The Toowoomba Carnival of Flowers is held in September, and generally runs for ten days at the end of the month.
We visited the Laurel Bank Park, where there are beds of many colorful flowers,
open spaces,
statues,
an area set aside for not only tulips but a model windmill
and quite a number of hedge sculptures
There was also the opportunity to go on a morning or afternoon garden tour which visited a number of private gardens of residences in Toowoomba.
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…
—
I had to almost restrain Carlo from going up to the castle and singlehandedly kill everyone in it. I didn’t doubt he could do it, for a short time at least, until they realized what was going on. There were too many of them to take on alone.
It would need a careful plan, and knowledge of the layout of the castle, and the likely spots where the soldiers were located. It was a plan that had been slowly formulating in the back of my mind, especially after Carlo’s help with an internal map of the castle, some parts of which I hadn’t got to see in my brief stay.
I forgot that being built back in the middle ages, and the history of cities fighting against each other, there were ways in, out, and around, both inside and in the walls, so that soldiers could travel from one part of the castle to another without being seen, and not having to go inside the castle itself.
There were, also, tunnels, one of which I had inadvertently found, but there were more, and it seems only Carlo knew of those. Some were useful, others would lead to an early confrontation, and give early notice of our intentions. Those we would avoid, or use to escape.
We had set up a command center at the church ruins, having found several rooms off the cellar that had two exits. I didn’t like the idea of being trapped, nor waiting in a location that Fernando was familiar with and was likely to return to.
Which, in a sense, I was hoping he would because we had set a trap and he and his men would be caught in the crossfire. He was not going to get a chance to explain, nor would I ask any questions, or show him any mercy.
Especially when I found out what he had done to Martina. If it was as bad as Chiara, he would be repaid in kind, if the opportunity arose. I tentatively agreed to give Carlo five minutes in the room alone with him, but he knew that expediency might not give him that luxury. Blinky was not happy about it, but he hadn’t been here long enough to know what the man or his people were like.
We’d also worked out the surveillance system so that we would know when anyone turned up in the village, particularly our prized defector Meyer, and whether anyone left the castle to come down to the village because it was possible there would be more defectors passing through, and they needed to be warned.
What was particularly useful was finding the radio that Martina had been using. It was in the church grounds, which was not entirely unexpected, but one of Blink’s men had stumbled over it when looking to set up a latrine.
Blinky had brought a radioman, but his radio had been damaged in the parachute landing. Now he had a new toy to tinker with, and got a connection back to Thompson, after some initial difficulty in translation. That I could help him with, my Italian was marginally better than a schoolboy.
Thompson was relieved to hear from me, as I was to talk to him.
“It’s been difficult to get a clear picture with Martina, but I got the impression you had to be precise with your questions.”
“A case of getting lost in translation, perhaps.” I had not had similar problems, but Thompson was from the aristocracy, and his version of English was sometimes quaint.
“The situation is bad, I understand.”
“It is. The castle is over-run with British-German double agents. The three you sent out, and reinforcements that followed. I get the impression we have about 20 odd dead soldiers languishing in shallow graves somewhere on the Italian countryside.”
It hadn’t been hard to realize that while the officers were known British officers, the soldiers were substituted Germans whose English language and mannerisms were impeccable. I had no doubt once they’d reeled in Meyer, they would move on, integrating into invasion forces and creating havoc from within, unless of course, we stopped them.
A sigh at the other end, perhaps a lamentation of such needless loss of life. This war was getting tiresome for both of us.
“How close is Meyer? We last heard he was in Gaole, waiting for a courier to take him to the village. His arrival is anticipated to be any time from tomorrow onwards.”
“We’ve got men out keeping tabs on everyone.”
“Blinky arrive with his team?”
“All bar the radio, but as you can hear, we have access to one do it will not be a problem. I think we might finish this and talk again tomorrow. Don’t want the Germans tracking the radio waves.”
“Good. Tomorrow, and hour before today.”
I’d almost forgotten that the Germans were good at tracking radio signals, especially when they thought the enemy was using them, as those at the castle would. That radio unit could also be used to trace other radio signals, and no doubt they had picked up the signal. Hopefully, we had not been on long enough for them to run the trace.
That was not going to be a problem. One of Blinky’s soldiers on village reconnaissance was waiting for us as we approached the church ruins.”
“What is it, man?”
“There are four people at the village, looking for someone or something.”
“More defectors,” I said. “We’d better get to them before Leonardo and his men get to them first.”
—
© Charles Heath 2020-2021
It was meant to be time to reacquaint as brothers.
Louis and I had not seen each other for decades, and when he returned, about a week before, I got the impression there was more than just ‘missing his brother’ going on.
But that was Louis. He was never one to say what or how he felt about anything, preferring to be the strong silent type, and it had not fared well for him transitioning from teenager to adult.
As for me, when our parents split up, Louis went with our father, and I stayed with our mother, and, given the amount of acrimony there was attached to the split, it was no surprise to anyone that Louis and I had effectively become estranged.
In fact, when I had tried to find them, about two years after the split and our mother had died suddenly, all I found were loose ends. They had effectively vanished.
With that part of my life effectively over, I had married, had children and watched 30 years disappear before Louis suddenly popped up. He simply knocked on the front door one afternoon, Helen answered it, and within minutes they were the best of friends. I’d had that rapport, once, many years before, but life and circumstances had all but ruined that.
Or perhaps that was just me, worn down by that same life and circumstances we were all supposed to take on the chin.
His arrival was a welcome distraction, and when, after a week, he suggested that he and I go on a hike, the sort our father used to take us on when we were a family, I agreed. Helen was happy to be rid of me, and I guess a week without our arguing would suit everyone.
It was probably fortuitous timing. Helen and I had finally got to the point where divorce lawyers were about to be called in. The children had all moved on and had children and problems of their own, and we, as parents just didn’t gel anymore.
Besides, I said, just before I joined Louis in the truck, ready to embark for the wilderness, it would be time to clear my head.
And by day two, my head was clear, and Louis, taking the lead, led us along the ridgeline, a trek he said, that would take us about seven hours. We’d stopped the previous night in a base camp and then headed out the next morning. We were the only two, it being early in the season with snow still on the ground.
Above was the clear cloudless blue sky and in front of us, trees and mountains. There was snow on the ground but it was not solid and showed no signs of human footsteps, only animals. The air was fresh, and it was good to be away from the city and its pressures.
Approaching noon, I’d asked him if we were about halfway. I knew he was holding back, being the fitter of us.
“More or less.”
“More or less what, more closer or less close than we should be.”
I watched him do a 360-degree turn, scoping out our position. It was a maneuver I was familiar with from my time with the National Guard. I’d used my backcountry experience that I’d learned from my father, as a skill I thought they might be able to, and eventually did, use. I got the feeling Louis was looking for something.
“You get the impression we’re not alone?” I asked. I had that nagging feeling something was not right, not from about two miles back in the forest. It was like my sixth sense being switched on.
“Doesn’t seem so, though there have been a few animals lurking behind us, probably surprised anyone’s about this time of the year. It’s been a while, so I’m just getting a feel for the trail. This is, for now, our mountain.”
There was a time, from a time when we were kids, that I could tell when he was lying. He was better at covering it, but it was still there.
Where we’d stopped was a small clearing, a staging point that would be used by other trekkers, still overgrown because of lack of trekkers. Ahead there were the signs of a trail, and after six months, it would become clear again. In places, as we had made our way from the base camp, sections of the distinctive trail had all but disappeared, but Louis seemed to know where he was going, and it was not long before we had picked up the trail again. This spot was a lookout, giving a spectacular view of the valley below, and a fast running river through it.
I walked to the edge and looked up and down the valley, and at the trail that ran along the cliff for a short distance. I looked down, not the wisest of things to do, but it was long enough to catch sight of several charred pieces of wood. On top of the snow. The thing is, someone had been along this trail before us, and recently, something I thought wise to keep to myself.
Back at the log, I sat for a moment and drank some water, while Louis stood patiently, but impatiently, for me to join him.
“You look like you’ve got somewhere to be.” Probably not the wisest thing to say but it was out before I could stop it.
A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, then it was gone. “If we stop too long, joints will freeze up, especially when it gets colder.”
“Sorry.” I put the container back in the pack and joined him. “Let’s go. The cold and I don’t get along very well, and it’s been a long time since the last time I ventured into the great unknown.”
“Helen said you gave up trekking when you married her.”
“She wasn’t a trekker, Robbie. We all have to give up something, sooner or later.”
Another hour, feeling rather weary, we’d come to another small clearing and a place where I could sit down.
“You always were the weak link, Robbie. Admittedly you were younger, but you never seemed to grasp the concept of exercise and fitness.”
I looked up at him and could see my father, the exact stance, the exact words, the exact same sneer in his voice. It all came rushing back as if it was yesterday, the reasons why I chose to go with our mother, that another day with his bullying would be one too many. And he was a bully. And, in an instant, I could see the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.
“Out of shape after languishing in an office, perhaps,” I said, “but I was never the disappointment our father always considered me.”
“You didn’t join the army, follow in his footsteps, as he wanted us to do. I did. Proudly served, too.”
I could see it. Like father, like son. No surprise Robbie had followed in his father’s footsteps. And it was a clue as to what Robbie had been doing since I saw him last.
“So, tell me about it.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“No, I probably wouldn’t. Let’s push on.”
I’d also thought, along the way, he might ask questions, delve further into the problems that Helen and I were having, but I knew she had told him all he needed to know. I’d been held up at the office, and had rung to ask her to take him to dinner, get to know him, she might get to learn something of my life before I met her, details of which I hadn’t told her other than that my mother was dead, my father had left and taken Robbie with him. My past, I’d told her from the outset, was not something I would talk about.
I didn’t ask what they talked about, but I could see a change in both of them. Perhaps she had succumbed to Robbie’s charm, back in school all the girls did, but they all soon learned he was not a nice person, not once you got to know him. I didn’t warn her, and perhaps that was regrettable on my part, but it reflected the state in which our relationship had reached.
I’d also tried, once or twice, to find out if our father was still alive, but he deflected it, changing the subject. That meant he was still alive, somewhere, perhaps annoyed at Robbie for coming to see me. If I was a betting man, I’d bet our father would have denied permission for
Robbie to do so, even if he was a grown man and capable of making his own decisions.
Odd, but not surprising. Even now I could remember my father had secrets, and those secrets had fed into the breakup of our parents.
“So, you’ve been dodging it for days now, but you still haven’t told me if dad is alive or dead. He’d be about seventy-odd now.”
He stopped and turned to face me. “Would it matter if he was alive? I doubt you’d want to see him after what mother must have said about him.”
Interesting that he would think so. “She never had a bad word for him, and wouldn’t hear of one spoken, by me or anyone. And I have wondered what became of him, and you. At least now I know you spent time in the Army. If I was to guess what happened, that would be high on my list.”
“No surprise then you became an office wanker.”
Blunt, but, to him, it was a fact. I’d used that expression when telling Helen one time after a very bad day.
“We can’t all be heroes, Robbie.”
I put my hand up. Alarm bells were going off in my head. “You can come out now,” I yelled.
Robbie looked puzzled.
“I know you’re there. You’ve been behind us for about a half-mile now.”
A few seconds passed before the cracking of a twig, and then a person in a camouflage kit came towards us.
He’d aged, hair and beard grey in places but almost white now, but the face was familiar.
“What brings you to this part of the woods, Dad. Or is it just an unlucky coincidence?”
—–
© Charles Heath 2020-2021
Because despite all the self warnings, and trepidation…
…I crossed that bridge and found this:
Yes, we went back in time, and when I pulled over, and got out of the car the first thing that crossed my mind, I was either in an old gold mining town, or it was a mid way settlement to somewhere else.
Of course, it was deserted.
So, next thought was that this was a ghost town. But, the fact it’s late in the afternoon and everything looks as though it’s locked up, this might also quite easily be a tourist attraction, done for the day.
But, it was off the main road, down a track that led to what I thought might have been a settlement.
I go for a walk and look at some of the buildings. They have been kept in good order, but are showing signs of age, and no sign of modernization.
Does this mean I’ve gone back in time?
“Hey?”
I hear a voice behind me, that of a man, and turn around.
He’s about 80 wearing well-worn clothes and a raggedy beard, wrinkled eyes, and leathery skin. A miner? A cowboy? Someone who lived here, like perhaps the last remaining resident.
“Who are you?” he asks stopping about 20 feet away. He looks annoyed, or maybe that was his perpetual angry face.
“A visitor?”
“From?”
“Back east.”
A knowing look crosses his face. “City slicker eh?”
Language right out of an old Hollywood western. Any minute now I might see John Wayne or a troop of Union soldiers.
“Perhaps.” I had no idea why I used the expression, back east.
“Then you’d better go back. No place for the likes of people like you. The last fellow that came from the city got run out of town.”
Friendly town then. A sideways glance showed movement, and another man alongside one of the buildings, with a rifle, pointed straight at me.
“I guess I’m not welcome. I’m leaving. You might tell that to the man with the gun on me.”
“He knows.”
I turned and walked slowly and steadily back to where I thought I left the car. Instead, there was a saddled horse tied to a fence.
That’s when I had a very bad feeling…
…
© Charles Heath 2020-2022
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked where who, and when.
A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me, you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.
We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
Perhaps it was.
© Charles Heath 2020-2021
Coming soon. Find the above story and 49 others like it in:
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away about 2 years ago, and I still miss him.
This is my way of remembering him.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits, I will run the series again from Episode 1
…
Character development
This is Chester, he thinks he is an expert on people
He has meandered in checking out what I’m doing, or maybe he’s here because the room is cooler.
He gives me the ‘What are you doing’ look.
It doesn’t matter how many times I’m a writer, it’s like talking to a brick wall.
I say I’m working on developing a new character.
Name?
I’m thinking of John.
A shake of the head and the eyes roll. Can you be a little more inventive, like, well, Chester?
Predictable. How about Xavier?
Would you call your kid Xavier? He’s going to have a very rough time of it at school. Unless this character has a tortured soul.
Good point. How about William?
Bill, that’s what you get in the mail. Another shake of the head. You’re not very good at this, are you?
Apparently not. Haven’t you got some mice to catch?
He yawns, then curls up on the seat. Wake me when you’ve got some better ideas.
Maybe not. I’ve come up with a name, Daniel, and I don’t care what he thinks.
For now.
Available on Amazon Kindle here: https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4
…
With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction. He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.
That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.
He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.
I kept my eyes down. He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup. I stepped to the other side and so did he. It was one of those situations. Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.
Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic. I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.
Wait, or walk? I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station. What the hell, I needed the exercise.
At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’. I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light. As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.
A yellow car stopped inches from me.
It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini. I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.
Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car. It was that sort of car. I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on. The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.
My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter. Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.
At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure. I was no longer in a hurry.
At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring. I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road. I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.
At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar. It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.
I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did. There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me. It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.
Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me. As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.
Now my imagination was playing tricks.
It could not be the same man. He was going in a different direction.
In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter. I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.
I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in. I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.
Just in case.
© Charles Heath 2015-2020
This is the moon, unexpectedly observable in the late afternoon.
For me, the moon provided inspiration for an episodic story I have entitled, for now, ‘I always wanted to see the planets’.
It’s about a freighter captain who gets a gig as First Officer on an exploratory starship, who by a series of inexplicable events gets promoted to captain, and has to navigate not only the outer reaches of space, but new species.
But in the back of my mind there is that expression ‘shoot for the moon’, which could mean almost anything.
It could mean going for the unobtainable, whether it be a job, or the partner of your dreams. Failing can be heartbreak. Success might mean you’d be ‘over the moon’.
Them there’s travelling to moon, perhaps the next logical step for regular people, heading off the spend a week on a moon base hotel. I’m not sure what we would see out there in space; Perhaps a UFO?
Fictionalised, a moon base might just be the meeting place for various species, and being the mystery writer I am, what if there was a murder?
As always, the possibilities are endless.
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’.
The story fleshed out for the second section, discussed in Point of View
Annalisa looked at the two men facing her, a shopkeeper who, despite his protestations, was a dealer, and the other man, a customer scared shitless.
The poor bastard was not the only one scared.
It was meant to be simple, arrive at the shop just before closing, force the shopkeeper to hand over the shit, and leave.
What had happened?
The shopkeeper laughed at them and told them to get out. Simmo started ranting and waving the gun around, then all of a sudden collapsed.
There was a race for the gun which spilled out of Simmo’s hand, and she won. No more arguments, the shopkeeper was getting the stuff when the customer burst into the shop.
This was worse than any bad hair day, or getting out of the wrong side of bed day, this was, she was convinced, the last day of her life.
Her mother said she would never amount to anything, and here she was with a drug addict coming apart because she had been cut off from her money and could no longer pay for his supply, which had led them to this inevitable ending.
She heard a strange sound come from beside her and looked down. Simmo was getting worse, like he had a fever, and was moaning.
If Alphonse had thought his day was going to get any better after the delivery disaster earlier that day, he was wrong.
If he thought he could maintain his real business and his under the counter business with no one finding out, in that he was wrong too. He’s know, inevitably, some useless punk would come and do exactly what Simmo was doing.
It might have been salvageable before the customer came in the door, but now it was not. The customer had heard the words, and given him ‘the look’. A drug addict telling the cops he was a dealer, it was his word against an unreliable addict, but this local chap, he had that air of respectability the cops would listen too.
Damn.
But he had to try and salvage the situation, there was a lot of money involved, and other people depending on him. He looked at the boy, on the floor, then the girl.
“Listen to me, young lady, I have no idea what you are talking about. Please, put the gun down before someone gets hurt. Your friend needs medical help and I can call an ambulance.”
The girl switched her attention back to him. “Shut up, let me think. Shit.”
The storekeeper glanced over at the customer. He’s been in once or twice, probably lived in the neighborhood, but looked the sort who’d prefer to be anywhere but in his shop. More so now. If only he hadn’t burst in when he did. He would have the gun, called the police, and brazened his way out of trouble. Now, that remedy was off the table.
Now he had to deal with the fallout, especially if the girl started talking.
© Charles Heath 2016-2020
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 