I have been writing away from home. We promised to take our granddaughters away for a few days during the school holidays, and so I’ve had to rough it, writing at the kitchen table with the sounds of a Nintendo Switch going off in my ears, when we’re not out trying new food and swimming, or playing mini gold.
It’s a bit hard to get in the mood.
But, our main character, Jack, is back home, having got away from Maryanne, and knowing he has a package to get from Rosalie, he invites her out to dinner.
Dinner is pleasant, and a rapport develops into something else when he invites her back to his place.
And, of course, it’s probably too much to expect the romance will go as smooth as it should, and something will come along to liven it up.
And at some point we will discover another of Rosalie’s hidden talents acquired from an undisclosed past life, not related to the romance aspect. If that sounds a little strange it probably is but I don’t want to give away the plot just yet.
Today’s effort amounts to 2,337 words, for a total, so far, of 43,759.
John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favor for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favor’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.
When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.
From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.
There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.
Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.
Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?
Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?
Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?
I was one of six people who answered a house-sitting ad. What stood out was the money, as was intended.
When I arrived at the interview, held in an accountant’s office downtown, there was no suggestion that it was a trick, or there were ulterior motives.
Just $5,000 for a week’s work. Move in, act like a security guard and check all entrances and exits, and all rooms that had windows to the outside every four or so hours, particularly at night.
The reason?
The owner had to maintain residence in the house for the week, as he was going away, under a clause in the sale contract. The reason for hiring civilians, that it was too expensive to get live in people from a security company.
The owner freely admitted he was a cheapskate.
But fir someone like me, the $5,000 was a lot of money and would help pay beck everyone I owed money to.
I earnestly pleaded my case, submitted myself to a background check and then waited to hear back.
When I didn’t hear anything by the due date I figured some other lucky person had pleaded a better case, then, exactly a week later I got the call.
The next day a courier delivered the keys to the house, and the address. My week started at exactly 9am the next morning.
…
The cab dropped Mr off at the front gate of the house, only it wasn’t a house so much as a mansion, and one that had seen better days.
It was at the end of the street, behind two large gates, and a high brick fence. I could see the driveway on the other side, and just make out the house behind the unkempt shrubbery.
I had a bunch of keys, and it took a few attempts to find the one that fitted the lock and chain preventing the gates from opening.
I just unlocked it when another car pulled up in the same place my can had, and a young woman got out. She rescued her sports bag from the trunk and paid the cabbie.
“Who are you,” she said.
“The caretaker for the next week. I might ask the same question.”
“The ex-wife with nowhere to go.”
No one mentioned an ex-wife that was part of the deal.
“I wasn’t told anyone else would be here, so it would be best you left.”
I slipped the lock back in place and stood my ground. She could be anyone.
She pulled out her phone and rang a number.
A heard the voice on the other end say hello.
“You can tell you dead head caretaker that I’m staying for a few days.”
Then I watched her expression turn very dark, and then the words, “I have nowhere else to go, and it will only be a few days.” Then silence and an accompanying ground, ending with, “You don’t want me to come after you because you know how that will end”.
She listened, then handed the phone to me.
“Hello.”
“I’m the owner requesting the service. You are not responsible for her, but if she becomes a problem, lock her in the basement.”
Then he hung up. It was not the best of answers to the problem.
“Are you going to open the gate?”
I shook my head and then pretended to fumble through the keys looking for the eight one. “You know this place,” I asked without turning around.
“No. The bastard didn’t tell me about a lot of the stuff he owns.” Her tone bristled with resentment.
I ‘found’ the key and opened the lock and started pulling the chain through the fence. I could feel her eyes burning into my back.
When I swung open the gate, she barged past, and kept walking. I stepped though, and immediately felt the change in the temperature. It was cold, even though the sun was out and I could feel an un-natural chill go through me.
By the time I closed and relocked the gate she had gone as far as, and round a slight bend in the driveway. I thought about hurrying to catch up, but I didn’t think it mattered, she didn’t have a key. Or perhaps I hoped she didn’t have one.
I headed towards the house at a leisurely pace. I didn’t have to be there in the next instant, and I wanted to do a little survey of the grounds. If I was checking windows, then I needed to know what the access might be like through any of them.
As I got closer to the house, the overgrowth was worse, but that might have been because no one could see it from the roadside, or through the iron gate.
Accessibility via the gardens would-be problematic for anyone who attempted it because there was no easy access. It was one less immediate problem to deal with.
The driveway widened out into a large gravel covered square outside the front of the house. It had an archway under which cars could stop and let out passengers under cover, ideal for ball goers, which meant the house had been build somewhere during the last century.
There were aspects that would warrant me taking a look on the internet about its history.
She was waiting outside the door, showing some exertion, and the mad dash had been for nothing.
“I take it you have a key?”
I decided to ignore that. I hoped she would disappear to another part of the house and leave me alone. I had too much to do without having to worry about where she was, or what she was doing. It seemed, base on the short time I spoke to him, that the owner had a mistake marrying her, if they were in fact married. Ex could mean almost anything these days.
Again, I made a show of trying to find the right key, though in the end it was hit and miss, and it took the fourth of fifth attempt to find it.
The door was solid oak, but it swung open easily and silently. I had expected it to make a squeaking sound, one associated with rusty hinges. This time she was a little more circumspect when she passed by me. I followed and closed and locked the door behind me.
Inside was nothing like I expected. Whilst the outside looked like the building hadn’t been tended to for years, inside had been recently renovated, and had that new house smell of new carpets and painted walls.
There was a high vaulted roof, and a mezzanine that was accessed by a beautifully restored wooden staircase and ran around the whole upper floor so that anyone could stand anywhere n ear the balustrading and look down into the living space, and, towards the back, the kitchen and entertaining area.
The walls had strategically place paintings, real paintings, that looked old, but I doubted were originals, because if they were similar to those I’d seen in a lot of English country estates they would be priceless, but not left in an empty building.
I had also kept her in the corner of my eye, watching her look around almost in awe.
“What do you think these paintings are worth?”
Was she going to suddenly take an inventory?
“Not a lot. You don’t leave masterpieces in an abandoned house. I suspect nothing in here would be worth much, and really only for decorative purposes so the owner can have a better chance of selling the place. Empty cavernous buildings do not sell well.”
“What are you again?”
“No one of any particular note. I’ve been asked to look after the place for the next week until it is handed over to the new owners. Aside from that I know nothing about the place, nor do I want to. According to the note I got with the key, there are bedrooms off that mezzanine you can see up there.” I pointed to the balustrading. The kitchen has food, enough for the few days I’ll be here, but I’m sure there’s enough to share.”
“Good. You won’t see me again if I can help it.”
I watched her walk to the staircase and go upstairs. The mud map told me there were bedrooms up of the mezzanine, and also across from this area. There was another large room adjacent to this, a games area or room big enough to hold a ball, a part of the original house, and which led out onto the side lawns. I’d check later to see what the access was like, because eI suspected there would be a few doors that led out from the hall to the garden.
When she disappeared along the upstairs passageway, I headed towards the next room. IT was large, larger than that next door, and had another grand staircase leasing down to the dance floor. I guess the people used to stay in rooms upstairs, get dressed, then make a grand entrance down those stairs.
I hadn’t expected this house to be anything like the old country estates, and it was a little like icing of the cake. I would have to explore, and transport myself back to the old days, and imagine what it was like.
…
She was true to her word, and I didn’t see her the next morning. I was staying a world away from her. I was in the refurbished old section and she was staying in the newly renovated and modernised part of the house.
I did discover, on the first day of getting my bearings and checking all of the entrances and windows ready for my rounds, that above the bedrooms on the second floor of the old section, there was a third floor with a number of smaller rooms which I assumed were where the servants lived.
I stayed in one of those rooms. The other main bedrooms, with ornate fireplaces and large shuttered windows smelled a little too musty for me, and I wasn’t about to present someone with an open window. The views form the balconies was remarkable too or would have been in the garden had been kept in its original state.
In the distance I could see what might have once been a summerhouse and promised myself a look at it later. A long day had come to a tiring end, and I was only destined for a few hours sleep before embarking on my first midnight run. I was going to do one at eight, after eating, another at midnight, and another at six in the morning. I’d make adjustments to the schedule after running the first full night’s program.
…
I brought my special alarm with me, the one that didn’t make a sound but was very effective in waking me. It was fortuitous, because I had not been expected someone else to come along for the ride, and didn’t want them to know where and when I would be doing the rounds.
It had taken longer than I expected to get to sleep, the sounds of the house keeping me awake. Usually a sound sleeper, perhaps it was the first night in different, and unusual surroundings.
I shuddered as I got out of bed, a cold air surrounding me, a feeling like that when I walked through the gate. I had the sensation that someone was in the room with me, but in the harsh light after putting the bedside light on, it was clearly my imagination playing tricks.
I dressed quickly, and headed out.
The inside of the house was very dark, and the light from my torch stabbed a beam of light through what might have been an inky void. The circle of light on the walls was never still, and I realised that my hand had acquired a touch of the shakes.
Creaking sounds as I walked across the flooring had not been discernible the previous night, and it was odd they only happened at night. A thought that the house may be haunted when through my mind, but I didn’t believe in ghosts, or anything like that.
The creaking sounds followed me as I started my inspection. I headed downstairs, and once I reached the back end of what I was going to call the ball room. Before I went to bed the previous evening, I drew up a rough map of the places I would be going, ticking them off as I went.
The first inspection was of the doors that led out onto the lawns. The floor to ceiling windows were not curtained, and outside the undergrowth was partially illuminated by moonlight. The day had been warm, that period in autumn leading into winter where the days were clear but getting colder. Outside I could see a clear starry night.
Then, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the flash of a torch light in the gardens. I stopped, and looked more carefully, but there was nothing. I waited for about ten minutes, but there was still no movement.
I was going to have to park my imagination before starting rounds or I’d never get the job done.
I went out of the room and into the living area. There seemed to be lights all arounds me, those small pilot lights that told you appliances were on standby.
I was heading towards the stairs when suddenly there was a blood curdling scream, followed by what sounded like a gun shot, a sharp loud bang that, on top of the scream, made me jump.
The woman.
I raced as fast as I could up the stairs. The sounds had come from there, but when I reached the top of the stairs, I realised I had no idea in which direction it came from. Pointing the torch in both directions, there was nothing to see.
I could see a passage which might lead to the bedrooms on this level, and headed towards it, moving slowly, keeping as quiet as I could, listening form anything, or if someone else was lurking.
I heard a door slam, the echo coming down the passage. I flashed the light up the passage, but it didn’t seem to penetrate the darkness. I moved quickly towards the end, half expecting to see someone.
Then I tripped over, and as I tried to get to my feet, realised it was a body. I flashed the torch on it, and it was the woman.
Dead, a gunshot wound in the chest, and blood everywhere.
I scrambled to my feet, and ran towards the end of the passage, and stopped at what appeared to be a dead end. With nowhere to go, I turned.
I wasn’t alone, just hearing before seeing the presence of another person, but it was too late to react. I felt an object hitting me on the back of the head, and after that, nothing.
…
I could feel a hand shaking me, and a voice coming out of the fog. I opened my eyes, and found myself in completely different surroundings.
A large ornate bedroom, and a four-poster bed, like I had been transported back to another age. Then I remembered I had been in a large house that had been renovated, and this was probably one of the other bedrooms on the floor where the woman had been staying.
Then I remembered the body, being hit, and sat up.
A voice beside me was saying, “You’re having that nightmare again, aren’t you?”
It was a familiar voice.
I turned to see the woman who I had just moments before had seen dead, the body on the floor of the passage.
“You’re dead,” I said, in a strangely detached tone.
“I know. I’m supposed to be. You helped me set it up so I could escape that lunatic ex-husband of mine.”
I must have looked puzzled.
“Don’t worry. The doctor says your memory will return, one day. But, for now, all you need to do is rest. All you need to know is that we’re safe, thanks to you.”
Investigation of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was very careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rules out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective Inspector Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her Sargeant was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be a very bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
What’s it like turning around and not finding your shadow lurking behind you, watching every move.
Down at the stationhouse (it sounds just like what is said on a TV show called Murdoch Mysteries) he finally gets the message across that he’s not the infamous Jacob.
He also suddenly realises that until his doppelganger is brought to justice, this was going to be a new sort of normal for him.
The thing is, how did an exact copy of him walk the earth and no one seem to notice. He was a criminal before, but perhaps he hadn’t killed anyone before. It’s an interesting question.
Meanwhile I;ve been thinking about the connection between the Jack and Jacob, and it seems to me the best, and possibly only explanation, is that his mother’s sister, the one that was supposedly killed in a native attack in Africa, lived on, came back to England, found his mother (her sister) and took the first man she ever loved (and had a child with) away from her, and basically did the same thing.
What are the odds, though, the same man father two identical children, one each from identical twins. Talk about a twist in the tale!
The burning question should be, why didn’t his mother tell him about her twin sister?
It also adds some context to Jack’s sighting of what he thought was his mother, and the fact he was bothered about the man with her. Every right to, the man was Jacob.
And, his memory is telling him that his Aunt was the one who shot him, not the police. It might need to be refined a little more, but the clues are there.
Not a very productive day today.
Today’s effort amounts to 1,504 words, for a total, so far, of 41,422.
Is it possible to mix the two up? I don’t think so.
Great usually means: everything is great, or good, or excellent, whatever degree of goodness you want to put to it.
It could also mean something else, like: Well, you were a great help! when in fact you want to say how useless they were.
Large or little.
Like all creatures great and small, Why not say big or small. Big doesn’t quite have the same effect.
Of course, you could be a great person, well, what I really mean is distinguished. Besides, great could mean way above average, too. Or grand, or impressive, the list goes on.
And haven’t we all, at some time had a great-aunt. No not the good one, the ‘great’ one, denoting her seniority, not necessarily how nice she is.
As for the other grate, we can build a fire in it.
Or add an ‘un’ in front and ‘ful’ at the end, to denote what parents sometimes think of their children
Or get a block of cheese and ‘grate’ it into small shreds.
Or speak in a voice that grates on your nerves, possibly by that great-aunt.
I was one of six people who answered a house-sitting ad. What stood out was the money, as was intended.
When I arrived at the interview, held in an accountant’s office downtown, there was no suggestion that it was a trick, or there were ulterior motives.
Just $5,000 for a week’s work. Move in, act like a security guard and check all entrances and exits, and all rooms that had windows to the outside every four or so hours, particularly at night.
The reason?
The owner had to maintain residence in the house for the week, as he was going away, under a clause in the sale contract. The reason for hiring civilians, that it was too expensive to get live in people from a security company.
The owner freely admitted he was a cheapskate.
But fir someone like me, the $5,000 was a lot of money and would help pay beck everyone I owed money to.
I earnestly pleaded my case, submitted myself to a background check and then waited to hear back.
When I didn’t hear anything by the due date I figured some other lucky person had pleaded a better case, then, exactly a week later I got the call.
The next day a courier delivered the keys to the house, and the address. My week started at exactly 9am the next morning.
…
The cab dropped Mr off at the front gate of the house, only it wasn’t a house so much as a mansion, and one that had seen better days.
It was at the end of the street, behind two large gates, and a high brick fence. I could see the driveway on the other side, and just make out the house behind the unkempt shrubbery.
I had a bunch of keys, and it took a few attempts to find the one that fitted the lock and chain preventing the gates from opening.
I just unlocked it when another car pulled up in the same place my can had, and a young woman got out. She rescued her sports bag from the trunk and paid the cabbie.
“Who are you,” she said.
“The caretaker for the next week. I might ask the same question.”
“The ex-wife with nowhere to go.”
No one mentioned an ex-wife that was part of the deal.
“I wasn’t told anyone else would be here, so it would be best you left.”
I slipped the lock back in place and stood my ground. She could be anyone.
She pulled out her phone and rang a number.
A heard the voice on the other end say hello.
“You can tell you dead head caretaker that I’m staying for a few days.”
Then I watched her expression turn very dark, and then the words, “I have nowhere else to go, and it will only be a few days.” Then silence and an accompanying ground, ending with, “You don’t want me to come after you because you know how that will end”.
She listened, then handed the phone to me.
“Hello.”
“I’m the owner requesting the service. You are not responsible for her, but if she becomes a problem, lock her in the basement.”
Then he hung up. It was not the best of answers to the problem.
“Are you going to open the gate?”
I shook my head and then pretended to fumble through the keys looking for the eight one. “You know this place,” I asked without turning around.
“No. The bastard didn’t tell me about a lot of the stuff he owns.” Her tone bristled with resentment.
I ‘found’ the key and opened the lock and started pulling the chain through the fence. I could feel her eyes burning into my back.
When I swung open the gate, she barged past, and kept walking. I stepped though, and immediately felt the change in the temperature. It was cold, even though the sun was out and I could feel an un-natural chill go through me.
By the time I closed and relocked the gate she had gone as far as, and round a slight bend in the driveway. I thought about hurrying to catch up, but I didn’t think it mattered, she didn’t have a key. Or perhaps I hoped she didn’t have one.
I headed towards the house at a leisurely pace. I didn’t have to be there in the next instant, and I wanted to do a little survey of the grounds. If I was checking windows, then I needed to know what the access might be like through any of them.
As I got closer to the house, the overgrowth was worse, but that might have been because no one could see it from the roadside, or through the iron gate.
Accessibility via the gardens would-be problematic for anyone who attempted it because there was no easy access. It was one less immediate problem to deal with.
The driveway widened out into a large gravel covered square outside the front of the house. It had an archway under which cars could stop and let out passengers under cover, ideal for ball goers, which meant the house had been build somewhere during the last century.
There were aspects that would warrant me taking a look on the internet about its history.
She was waiting outside the door, showing some exertion, and the mad dash had been for nothing.
“I take it you have a key?”
I decided to ignore that. I hoped she would disappear to another part of the house and leave me alone. I had too much to do without having to worry about where she was, or what she was doing. It seemed, base on the short time I spoke to him, that the owner had a mistake marrying her, if they were in fact married. Ex could mean almost anything these days.
Again, I made a show of trying to find the right key, though in the end it was hit and miss, and it took the fourth of fifth attempt to find it.
The door was solid oak, but it swung open easily and silently. I had expected it to make a squeaking sound, one associated with rusty hinges. This time she was a little more circumspect when she passed by me. I followed and closed and locked the door behind me.
Inside was nothing like I expected. Whilst the outside looked like the building hadn’t been tended to for years, inside had been recently renovated, and had that new house smell of new carpets and painted walls.
There was a high vaulted roof, and a mezzanine that was accessed by a beautifully restored wooden staircase and ran around the whole upper floor so that anyone could stand anywhere n ear the balustrading and look down into the living space, and, towards the back, the kitchen and entertaining area.
The walls had strategically place paintings, real paintings, that looked old, but I doubted were originals, because if they were similar to those I’d seen in a lot of English country estates they would be priceless, but not left in an empty building.
I had also kept her in the corner of my eye, watching her look around almost in awe.
“What do you think these paintings are worth?”
Was she going to suddenly take an inventory?
“Not a lot. You don’t leave masterpieces in an abandoned house. I suspect nothing in here would be worth much, and really only for decorative purposes so the owner can have a better chance of selling the place. Empty cavernous buildings do not sell well.”
“What are you again?”
“No one of any particular note. I’ve been asked to look after the place for the next week until it is handed over to the new owners. Aside from that I know nothing about the place, nor do I want to. According to the note I got with the key, there are bedrooms off that mezzanine you can see up there.” I pointed to the balustrading. The kitchen has food, enough for the few days I’ll be here, but I’m sure there’s enough to share.”
“Good. You won’t see me again if I can help it.”
I watched her walk to the staircase and go upstairs. The mud map told me there were bedrooms up of the mezzanine, and also across from this area. There was another large room adjacent to this, a games area or room big enough to hold a ball, a part of the original house, and which led out onto the side lawns. I’d check later to see what the access was like, because eI suspected there would be a few doors that led out from the hall to the garden.
When she disappeared along the upstairs passageway, I headed towards the next room. IT was large, larger than that next door, and had another grand staircase leasing down to the dance floor. I guess the people used to stay in rooms upstairs, get dressed, then make a grand entrance down those stairs.
I hadn’t expected this house to be anything like the old country estates, and it was a little like icing of the cake. I would have to explore, and transport myself back to the old days, and imagine what it was like.
…
She was true to her word, and I didn’t see her the next morning. I was staying a world away from her. I was in the refurbished old section and she was staying in the newly renovated and modernised part of the house.
I did discover, on the first day of getting my bearings and checking all of the entrances and windows ready for my rounds, that above the bedrooms on the second floor of the old section, there was a third floor with a number of smaller rooms which I assumed were where the servants lived.
I stayed in one of those rooms. The other main bedrooms, with ornate fireplaces and large shuttered windows smelled a little too musty for me, and I wasn’t about to present someone with an open window. The views form the balconies was remarkable too or would have been in the garden had been kept in its original state.
In the distance I could see what might have once been a summerhouse and promised myself a look at it later. A long day had come to a tiring end, and I was only destined for a few hours sleep before embarking on my first midnight run. I was going to do one at eight, after eating, another at midnight, and another at six in the morning. I’d make adjustments to the schedule after running the first full night’s program.
…
I brought my special alarm with me, the one that didn’t make a sound but was very effective in waking me. It was fortuitous, because I had not been expected someone else to come along for the ride, and didn’t want them to know where and when I would be doing the rounds.
It had taken longer than I expected to get to sleep, the sounds of the house keeping me awake. Usually a sound sleeper, perhaps it was the first night in different, and unusual surroundings.
I shuddered as I got out of bed, a cold air surrounding me, a feeling like that when I walked through the gate. I had the sensation that someone was in the room with me, but in the harsh light after putting the bedside light on, it was clearly my imagination playing tricks.
I dressed quickly, and headed out.
The inside of the house was very dark, and the light from my torch stabbed a beam of light through what might have been an inky void. The circle of light on the walls was never still, and I realised that my hand had acquired a touch of the shakes.
Creaking sounds as I walked across the flooring had not been discernible the previous night, and it was odd they only happened at night. A thought that the house may be haunted when through my mind, but I didn’t believe in ghosts, or anything like that.
The creaking sounds followed me as I started my inspection. I headed downstairs, and once I reached the back end of what I was going to call the ball room. Before I went to bed the previous evening, I drew up a rough map of the places I would be going, ticking them off as I went.
The first inspection was of the doors that led out onto the lawns. The floor to ceiling windows were not curtained, and outside the undergrowth was partially illuminated by moonlight. The day had been warm, that period in autumn leading into winter where the days were clear but getting colder. Outside I could see a clear starry night.
Then, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the flash of a torch light in the gardens. I stopped, and looked more carefully, but there was nothing. I waited for about ten minutes, but there was still no movement.
I was going to have to park my imagination before starting rounds or I’d never get the job done.
I went out of the room and into the living area. There seemed to be lights all arounds me, those small pilot lights that told you appliances were on standby.
I was heading towards the stairs when suddenly there was a blood curdling scream, followed by what sounded like a gun shot, a sharp loud bang that, on top of the scream, made me jump.
The woman.
I raced as fast as I could up the stairs. The sounds had come from there, but when I reached the top of the stairs, I realised I had no idea in which direction it came from. Pointing the torch in both directions, there was nothing to see.
I could see a passage which might lead to the bedrooms on this level, and headed towards it, moving slowly, keeping as quiet as I could, listening form anything, or if someone else was lurking.
I heard a door slam, the echo coming down the passage. I flashed the light up the passage, but it didn’t seem to penetrate the darkness. I moved quickly towards the end, half expecting to see someone.
Then I tripped over, and as I tried to get to my feet, realised it was a body. I flashed the torch on it, and it was the woman.
Dead, a gunshot wound in the chest, and blood everywhere.
I scrambled to my feet, and ran towards the end of the passage, and stopped at what appeared to be a dead end. With nowhere to go, I turned.
I wasn’t alone, just hearing before seeing the presence of another person, but it was too late to react. I felt an object hitting me on the back of the head, and after that, nothing.
…
I could feel a hand shaking me, and a voice coming out of the fog. I opened my eyes, and found myself in completely different surroundings.
A large ornate bedroom, and a four-poster bed, like I had been transported back to another age. Then I remembered I had been in a large house that had been renovated, and this was probably one of the other bedrooms on the floor where the woman had been staying.
Then I remembered the body, being hit, and sat up.
A voice beside me was saying, “You’re having that nightmare again, aren’t you?”
It was a familiar voice.
I turned to see the woman who I had just moments before had seen dead, the body on the floor of the passage.
“You’re dead,” I said, in a strangely detached tone.
“I know. I’m supposed to be. You helped me set it up so I could escape that lunatic ex-husband of mine.”
I must have looked puzzled.
“Don’t worry. The doctor says your memory will return, one day. But, for now, all you need to do is rest. All you need to know is that we’re safe, thanks to you.”
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw the globe was broken.
Instant alert.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
Who?
There were four hiding spots and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
Still nothing.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in. One shot would be all that was required.
Contract complete.
I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
Crunch.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
Two assassins.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
“Sit down.”
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“Alisha?”
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 