye.

“What is going on with you?”

I tried looking inscrutable, but couldn’t.

“Nothing dear.  I’m just tired, and I have an early morning.”

She tilted her head slightly and made a new face, one I hadn’t seen before.

“Come with me.”

This was new, too.  “Where?”

“Wherever.  Anywhere.  Just come with me.”

“And make a mess of whatever it is you have planned.  I don’t think you need me.  I’m the horse and hounds part of this, whatever it is, and you are the brains behind everything else.  I can order gardeners, butlers, farmers and sometimes the livestock about.  That’s it.”

She shook her head.

“Only a fool would believe that Henry.  If I thought that of you, we wouldn’t be here now.”

“No.  You’d probably be a queen.”

“I am a princess.”

“I am a Lord or Marquis or something or other.  Titles don’t define us, Isabella.  What’s in our hearts defines us.  My heart is yours, Bella.  Don’t ever forget that.  Call me when you’re finished doing what you’re doing?”

..

She came into my room at 3am when she thought I was asleep and snuggled into me.

It had been a while since the last time.

She was not the sort who wanted to have sex morning, noon and night or every day of the week, and that suited me as well.

I had thought early on that she preferred that sort of relationship with other men and didn’t bother trying to prove it was the case or not.

Our relationship was built on trust.  I trusted her.  I had no idea what she thought of me. 

She left about three hours later, and when I got out of bed, she was gone.

I made the phone call to a man who sorted problems for me, and gave him some precise instructions, and then thought no more about it.

I did not fear for her safety.  I just wanted to make sure she was protected, even though she had that as the princess, i was never quite sure where anyone’s loyalties lay.

There was mischief afoot in her mother’s kingdom, mischief she continually neglected to tell her daughter about.  The king was old and getting on.  It was time for an heir to take over, which was precisely the problem.  There were six, other than the rightful heir, in contention.

Yes, I had spies everywhere.

I bought some horse I sold some horses, I rode a horse and gave an interview to a nice young lady who could actually ride a horse.

I took lunch in the morning room, took the call from my observer, and received the photos of the man she couldn’t wait to see.  They had lunch, all very dignified, but the looks between them.

I shrugged.

All good things must come to an end.  I sat in the library for over an hour, casting my eyes over the many books, some quite old, but most of the read at one time or another and pondered my fate.

I don’t think I wanted to become a joke among her friends.  I was very aware of what they thought of me, despite being polite.

They were her friends.

Mine, I could count on the fingers of one hand.  The rest, passing acquaintances who lingered to be in the shadow of fame, or as an introduction to the main act.

The place could survive without me.  It would have to eventually.

So, having one of those faces that blended well into the background, I donned my camouflage, went to the airport with the boring nondescript passport and bought a ticket to the third plane out.

Which took me to an interesting place called Queenstown, in one of the mother country’s far-flung colonies, New Zealand, though now it was more interestingly called Aotearoa.

It took a week to get there.  My tourist guide told me there were a lot of places in between that i should visit.  I did.

And the marvellous thing about it.  No one recognised me, I was simply Henry James.  I checked, and no one had reported me missing, only that I was temporarily indisposed.  The world could do very well without me, as could Isabella.

…

I should have known that any woman with the name Daphne was going to be trouble.

Day two in the idyllic tourist town of Queenstown was dissolving into a perfect sojourn when this wretched American woman practically threw herself into the chair opposite mine at the cafe where I was reading a newspaper and drinking a perfect cup of coffee.

I glared at her over the newspaper.

“You think they could at least make coffee properly.”

Flushed and annoyed, she grimaced.

“If you want American coffee, go to Starbucks.” Then went back to my paper, a suspicious death in Wanaka. 

“Anyone tell you you are rude?”

“Frequently.  It’s a condition that we old people acquire as we get on in years.”

She smiled, and the severity of her expression lessened.  “You’re not that old.”

“Old enough to be your father.  I’m sure he’d be very unhappy about the way you address your elders.”

“My father wouldn’t care.  Not as much as you do, apparently.  My name is Daphne.”

“Do you only have one name, like Cher?  Is that an American thing?”  I didn’t put the paper down, i was hoping she would be insulted and go off in a huff to the nearest Starbucks.

The waitress delivered her coffee and gave me one of those looks, I pity you, and left quickly.  Had she been here before and complained?

“No.  But it is polite to tell me your name in return.”

I sighed.  She was not leaving.  “Henry.”

She waited a minute to see if I was going to add to it, taking a sip of the coffee and making a face.

“Why are you here?”

“I would have thought that was obvious.  Having coffee.  Reading the paper.  Being interrupted by a woman called Daphne, who doesn’t like local coffee.”

“And who is rude?”

“And who is rude.  Why are you here?”  Then, realising I might be opening a can of worms, added, “No, I don’t want to know.”

“Because my girlfriend had to go home to a sick mother and just abandoned me here.”

I’d have a sick mother, too, if this was what Daphne was like.

“Well, I’m sorry about that.  I’m sure there are plenty of others with whom you can talk.  I’m not the talkative or friendly sort.”

“You’re a tourist.”

“I’m here for some lone time.  Get away from everyone and everything.  The rest of the world, and everything in it, at the moment, is something I just don’t want to cope with.”

She gave me a curious look.  “You break up with a wife or girlfriend.  You cheated, she cheated.”

“That’s what happened to you?”

“Me?  No.  Boys don’t see me for who I am, just what I look like.”

I looked at her again, this time looking past the angry American.  Youngish, mid twenties, though I was not an expert, fair, almost perfect skin, brown hair with reddish tinges and blonde highlights, that stuff I knew from Freda and her children, she was under that scruffy exterior quite attractive.

Perhaps it was the reason she was hiding who she was. 

I shrugged.  “You are what you are.  Savour it while you have it.  Now, I’m sure you have better things to do than annoy father figures.  This newspaper isn’t going to read itself.”

“If you had an iPad it would.”.

“I refuse to live in the digital world.”

“You don’t have a phone.”

“So people can’t find me.  We survived without them once; we can do it again.  Try exercising them from your life and see how it changes.”

I didn’t think she would.

…

I changed cafes, thinking that Daphne would reappear.  I didn’t find out if it was true.

But I did feel a little different after the verbal sparring.  She was a lot like Mandy, Freda’s eldest daughter, overly dependent on devices and taciturn and critical of everything. 

Day five, I took to the water on an old steamship, the TSS Earnslaw, a century-old ship that plied the lake.

It was something that I’d not done before because I was too busy doing all the wrong things when I was younger, and then didn’t have time when I was older

I sat on the deck and soaked up the fresh air.  Winter was coming, and it was getting colder.  The surroundings reminded me of home.

I was almost asleep when someone came and sat next to me.  There wasn’t a dearth of passengers and plenty of other spaces to sit.

Then I got the faint hint of perfume.

Not Daphne.

Isabella.

Damn.

I pretended to ignore her.  She took my hand in hers and squeezed it, then sat there until I could no longer ignore her.

“I was having such a good time.”  I opened my eyes and looked at her. 

She was hardly recognisable without the accoutrements of wealth.  Not even a single necklace that would be worth more than the ship or thereabouts.

No rings, no jewellery, no fancy clothes, nothing that would distinguish her from any other British tourist.

“Without me?”

“Without you.”

“I thought you loved me?”

“I do.  Enough to set you free.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Isn’t that what you want.  After all, I’ve served my purpose; the use-by date has come and gone.  I’m sure there are so many other fish in that sea.”

She looked at me with serious concern.

“What are you babbling about.  Use by date?  Fish.  What had fish got to do with anything?”  Then she stopped, took a breath.  “That’s why you said I was going to London the next morning.  You overheard my conversation.”

“I was wandering around near the morning room.  You weren’t exactly whispering.”

“And you thought…”

“It was time to move on.  You are famous, other than being a princess now, and you don’t need me anymore.  I see you with your people.  They are your sort of people, I’m not.”

She sighed.  “You are a silly, silly man.  I love you more than anything.  Anything Henry.  It’s why I’m here.  I have been beside myself for days, wondering what happened to you.  You’re acting strange.  I thought you were sick.  I thought you were dying.  I didn’t know what to think.”

“It felt like I was dying.”

“I’m not going anywhere.  I made my choice 20 years ago, and I’ve never regretted it.  I’ve been propositioned more times than I can remember, but the only thing that I had on my mind was getting home to you.  I’m not interested in anyone else.  This is a nice place.  What made you come here?”

“The third plane out of the airport after I arrived.”

“Good choice.  Where are we?”

“On a ship.”

“No, where are we?”

“Queenstown.  Going to Walter Peak Farm for morning tea.  Scones, jam and clotted cream, I hope.”

“Not as good as your cook’s, I suspect.”

“She’s not my cook.”

I could see the little wharf in the distance, and we would be arriving soon.  People were moving to the front of the ship to get a look.

“Why didn’t you just talk to me, Henry?”

“You’re busy.  I don’t want to get in the way.”

“Don’t ever do this to me again.  I had to move heaven and earth to find you.  You’re very good at disappearing.”

“Do you have an employee named Daphne, though I refuse to believe that’s her name.”

“She’s going to be your new companion.  There’s trouble at home, and that’s what really scared me when you went missing.  I thought you had been kidnapped.  I was going to tell you but…”

There hadn’t been anything in the papers, but it was not surprising.

“I didn’t know.  And do I have to put up with such a rude person?”

“You were rude first.”

“Is she here?”

“No.  I figured if you saw her again, you’d throw her overboard.  Just so you know, I thought you might do that to me, too?”

“Can you swim?”  Her expression changed.  It was a good thing we were slowing down and making the turn toward the pier.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

“The Things we do for Love”, the story behind the story

This story has been ongoing since I was seventeen, and just to let you know, I’m 72 this year.

Yes, it’s taken a long time to get it done.

Why, you might ask.

Well, I never gave it much interest because I started writing it after a small incident when I was 17, and working as a book packer for a book distributor in Melbourne

At the end of my first year, at Christmas, the employer had a Christmas party, and that year, it was at a venue in St Kilda.

I wasn’t going to go because at that age, I was an ordinary boy who was very introverted and basically scared of his own shadow and terrified by girls.

Back then, I would cross the street to avoid them

Also, other members of the staff in the shipping department were rough and ready types who were not backwards in telling me what happened, and being naive, perhaps they knew I’d be either shocked or intrigued.

I was both adamant I wasn’t coming and then got roped in on a dare.

Damn!

So, back then, in the early 70s, people looked the other way when it came to drinking, and of course, Dutch courage always takes away the concerns, especially when normally you wouldn’t do half the stuff you wouldn’t in a million years

I made it to the end, not as drunk and stupid as I thought I might be, and St Kilda being a salacious place if you knew where to look, my new friends decided to give me a surprise.

It didn’t take long to realise these men were ‘men about town’ as they kept saying, and we went on an odyssey.  Yes, those backstreet brothels where one could, I was told, have anything they could imagine.

Let me tell you, large quantities of alcohol and imagination were a very bad mix.

So, the odyssey in ‘The things we do’ was based on that, and then the encounter with Diana. Well, let’s just say I learned a great deal about girls that night.

Firstly, not all girls are nasty and spiteful, which seemed to be the case whenever I met one. There was a way to approach, greet, talk to, and behave.

It was also true that I could have had anything I wanted, but I decided what was in my imagination could stay there.  She was amused that all I wanted was to talk, but it was my money, and I could spend it how I liked.

And like any 17-year-old naive fool, I fell in love with her and had all these foolish notions.  Months later, I went back, but she had moved on, to where no one was saying or knew.

Needless to say, I was heartbroken and had to get over that first loss, which, like any 17-year-old, was like the end of the world.

But it was the best hour I’d ever spent in my life and would remain so until I met the woman I have been married to for the last 48 years.

As Henry, he was in part based on a rebel, the son of rich parents who despised them and their wealth, and he used to regale anyone who would listen about how they had messed up his life

If only I’d come from such a background!

And yes, I was only a run away from climbing up the stairs to get on board a ship, acting as a purser.

I worked for a shipping company and they gave their junior staff members an opportunity to spend a year at sea working as a purser on a cargo ship that sailed between Melbourne, Sydney and Hobart in Australia.

One of the other junior staff members’ turn came, and I would visit him on board when he would tell me stories about life on board, the officers, the crew, and other events. These stories, which sounded incredible to someone so impressionable, were a delight to hear.

Alas, by that time, I had tired of office work and moved on to be a tradesman at the place where my father worked.

It proved to be the right move, as that is where I met my wife.  Diana had been right; love would find me when I least expected it.

…

lovecoverfinal1

In a word: cue

Another small and sometimes confusing word.

The first meaning that comes to mind is a cue is a prompt, often from someone standing behind the camera in a television studio.

That is to say that a cue is some form of signal, a wave, a nod, or verbal.

A cue can also be where a tape or recording is set to a certain place, ready to play.  One could assume, if playing tracks off an album of songs, and you wanted to play the fourth track, then you would cue it up, ready to go on, of course, the moment you got a, yes, cue to play it.

Then there is a cue used in a game of pool or snooker, that is a long thin tapered piece of wood with a felt tip.  

Not exactly my favourite game, but it’s always the cues fault, not mine.

This is not to be considered with Que which is a shortened form for Quebec, in Canada.

Or que, which for some reason, only in California, is short for barbecue.

Or Queue, as in a long line, or a short one, of people waiting to get on a bus, or waiting to get tickets  

In my experience every queue I get in is always a long one, and then suffer the frustration of waiting hours only to be told the tickets have all been sold.

Almost as bad as being stuck in a traffic jam, which is technically a queue of cars, never to get through the first set of lights, and sometimes not the second.

And don’t get me started on phone queues.  

Queues are for people who have a lot of time on the hands.

An excerpt from “Sunday in New York”

Now available on Amazon at:  https://amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.

We met the Blaine’s at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaine’s frequently visited, and had recommended.

Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’.  It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.

It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over.  It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.

Aside from the half frown half-smile, Alison was looking stunning.  It was months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary.  On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to.  She had adored it, and me, for a week or so after.

For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.

She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars got on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds silence, and many more gasps.

Even I had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room.  Once more I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me.  Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others ‘out there’ who were more appealing.

Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight.  She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.

More than once I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”

Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together.  It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement.  Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.

The battle lines were drawn.

Jimmy was looking fashionable, with the permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it.  Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.

The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out she had straightened it.  And took the moment to look deeply into my soul.  It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.

Then it was gone.

I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me.  A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.

When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.”  It was not a question, but a statement.

I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’ but I accepted it with good grace.  Sometimes Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand.  I guessed she was talking about the new job.  “It was supposed to be a secret.”

She smiled widely.  “There are no secrets between Al and I, are there Al?”

I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.

I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al.  I tried it once and was admonished.  But it was interesting her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not.  It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.

Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil.  As I understood it, the Blaine’s were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in.  I didn’t ask if the Blaine’s thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.

And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realized I was looking at both of them.  I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand.  And yet, apparently, Alison did.  I must have missed the memo.

“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”

No secrets.  Her look conveyed something else entirely.

The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us.  It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me.  We were going to need it.

Then, a toast.

To a new job and a new life.

“When did you decide?”  Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.

Alison had a strange expression on her face.  It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind.  Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.

Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realized it would be churlish, even silly if I made a scene.  I knew what I wanted to say.  I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine, or upsetting Alison.  This was not the time or the place.  Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.

Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing.  If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decide there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control.  “It’s the little things.  They all add up until one day …”  I shrugged.  “I guess that one day was today.”

I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real?  Or; I told you he’d come around.

I had no idea the two were so close.

“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me.  I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points.  It was all I could come up with at short notice.

“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted.  “Alison was off to get some study in with one of her friends.”

“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up, and immediately got the ‘shut up you fool’ look, that cut that line of conversation dead.  Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.

It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose.  Care to join me, Al?”

A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend.  “Yes.”

I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation.  I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.

I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.

There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show.  I was quite literally gob-smacked.

I drained my champagne glass gathering some courage and turned to him.  “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up.  You know Alison is doing her law degree.”

He looked startled when he realized I had spoken.  He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed.  Or perhaps it was deliberate.  She’d definitely had some enhancements done.

He dragged his eyes back to me.  “Yes.  Elaine said something or other about it.  But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week.  Perhaps I got it wrong.  I usually do.”

“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”  I shrugged, as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again.  “This week or next, what does it matter?”

Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart.  It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; it was possible she was now telling me lies.  If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?

We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”

“Trouble, I suspect.  Definitely more money, but less time at home.”

“Oh,” raised eyebrows.  Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details.  “You sure you want to do that?”

At last the voice of reason.  “Me?  No.”

“Yet you accepted the job.”

I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him.  Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him.  “Jimmy, between you and me I haven’t as yet decided one way or another.  To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”

“Barclay?”

“My boss.”

“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay that recently moved in the tower a block down from us.  I thought I recognized the name.”

“How did Elaine get the job?”

“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”

“When?”

“A couple of months ago.  Why?”

I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker.  I felt sick, faint, and wanting to die all at the same moment.  “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time.  Too busy with work I expect.  I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”

I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted and I knew I had to keep it together.  I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down.  I sucked in some deep breaths, and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.

And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown.  Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”

Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth.  It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction.  It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.

When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and I.  I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, it didn’t matter.  If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact I took over the dining engagement did.  She knew well enough the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket.  She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.

But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points.  Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine.  She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.

Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly.  I chose to ignore her, and pretend nothing had happened, instead of telling her how much I was enjoying the evening.

She had her ‘secrets’.  I had mine.

At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me.  It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, Jimmy came looking for me.  I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse.  When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was but neither made any comment.

It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which to a large degree it was for the other three.  But I had achieved what I set out to do, and that was to play them at their own game, watching the deception, once I knew there was a deception, as warily as a cat watches its prey.

I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree.  It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.

We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaine’s back to the Upper West Side.  But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer.  She showed concern for my health, asked me what was wrong.  It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.

She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it.  Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.

And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.

It left me confused and lost.

I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.

And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

Sunday In New York

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 42

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

——

The Standartenfuhrer checked his gun and settled his nerves for an onslaught.  If they were going to die, then he was going to kill as many of them as he could.

He threw his hand pistol to Mayer.  “Shoot anything that comes in the door.”

Mayer fumbled the weapon, dropping it on the floor, then finding it hard, with cold hands, to pick it up.  Perhaps his life wasn’t sufficiently in danger to be more proactive.

The Standartenfuhrer shook his head.  Boffins were all the same.  The slightest threat and they went weak at the knees. And Mayer was no exception.

Mayer managed to get the gun into his hand.

“Don’t forget to turn off the safety.”

Mayer looked at the gun, and found the switch.

At the same time, another burst of gunfire ricocheted off the walls of the hut.  It was followed by a harsh order to stop firing, and save the ammunition for the enemy.  There was also a mutter about alerting the enemy, but that ship had sailed.

The soldiers seemed content to shoot randomly at the cabin, rather than check to see if anyone was inside, and soon the sounds of men, guns, and dogs were gone.  The dogs had not picked up their scent, and the Standartenfuhrer had managed to cover their tracks sufficiently to keep them at bay.

Relief, but not enough to rest.  The Standartenfuhrer knew they had to keep moving.

In the background, both could hear a stream locomotive at slow speed passing.  In the circuitous route they’d taken to escape, they must have circled back towards the railway line which must be on the other side of the forest.

That proximity of the railway line would work in their favor because the next phase of the journey was going to be on a train.

Just not one full of soldiers, if possible.

After a half-hour, just to ensure the soldiers didn’t return, the Standartenfuhrer dragged himself up off the ground.

“We’d better move.  They’re likely to come back, or had a second sweep when they don’t find us.”

“Surely we can have a rest.”

“If you want to get caught.  I don’t have to tell you what they’ll do to you if they capture you.”

“Probably send me back to that hell hole.”

“Hitler is not that forgiving.  The odds are you’ll be handed over to the SS and I’m sure you’ve seen what those people are capable of.”

He had, especially with the forced labor from the Jewish camps and POW camps.  At times it beggared belief.

Mayer dragged himself up off the floor.

The Standartenfuhrer checked his weapon, then looked out through the crack in the door.  It was dark and snowing, not too heavy, but enough to hide their movement.  It was a shame their coats were dark, they would stand out against the white background, but it couldn’t be helped.  That was a problem for daylight, still some hours away.

“Keep your weapon handy.  You may need it.”

Mayer was worried his hands would be too cold and stiff, and instead of having it in his hand, slipped it into his pocket.  He didn’t think too many people would be about at this hour.

“Once outside, head straight for the trees, as fast as you can.”

The Standartenfuhrer was in the doorway one second, gone the next, and Mayer followed.  He could just see the dark figure in front of him, then almost ran into him when he stopped just past the first line of trees.

He could see lights intermittently through the trees, a train or houses along the railway line perhaps.

It was much darker in the forest, and they had to go slower, picking their way through the trees, running into low branches, and getting a face full of wet snow, often trickling down the back of their necks.

It was cold, wet, and very uncomfortable.

The Standartenfuhrer stopped.  The trees had thinned and the lights became more pronounced.  They could now definitely hear a locomotive close by, and a train well lit up stopped.  The windows were fogged from condensation on the inside, but it was clear enough to see heads.

It was a passenger train, waiting.

A piercing whistle shattered the relative quiet, and another train coming in the other direction at speed flashed passed very loudly, the wheels of the carriages clanking on the track joints.  An empty freight train with many flat cars, going back to Germany.

Then suddenly shouting, a whistle, and gunfire.

A man was running towards them,, and several soldiers were in pursuit, randomly shooting in his direction, and into the forest.  A shot hit the running person and they fell.

Mayer heard a thud and a groan, then realized that the Standartenfuhrer had been hit.  By the time he turned the Standartenfuhrer over, he was dead.

Mayer ducked out of sight just before torchlight shone on the spot he was crouching.

There was another shout, and the soldiers started heading towards him.

——-

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 6

For those who are wondering what this is a photograph of, it is a tree bordered stream that runs along a long valley that runs from outside Canungra, in Queensland, to the Lamington National Park.

It’s near a place we like to stay for a few days when we want to get away from everything, and I mean everything. There is no television, and cell phone reception is awful if not non existent.

So, you can see the benefits.

Sitting at the table on the veranda overlooking the fields, and this stream, you have time to just think, or not, about what it might have been like before the settlers came.

What is was like when the explorers we seeking new places to live, and they chanced upon this valley. It it was me back then, I would have followed the stream.

But, as for a story…

I have read a great many stories for the explorers of this country, and the hazardous nature of their treks.

What seemed to be the most common theme was crossing from south to north, that is from Melbourne to the Northern most tip of Queensland, or from Adelaide to the Northern Territory. In both cases they would have to traverse a very dry, very hot outback where the sight of a stream, or river, like above, would have been very welcome.

For some, it became an impossible quest, and stuck in the desert, they eventually perished. That in itself, the trials and tribulations of an early explorer would make a great story.

Australia is a very fertile country around the coastal regions, but one you start venturing inland, it is dry, dusty and almost uninhabitable. Unless there’s water from rivers, streams, or underground, or mining settlements, there is very little else to see.

The exceptions to this are Uluru and Kakadu National Park, in the Northern Territory, Shark Bay and The Pinnacles in Western Australia, MacKenzie Falls in Victoria, The Simpson Desert, the Boodjamulla (Lawn Hill) National Park, and the Carnarvon Gorge in Queensland, to name a few.

One day I might get to see them.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 25

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Chasing leads, maybe

 

Jan hailed a taxi and had it drop us off a block from her building.  It was agreed that we would not just arrive out the front and trust to luck that everything would be fine.

I had a feeling that Nobbin would have come to the same conclusion I had, that it was possible the USB might be in the neighbor’s flat.  I’m sure Josephine hadn’t thought of that possibility.  Severin had, but I suspect he might not know of the cat.

Nor would Nobbin.

We did a circuit of the building before going in.  There were no suspicious cars, nr anyone lurking in the shadows.  If we had surveillance, it was really good, or there was none.  I preferred to think the latter option was right.  After all, neither Nobbin nor Severin knew exactly where I was.

Jan unlicked the front door and we went into the brightly lit foyer.

During the day there was a concierge sitting at the desk.  At night, it was empty.  The building manager couldn’t afford 24-hour security, beyond the bright lights, and camera in each quadrant recording the comings and goings of residents.  I’m not sure how Josephine got in, but I would have like to have the time to go through the old footage to check on O’Connell in the past, and Josephine, if she came through the front door, recently.

I glanced at the monitor, at present on screen saver mode, then followed Jan to the elevator lobby.

She pressed the button to go up, and the doors to the left-hand elevator opened.  We stepped in, she pressed the floor button, the doors closed, and we slowly went up.

It hesitated at the floor, jerked up about an inch or two, then a click signified it was level and the doors opened.

I could see her door from the elevator.  As we got closer, I could see it was open, ajar by about half an inch.  There was no tell-tale strip of light behind the opening so it could mean someone was in her flat searching by torchlight, or there was no one there.

After a minute waiting to see if there was a moving light somewhere in the flat, it remained dark.

Standing behind me, I could see she had pulled a gun out of her handbag and had it in one hand ready to use.  She could have used it any time since we first met, but she hadn’t.  

I pushed the door open slowly, and thankfully it didn’t make a creaking sound.  Wide enough to walk in, I took a few tentative steps into the first room.  There was little light, and my eyes took a while to adjust to the darkness.  

I could feel her going past me, further into the room, and with the gun raised and in two hands to steady the shot.  She took more steps, slowly towards the passage leading to her bedroom, I assumed, as it was a reverse copy of that next door, O’Connell’s.

There was no one in this part of the flat, and she had disappeared up the corridor and into her room.  Nothing there either.

“Clear,” she called out.

I stepped back to close and lock the door.  At the same time, she switched on the main room light and for a second it was almost blinding.

When my sight cleared, I could see the signs of a search, furniture tipped over, books dragged from the shelves, other items tossed on the floor, one of which was a vase, now broken into a number of pieces.

“Looks like they were in a hurry,” she said.

“Or frustrated.”  I could see clear marks of an item that had been thrown against the wall and dented the plasterwork.  The broken shards of the ornament were on the ground beneath the indentation.

I heard her sigh when she saw the broken pieces.

“Not the best way to treat a genuine Wedgewood antique.”

She disappeared into the bedroom again, and I could hear her calling the cat, Tibbles.  Interesting name for a cat.

I didn’t hear it answer back.  It was probably traumatized after the breaking and the smashing of crockery.

I had a quick look in places I thought the cat might hide, but it was not in any of them.  And, oddly enough, no traces of cat hair.  Usually, cats left fur wherever they lay down.  At least one cat I knew did that.  

She came back empty-handed. 

“I think it’s done a runner,” she said.  “He’s not in the usual place he hides, nor under the bed, or under the covers, as he sometimes does, usually when I’m trying to sleep.”

“Well, it was a good idea.  We might have to search outside.  The cat was allowed to go outside?”

“He’d escape, yes, but no.  O’Connell thought if he got out, he’d get run over.  It’s a reasonably busy road outside.”

“Better out there than in here, though.  Open windows?”

She did a quick check, but none were open.

“Did O’Connell ever come in here?”

“Once or twice, but he only dropped in if he was going away to ask if I would look after the cat, or when he came back.  Never further than the front door.”

“Knowing who is was, now, do you think he might have come in and hidden the USB in here?”

“He might, but there isn’t anywhere I could think he could put it.”

“But that doesn’t mean he didn’t.”

Both of us heard the scratching sound at the front door, not the sort made by a cat trying to get in, but by someone using a tool to unlock the door.

Someone was trying to break in.

© Charles Heath 2019-2020