Month: July 2022

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

© Charles Heath 2019

Writing about writing a book – Day 7

Even God got to rest of the seventh day perhaps to admire his handiwork, but for a writer there is no rest.

I have to go to lunch with an old friend who is concerned that I have locked myself away in a garret and will wither and die, the same as not admitting myself it was time to move on.  There is the woman you marry, and your one true love, the one you can say anything to and is taken.  Marilyn is that person.  I’m not sure how this lunch will go.

Perhaps a little more work on the plot, and a few drinks to settle the nerves.

 

Still working on the characters (and all need a lot more work, particularly Davenport, oh, and by the way, he’s new):

 

Richardson – Vanilla Office worker in the wrong place at the wrong time

Gator, Inspector – Jaded policeman not far from retirement, overlooked for promotion, and always on the fringe.  Will this be his big case before he retires?

Halligan – General Manager, also a field agent who failed to complete his mission.  More on what that mission was is coming.

Bill Chandler, we seem to have him under control, except for one small detail, his memories will return.

Jennifer, Chandler’s friend, sister to Manilow, not all she appears to be.  Spoiler alert!  Manilow is another new character who will appear in Bill’s dreams (nightmares)

Benton, Chandler’s immediate superior, yes man, and eternal pessimist.

Aitchison, security chief, aka Colonel Warburton, Manilow’s old commanding officer, repatriated home after making some discoveries about wartime activities.

Wiesenthal – US management employee of Transworld

Giles – Chandler’s hardware assistant

Kowalski – executive promoted to head of security, also new, the cast is getting longer

Andy Collins –from the US, worked with Chandler around at the inception of the network installation, working with Chandler recently when updates were carried out

Davenport, aka Alphonse DeAngelo, Chandler’s old nemesis, ex-Army Colonel, and he will be a piece of work

 

The plotline continues but I’m not sure if this will be the eventual direction it will go.  There will be a lot of writing before now and then:

 

Chandler thinks he now has time for some private investigation because a lot of things about the recent events didn’t add up.  However, in the meantime, the perils of domesticity close in around Bill, the first morning with Jennifer.

A visit to the office, unscheduled, by Bill, brings to light a number of changes; new security and monitoring of movements, making it difficult for Bill to do anything.  Kowalski has replaced Aitchison as head of security, and Bill must pay him a visit.

Kowalski is full of sympathy and advises Bill that he has a lot of leave to be taken in order to get better, and a bonus as well.  He should not return until fully recovered, and then to a promotion.  In other words, Bill reads this as –’Stay Away’.

Giles gives more information of the network problems, and the disaster surrounding the backup tapes, with information that had been requested by Gator.  Of course, there was no information of the backup tapes provided, because they had been destroyed.  Was it on purpose or by accident?

Another dream and Brainless looms large and lifelike in their first meeting.

At his home to finish collecting his clothes and gear, he wakes up and remembers why he’s there.  He had removed a tape from a little-used system he’d installed for another purpose, and had brought it to his own PC to see whether there was any evidence on it – given that every other tape either proved Aitchison and Halligan guilty or had been destroyed by well-meaning but apparently incompetent consultants.  His tape has interesting information, which he notes, then hides the tape.

 

Dear God is that the time?  I’m late.

 

More tomorrow!

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

“Strangers We’ve Become”, a sequel to “What Sets Us Apart”

Stranger’s We’ve Become, a sequel to What Sets Us Apart.

The blurb:

Is she or isn’t she, that is the question!

Susan has returned to David, but he is having difficulty dealing with the changes. Her time in captivity has changed her markedly, so much so that David decides to give her some time and space to re-adjust back into normal life.

But doubts about whether he chose the real Susan remain.

In the meantime, David has to deal with Susan’s new security chief, the discovery of her rebuilding a palace in Russia, evidence of an affair, and several attempts on his life. And, once again, David is drawn into another of Predergast’s games, one that could ultimately prove fatal.

From being reunited with the enigmatic Alisha, a strange visit to Susan’s country estate, to Russia and back, to a rescue mission in Nigeria, David soon discovers those whom he thought he could trust each has their own agenda, one that apparently doesn’t include him.

The Cover:

strangerscover9

Coming soon

 

Travelling after a pandemic: Destination Hobart

Hobart in June – Winter – Day 1 – Saturday

…

Overnight the rain began and hasn’t stopped.  It is cold, and the heater in the room is not quite adequate for the space it has to heat up.  Fortunately, the bed has electric blankets, and it was warm, lying wake listening to the raindrops.  That warmth makes it difficult to get out of bed, but this is a holiday, and we have to get motivated.

We have a balcony, and from there the bleakness of the early morning is stark, but at least the rain is light if not a fine mist.

Worse, it alternates between this fine mist and a short downpour, which means the umbrella goes up and down until you give up.  Later, the rain is not heavy, and just tolerable.

We head off to the Salamanca markets, happening only on Saturday morning.  Unable to walk long distances, we drive, about four minutes from our apartment, but miss a turn, it takes 10, then and 5 to assess the parking situation which, in the end, was the easiest part of this expedition.

The hardest part, walking among the very large crowd of people defying the rain and cold.  I can tolerate large crowds but today, they seem to want to stop suddenly, and just stand and talk in the middle of the walkways making it difficult to impossible to maintain any sort of continuity.

There were hundreds of stalls, the most predominant, micro distillers for some odd reason, selling expensive spirits for about $90 a 700ml bottle, which I regard as overly expensive.  My son has made Bourbon some years ago and it cost him about $10 for 4.5 liters, so it must be a lucrative sideline, even after you’ve added the excise.

There were a great many food stands, and choices, one of which was a curly potato skewer, which was interesting to say the least.  On a meat pie quest, we found a stand that sold pies, but they were warming a new batch, and the waiting line was about 50 or 60 people long.

I went back a half-hour later and they had sold out.  They must be one of the highlights of the market to be so in demand, and that people would stand in the cold and rain just to get one.

Having been defeated by aches and pains, the cold and rain, as well as the large crowd, and the absence of anything we wanted, it was fortunate that time had expired on our parking space.

We had contemplated finding a restaurant to have lunch, deciding it was time to have a proper meal rather than a snack, there didn’t seem to be any places open, and the cafes were packed.

This sparked off an odyssey to find a decent restaurant.

After leaving the markets, we find a road that follows the coastline.  Aside from houses either side, and at one point a marina and the Wrest Point casino, which was not a place we intended to visit, the further we went, the less chance it seemed of finding what we were looking for.

But we did find a tourist attraction, a shot tower, and a museum.

And a tea room that had afternoon tea.  Not exactly what we were looking for.  That said, and feeling like going any further would not fix the search parameters, I go to Google maps and search for restaurants near us.

There’s a Vietnamese restaurant, 6.1 km back the way we came, and being the best choice out of five or six others, we go.

And here’s the thing, it’s just around the corner from where we’re staying.  Go figure.

 But, there is a twist, we drive past one of the hotels that were recommended to us back at the apartments, so we go there, the Hotel Doctor Syntax.  We figure we’re more likely to get the vegetable component there than the other place.

It turns out to be a master stroke, getting steak, pork belly, roast potatoes, gravy, asparagus, and seafood on the side.  All having generous servings as one would expect from a hotel bistro.

The food must be great because they were full and had to turn people away.  We were very lucky to get the last table but one, and that one didn’t last very long.

After a long, leisurely lunch surrounded by warmth and atmosphere, we had one more stop.  Coffee and cake at Daci and Daci, a café recommended to us.

It was worth the experience, although it took some fortitude to fit it in after such a large lunch.  I suspect before we go back for a second visit, yes, it was that good, we will make sure we are less full of lunch first.  The cake I had was delicious but very filling.  The coffee?  Excellent.

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

Read an extract tomorrow.

It all started in Venice – Episode 10

Could Juliet be slightly jealous?

…

I got back to the hotel just before Cecilia was leaving.  She was wearing what I would call her party clothes, something that left little to the imagination, but not different from the many others trying to be noticed.

I had thought of using the analogy that she was going to be a single tree in a forest of similar trees, but it was probably something she already knew.

And a pity she felt she needed to make such an entrance just to be noticed, and probably to some, for all the wrong reasons.  At least she was gaining experience for what I called her day job.

“I’ll be back to make an impression on your friend,” she said.

She didn’t need to say anymore.  Impression would be an understatement.  But it might, quite literally, shake the trees to see what falls out.

A half-hour later there was a light rapping on my door.  I was not expecting any visitors, so it could be one of three options, Cecilia was back early or changed her mind though I seriously doubted it, or Juliet was being pre emotive, or perhaps it was just one of the hotel staff.

Whomever it was, I made the necessary preparations, just like in the old days, and opened the door.  There was always that moment of unpreparedness, that someone would come crashing through the door and take you by surprise.

Happened once, not again.

“Juliet.”  More a statement than a question, it should not be a surprise but it was.

She had dressed for dinner, not as Cecilia would, but she had made an effort.  Had Cecilia made that happen?

And yet the first question to come to mind is, “How did you know I was here?”

“Simple, I saw you go into this room.  It had to be either you, or the girl, so I made a choice.  I was not sure what I was going to do or say if I was wrong.”

“It wouldn’t bother Cecilia.  She and I, were just old friends.”

“Like us?”

“Are we old friends.  It seems to me that we had something else back then, for a brief time, until I had to go back.”

“You never did explain what happened to you.”

“No, and the less said about it the better.  I was young and stupid, like all men of that age, and I cheated death.  I was lucky, very lucky, and, I might add, very lucky too that you were my doctor.”

“May I come in?”

Standing in the passage discussing personal matters might have been more embarrassing for her than for me.  I stood to one side and let her pass.  There was no fount in my mind she had a device that was sending our conversation back to Larry.

There would be questions, probing for the truth.  Who I was, what I did, where I’d been.  Now, or over dinner, it was her task

I closed the door and leaned against it.

I had to ask, “What are you doing here?”

A puzzled look came over her face, surprised perhaps I’d be that direct in asking.

“I thought you asked me to dinner.”

“I did.”

“We’re you just asking for the sake of asking?”  There was a tinge of disappointment in her tone.

“No.  I thought dinner would be good since Cecilia is out there promoting herself. She asked me to come along and see what it is like, but it’s too near the limelight for me.”

“Do you and her have a thing?”

I’m not sure what ‘a thing’ meant.  “If you mean, a romantic attachment, no.  It’s too soon after Angelina’s death.  I may never get over it, but Cecilia popped up and said she was coming and she’s good fun.  And being seen with her makes me look good for an over-the-hill retiree.”

That might make it reasonably clear if she wanted to push this to another level it wasn’t going ti work.  Larry would be disappointed.  It would be interesting to see what she had as a plan B.

“You’re not that old, just out of practice, but I get it.  That doesn’t mean we can’t have dinner.”

“No, it does not.”

I thought about taking her to the hotel restaurant, but in the end opted for a long walk to St Mark’s square, one where a band was playing Rogers and Hammerstein musical songs.

The distance between us wasn’t physical, she was right beside me, so close I could have reached out and taken her hand in mine, it was the thought of her duplicity.

If she told me what was happening, I would have tried very hard to get her out of the predicament and take away Larry’s perceived advantage.

I hadn’t activated the scrambler, so Larry was no doubt listening in, but the conversation wouldn’t be all that informative.  I spoke about Venice, deliberately, and of Angelina.  Larry could make of that whatever he wanted.

At the restaurant we sat near to the orchestra, to help obfuscate the sound, and opposite each other.  She was drinking champagne; I was having a beer.

“So, what have you been doing with yourself since I last met you?”

It begins.

…

© Charles Heath 2022

An excerpt from “Amnesia”, a work in progress

I remembered a bang.
I remembered the car slewing sideways.
I remember another bang, and then it was lights out.
When I opened my eyes again, I saw the sky.
Or I could be under water.
Everything was blurred.
I tried to focus but I couldn’t. My eyes were full of water.
What happened?
Why was I lying down?
Where was I?
I cast my mind back, trying to remember.
It was a blank.
What, when, who, why and where, questions I should easily be able to answer. Questions any normal person could answer.
I tried to move. Bad, bad mistake.
I did not realise the scream I heard was my own. Just before my body shut down.

“My God! What happened?”
I could hear, not see. I was moving, lying down, looking up.
I was blind. Everything was black.
“Car accident, hit a tree, sent the passenger flying through the windscreen. Pity to poor bastard didn’t get the message that seat belts save lives.”
Was I that poor bastard?
“Report?” A new voice, male, authoritative.
“Multiple lacerations, broken collar bone, broken arm in three places, both legs broken below the knees, one badly. We are not sure of internal injuries, but ruptured spleen, cracked ribs and pierced right lung are fairly evident, x-rays will confirm that and anything else.”
“What isn’t broken?”
“His neck.”
“Then I would have to say we are looking at the luckiest man on the planet.”
I heard shuffling of pages.
“OR1 ready?”
“Yes. On standby since we were first advised.”
“Good. Let’s see if we can weave some magic.”

Magic.
It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.

Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time under water.
Or somewhere.
I tried to speak, but couldn’t. The words were just in my head.
Was it night or was it day?
Was it hot, or was it cold?
Where was I?
Around me it felt cool.
It was very quiet. No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent. Or perhaps that was the sound of pure silence. And with it the revelation that silence was not silent. It was noisy.
I didn’t try to move.
Instinctively, somehow I knew not to.
A previous bad experience?
I heard what sounded like a door opening, and very quiet footsteps slowly come into the room. They stopped. I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.
My grandfather.
He had smoked all his life, until he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But for years before that he had emphysema. The person in the room was on their way, down the same path. I could smell the smoke.
I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.
I couldn’t.
I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed. A moment later the clicking of a pen, then writing.
“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said. “You’ve been in a very bad accident. You cannot talk, or move, all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me. I am a nurse. You have been here for 45 days, and just come out of a medically induced coma. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
She had a very soothing voice.
I felt her fingers stroke the back of my hand.
“Everything is fine.”
Define fine, I thought. I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.
“Just count backwards from 10.”
Why?
I didn’t reach seven.

Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity. Every morning I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests. I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender. My grandmother had worn a similar scent.
It rose above the disinfectant.
I also believed she was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived. Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.
It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed? It would explain a lot. A chill went through me.

The next morning she was back.
“My name is Winifred. We don’t know what your name is, not yet. In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions. You were in an accident, and you were very badly injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”
More tests, and then, when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t. Not for a few minutes more. Perhaps this was how I would be integrated back into the world. A little bit at a time.
The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes. “You have bandages over your eyes and face. You had bad lacerations to your face, and glass in your eyes. We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days. Your face will take longer to heal. It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”
Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accident, plastic surgery. By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen. It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.
How could that happen?
That was the first of many startling revelations. The second was the fact I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment was the fact I could not remember before the crash either, and only vague memories after.
But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised I could not remember my name.
I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.
I was just disoriented, I told myself. After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse. Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse. I would remember tomorrow. Or the next day.
Sleep was a blessed relief.

The next day I didn’t wake feeling nauseous. Perhaps they’d lowered the pain medication. I’d heard that morphine could have that effect. Then, how could I know that, but not who I am?
I knew now Winifred the nurse was preparing me for something very bad. She was upbeat, and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning. This morning, “You do not need to be afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The doctor tells me you are going to recover with very little scarring. You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future. We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”
So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed, and walk out of the hospital any time soon. I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy. I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones. I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.
But, there was something else. I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance. It sent another chill through me.
This time I was left awake for an hour before she returned.
This time sleep was restless.
There were scenes playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse. Me. Others, people I didn’t know. Or perhaps I knew them and couldn’t remember them.
Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.

The morning the bandages were to come off she came in bright and early and woken me. I had another restless night, the images becoming clearer, but nothing recognisable.
“This morning the doctor will be removing the bandages over your eyes. Don’t expect an immediate effect. Your sight may come back quickly or it may come back slowly, but we believe it will come back.”
I wanted to believe I was not expecting anything, but I was. It was probably human nature. I did not want to be blind as well as paralysed. I had to have at least one reason to live.
I dozed again until I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I could smell the lavender, the other doctor was back. And I knew the hand on my shoulder was Winifred’s. She told me not to be frightened.
I was amazed to realise in that moment, I wasn’t.
I heard the scissors cutting the bandages.
I felt the bandage being removed, and the pressure coming off my eyes. I could feel the pads covering both eyes.
Then a moment where nothing happened.
Then the pads being gently lift and removed.
Nothing.
I blinked my eyes, once, twice. Nothing.
“Just hold on a moment,” Winifred said. A few seconds later I could feel a cool towel wiping my face, and then gently wiping my eyes. Perhaps there was ointment, or something else in them.
Then a flash. Well, not a flash, but like when a light is turned on and off. A moment later, it was brighter, not the inky blackness of before, but a shade of grey.
She wiped my eyes again.
I blinked a few more times, and then the light returned, and it was like looking through water, at distorted and blurry objects in the distance.
I blinked again, and she wiped my eyes again.
Blurry objects took shape. A face looking down on me, an elderly lady with a kindly face, surely Winifred, who was smiling. And on the opposite side of the bed, the doctor, a Chinese woman of indescribable beauty.
I nodded.
“You can see?”
I nodded again.
“Clearly?”
I nodded.
“Very good. We will just draw the curtains now. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow we will be taking off the bandages on your face. Then, it will be the next milestone. Talking.”
I couldn’t wait.

When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring, there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the handsomest of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.
I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.
They came at mid morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. Perhaps she was the distraction, taking my mind of the reality of what I was about to see.
Another doctor came into the room, before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon that had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.
I found it hard to believe, if he was, that he would be at a small country hospital.
“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months time.”
Warning enough.
The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly, and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.
Then it was done.
The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with his work. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.
I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand, and was somewhat reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the final result. The doctor said it was going to heal with very little scarring. You have been very fortunate he was available. Are you ready?”
I nodded.
She showed me.
I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but, not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.
And I still could not talk. There was a reason, he had worked on that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.
“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement on last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”
A new face?
I could not remember the old one.
My memory still hadn’t returned.

In a word: Line (and there’s more)

There’s more to that word ‘line’, a lot more, making it more confusing, especially for those learning English as a second language.

I keep thinking how I could explain some of the sayings, but the fact is, it’s only my interpretation, which could possibly have nothing to do with its real meaning if it has one.

Such as,

Hook, line, and sinker

We would like to think that this is only used in a fishing depot, but while it is generally, there are other meanings, one of which is, a con artist has taken in a victim completely, or as the saying goes, hook, line, and sinker.

At the end of the line

Exactly what it t says though the connotations of this expression vary.

For me, the most common use is when you’re waiting, like for a table in a restaurant with a time-specific reservation, and you see people who arrive after you, getting a table before you, it’s like being continually sent to the end of the line.

Line ball decision

This is a little more obscure, but for me, it means the result could go either way, and it’s a matter of making a call. The problem is both decisions are right, and unfortunately, you’re the poor sod who has to decide.

It of course partners very well with you can’t please everyone all of the time.

These are the most difficult because one side is going to be aggrieved at the decision especially when it is supposed to be impartial and sometimes isn’t.

Get it over the line

This, of course, has many connotations in sport, particularly rugby when the aim is to get the ball over the try line.

But another more vicarious meaning might be from a senior salesman to a junior, get [the sale] over the line, i.e. get it signed sealed and delivered by any means possible by close of business.

Line of credit

A more straight forward use of the word, meaning the bank will extend credit up to a certain limit, but it’s generally quite large and can feel like its neverending.

Until you have to pay it back.

There’s more, but it can wait till another day.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 18

As we all know, writing by the seat of your pants is almost the same as flying by the seat of your pants, a hazardous occupation.

As it happens, I like writing this way because like the reader, I don’t know what to expect next.

And equally, at times, you can write your self into a corner, much like painting, and then have to go back, make a few changes and//or repairs and then move forward.

It’s part of the writing process, only in this case, the changes occur before you’ve finished the novel, if you finish.  Quite often a lot of writers get only so far, then the manuscript hits the bottom drawer, to be brought out on a distant rainy day.

Or your cat has mocked your writing ability one too many times.

Therefore, we’re winding back to Episode 16, and moving forward once again, from there.  This is episode 18 revised…

Ever had the heart-stopping feeling when you’re in the wrong place, and someone has interrupted you?  Especially if you shouldn’t be there, or that you have no right to be there.

I stood quietly on the inside of the door and hoped whoever the visitor was would go away.  No answer meant no one was home, didn’t it?

Unless…

I heard a key in the door, and it turn in the lock.

I moved quickly to the other side of the door so I would be shielded when the person came into the room.  Too late to get out, I was of two minds what to do.  Hit the visitor over the head and flee, or ask them what they were doing, before they asked me that same question.

Then nothing.

Until a few seconds later I heard a voice, a man, say, “Jan, you’re back.  How was the visit to Philadelphia?”

I heard the slight rattle of Jan taking her hand off the handle and moving away from the door.  “Sad, as all funerals are.  Now, we are left with the house, and my father’s stuff; a huge collection of mostly junk over a long period of time.  Seems he never threw anything out.”

Jan?  Did she live here, with O’Connell?

“Yes, “I’m a bit like that.”

Another tenant, or the building super?

“I made sure Herman was looked after while you were away.  I don’t think he missed you at all?”

She laughed.  “He’s a cat, Fred.  We belong to them, not the other way around.”

“True.  Your friend has not been in for a week or so.”

“I know.  The last message I got from him, he was in Prague, lucky bastard.  He was going to take me with him, but at the last moment, they changed his itinerary.  Perhaps next time.  I was just going to make sure everything was OK, before going home myself.”

“I could look in if you want?”

“No.  Thanks anyway, but last time I was here I left a jacket behind.  Thanks, Fred.”

A moment later I could hear his footsteps heading away, and Jan moved back to the door, and opened it.

I heard the light switch, and then, suddenly, the room was filled with bright light.

The girl was unassuming, stepped into the room, and closed the door behind her.  Before she could take a step, I put a hand over her mouth and an arm around her neck and started squeezing.

Instinctively she started to struggle and call out for help.

I whispered in her ear, “I mean you no harm, but if you struggle, or yell out, it could turn out very bad for you.”

We had been taught how to subdue people without killing them, but that always didn’t go to plan.  There was that instinct to fight back in everyone, and it was sometimes hard not to apply excessive pressure which could, depending on the severity of resistance, see the target asphyxiated, or end up with a broken neck.

She was still struggling, which mean I had to exert more force.

“Stop fighting me or you will harm yourself,” I said, this time in a more forceful whisper.

It had an immediate effect, but I don’t think it was her obedience that caused it.  I gently lowered her to the floor and felt for a pulse.  Unconscious, not dead.  I sighed in relief.  I took a good long look at her so that I would remember what she looked like.  At some point, I was going to have to talk to her.

Then footsteps outside the door.  What else could go wrong?

Then knocking on the door.  Short and sharp.  Followed by, “Jan, are you in there?”

Fred, whoever he was.  What did he want?”

Another knock on the door, this time more urgent.  Damn.  O’Connell’s flat was like a busy store.

I looked around for an escape now there would be no going out the front door.  Not unless I had to disable another person, and assuming if he was the building super, he would not be a small man, so it would take a greater, and noisier, effort to subdue him.

A fire escape, all buildings usually had one down the side of the building, in case of fire.  I went over and checked the windows and found it.  The window needed a little force to open it, but the sound of a key in the door motivated me.

Out the window, close the window again, I made it down the stairs far enough that when I looked up, no one was following me.

That was close.  Too close.

© Charles Heath 2019-2022

Searching for locations: Coffs Harbour, New South Wales, Australia, and resorts Wyndham style

We have stayed in two different types of accommodation in Coffs Harbour, New South Wales, Australia, as a timeshare owner who can trade their week for a week anywhere in the world.

Both are resorts, but different sorts of resorts.  The first was a typical RCI resort, where everything is laid back and relaxing, with all the amenities one can expect from a resort.

The other, this one, the Wyndham in Coffs Harbour, is very different, and you notice it when you walk in the front door.  You are virtually assaulted by hard-nosed timeshare sales staff who really don’t take no for an answer, and then when you finally escape, ring you every day to make an appointment.

I left the phone off the hook.

Aside from that, the place is excellent, the accommodation very good, and the situation one of the best with what could be called a private beach.  There are also a number of bushwalks that cater to old people like me.

As you can see, lakes and greenery, and even a putting green.

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And in places, they try very hard to hide the ugly multi-story buildings in amongst the trees

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It is only a short walk to the ‘private beach’ and it is sufficiently long enough for a morning walk before breakfast.  You could even try to catch some fish for breakfast, though I’m not sure if anyone actually caught anything

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Or you can just stare out to sea

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And, back in the room, this is the view we had from our verandah

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