There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?
A retired spy, well not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.
But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.
And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.
Susan is exactly the sort of woman that piqued his interest. Then, inexplicably, she disappears. That might have been the end to it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum, find her or come back to work.
Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!
A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.
When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
An unlikely ally?
“Wait.”
It seemed that I had managed to scare her. Either that, or she had decided to be a little more forthcoming. I stopped and waited until she caught up. I was nearly at the top of the stairs.
“Look, I have to go back to my people, and I’ll get them to look into those two people you don’t seem to trust, who were they, Nobbin and Severin?”
“I don’t think you want to do that. You start making waves, your people will send out feelers and they’ll get to hear about it, and they will know exactly where it came from, and it’ll come back and bite you. For your own peace of mind, I’d let the sleeping dogs lie.”
She seemed over-eager to get ahead using this as a steppingstone. I’d seen the type, in the training ranks, and in former jobs. She was clearly assigned this job because of her looks, and she might be a good agent too, but she hadn’t thought this through.
“Are you telling me to back off?”
“I’m trying to save your life. If I have no idea who to trust, then I have to assume both of them are theoretically the enemy. I’m still counting the blessings I’m still alive, but I suspect that will only last until the USB is found. The rest of my team are dead.”
Now that put the right amount of fear into her.
“If they’re willing to kill everybody that’s come in contact with this information, I doubt they’d stop at killing the both of us if we got in their way.”
“Then you have a plan?”
“At the moment that plan consists of one line. Stay alive and find the USB before they do. After that, I’ll see what happens.”
I caught sight of an incident, two people almost colliding, and one, I noticed, was more intent on his phone which is what caused the clash. And, a second later, I thought I recognised one of the two.
Maury. Severin’s offsider, and more likely cleanup man. My guess, he was the one searching O’Connell’s flat, and Jan’.”
I think it was safe to say she was compromised.
“Ok,” I said quietly, “we have a problem, well two problems.” And if I was wrong about her, and she was one of Severin’s people, which, seeing Maury just turned a probable into a likely, I had three.
If she was, I hadn’t seen that coming.
“What now?”
Time to test the water.
“One of Severin’s men is downstairs, mingling, which means he knows I’m here, and maybe you two.”
I did a quick check of my scan of O’Connell’s, thinking I might have picked up a bug. It was the only explanation why Maury was here. And, it was likely he was not alone.
Not me. Jan?
“Did you take anything from O’Connell’s?”
“No. Why?”
“Are you sure. Think”
While scanning the lower floor of the station looking, no doubt, for Maury, and anyone that might present a problem, she looked like she was recounting her steps.
“Damn. A pen. I left it there the last time I saw him.” She pulled it out of her bag and went to toss it in the bin.
I snatched it, and as someone brushed past me, I dropped it into their pocket.
A flash of annoyance, then, “Hey, that cost a lot of money.”
“Then be grateful it didn’t cost you your life. Yet.”
We waited, keeping far enough back from the stairs, but with still a good view of the station. I kept an eye on the man whom I gave the pen as he made his way across the floor towards one of the platforms. Luckily it was at the furthest end, and as he approached it, I saw three figures, and Maury slowly make their way towards him forming a blockade so he couldn’t escape.
“Time to go.”
She had noticed the movement too.
We went down the stairs and headed towards the first available exit. As we were going out the door, we heard a commotion, the team obviously apprehending the wrong man, who would be wondering why four burly men were accosting him on his way home.
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 on her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, and 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 like 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 was 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, which 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, 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. In the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by a slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, but 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 the new job, the last thing she want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.
We packed her bags, threw out everything she didn’t want, a few trips to the op shop with stuff 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 were a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of planes departing, 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 to 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.
Yes, when you are going at it like a bat out of hell, it might be an idea to take a pause and regroup.
That being a pause as an interruption to an activity.
In music, it’s a mark over a note.
Perhaps it’s a good idea to pause recording a TV show while the ads are on. Networks don’t like it, but it makes the show make more sense without the distractions of advertisements, sometimes quite inane, or annoying.
What I just said, might give pause to my opposite number in this debate.
Have you been in a conversation, someone says something quite odd, and there’s a pregnant pause?
How did the word pregnant get into the conversation? That, of course, usually means something significant will follow, but rarely does. But it can also be a conversation killer where no one says anything.
Is that a wide eye in awe moment? You did WHAT?
Then there is the word pours, sounds the same but is completely different.
In this case, the man pours water from the bucket on the plants.
Or my brother pours cold water on my plans. Not literally, but figuratively, making me think twice about whether it would work or not. Usually not.
Or a confession pours out of a man with a guilty conscience. AKA sings like a bird. Don’t you just love these quaint expressions? It reminded me of a gangster film back in Humphrey Bogart’s day.
It never rains but it pours? Another expression, when everything goes wrong. A bit like home renovations really.
Really, it means to flow quickly and in large quantities, ie. rain pours down.
And if that isn’t bad enough, what about paws?
Sounds the same again, but, yes it’s what an animal has as feet, especially cats, dogs, and bears.
One use of it, out of context, of course, is ‘get your paws off me!’
And one rabbit paw might be good luck, but having two rabbit pows, I might win the lottery.
The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.
My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.
Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.
So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.
So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.
I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.
And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.
There was motivation. I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample. I was going to give them the re-worked short story. Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’
Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.
But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself. We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.
One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.
It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected. I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.
I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.
Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.
The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party. I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble. No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.
Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?
But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.
I’m working on the latest book and it is not going well. I don’t have writer’s block, I think it is more a case of self-doubt, laced with a healthy dose of second-guessing. It’s why I can’t concentrate.
It’s why I’m thinking about the next story and not staying on track.
This leads me to be over critical of what I have written and much pressing of the delete key.
Then …
only to realize that an action taken in haste can be regrettable, and makes me feel even more depressed when I realize the deletions are irrecoverable.
Damn.
That is not supposed to happen because the great God Microsoft told me that auto save was running.
But, it appears even God’s can’t save deleted data if it is ‘in between’ saves.
I think I’d be happier in a garret somewhere channeling van Gogh’s rage.
Lesson learned – don’t delete in haste or anger or when tired, save it to a text file so it can be retrieved when sanity returns.
I was not happy with the previous start. Funny about that, because until a few weeks ago I thought the start was perfect.
What a difference a week makes or is that politics?
Perhaps I should consider adding some political satire.
But I digress…
It seems it’s been like that for a few weeks now, not being able to stick to the job in hand, doing anything but what I’m supposed to be doing. I recognize the restlessness, I’m not happy with the story as it is, so rather than getting on with it, I find myself writing words just for the sake of writing words.
Any words are better than none, right?
So I rewrote the start, added about a hundred pages and now I have to do a mass of rewriting of what was basically the whole book.
But here’s the thing.
This morning I woke up and looked at the new start, and it has inspired me.
Perhaps all I needed was several weeks of teeth gnashing, and self doubt to get myself back on track.
And, perhaps that first cup of coffee in the morning!
So it seems that Aitchison, the latest addition to the story, has reservations about what’s is or isn’t going on. Aitchison is in charge of the security, not only the computer systems, but for everyone, and, of course, the first person the police would go and see.
It’s also time to bring in the CEO, a rather elusive character, but one who will have a great deal to do with our main character for a lot of different reasons. But, for now, all the reader needs to know is that he exists, and is very elusive for one particular reason.
Halligan is just another incidental character, significant only because he is also dead, and where there are multiple deaths, there had to be a conspiracy. Aitchison, of course, is not what he seems, not that we know that yet, but for now, is a man with a problem.
…
I looked Aitchison directly in the eye, so he would not think I was lying. “Since the last debacle, I rarely see Halligan, and, when I do, I can assure you the last thing he wants to do is ask for favors. My last visit was to set up a laptop on his desk, not connected to the network. Does the CEO know anything about this?”
The CEO was almost the equivalent of the invisible man. No one could remember seeing him in the office, or when he visited the last time and was rumored to be at his Nevada ranch most of the time where he had an office. I remember setting up video conferencing for him a year or so ago, but I don’t think it had even been used. But Aitchison was one of a few who had met him personally.
“I put a call in. He’s at a retreat with the American management team, going through some team-building exercises. I’m waiting for his call, but I think I can safely say he will deny everything, and plead innocence.”
“Has the staff members been questioned?”
“Yes. No one had anything constructive to add. But one other interesting bit of information that did come out of that briefing with the Chief Inspector was that Halligan also attempted to log onto this other network. That’s why I asked you about Halligan.”
Something was not right. Halligan was dumb when it came to computers, and only wanted a computer, not connected to the network. Of course, he needed a networked desktop for email, and sourcing documents, and perhaps the peek at a porn site through the internet, but that was the extent of his involvement. His knowledge of networking was solely based on the background papers I wrote for him when he needed information for meetings and conferences. He even had trouble logging into the network at times, because he kept forgetting his password.
I kept that to myself. Aitchison was probably not interested in anything that would refute his belief of what the situation entailed. He was partially wrong, but that was driven by fear.
“What had Halligan have to say about all of this?”
It was an innocent question, but it drew the sharpest reaction and given a sudden ashen look on his face, the catalyst of his fear. The mere mention of questioning Halligan had caused him to turn white.
“He’s dead too, and conveniently cannot answer any questions. The doctor said it was a heart attack.”
“Dead? Where, when?”
“Early this morning, at home. Apparently, his wife is away, overseas visiting relatives, and neither we nor the police have been able to contact her. I only found out when I tried to call him this morning after the news about Richardson broke, and the police answered the phone.”
He poured a splash of whiskey into the glass and drank it down. If it was to settle his nerves it wasn’t working.
“And you don’t think it was a heart attack?”
“Too convenient, far too convenient, especially so soon after the Richardson thing, and in the light of this other network logon episode. The very two people who allegedly knew about this network both dying of innocent causes? Something is going on here, and we have to get to the bottom of it, before the police, Interpol or any forensic experts, if that’s what they are.”
He poured himself another liberal drink from the bottle and offered me one. I declined. Too early, and my nerves were not yet getting the better of me.
A shiver ran down my spine. I was beginning to buy into his paranoia. It was beginning to look like anyone associated with this secret network found themselves on some sort of hit list. No wonder Aitchison was jumpy. He’d obviously come to the same conclusion I did. He’d been making inquiries, and it might be enough to have his name added to the list.
Telling me about it might just be enough to add my name to that same list. I looked at the whiskey bottle and the glass. It might be time for a nerve-steadying drink.
Aitchison was still talking, and I just caught what he was saying, “… it’s your network. People will be asking questions.”
If he was trying to scare me, it was working.
He continued, “The police were rather sceptical when I said we didn’t know the network was in place. I’m to be interviewed next. You shouldn’t be far behind. Forewarned is forearmed.”
He turned to look out at the city. The view was magnificent, despite the wintry weather. After a minute, he said, “At least there is one irrefutable fact. Richardson was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s the only explanation. I don’t believe he was trying to log into anything, but he was the victim of a random key combination or a glitch in the power supply to the system. You’ve seen it happen yourself when the power goes down momentarily and just enough time elapses to trick the computer into thinking it has to log in again. There was a brief power outage last night, during the storm. It might be worth investigating that event, and the effect on our systems.”
That was not a bad assessment, and one I hadn’t thought of.
“Then, there is something else, the Chief Inspector mentioned in passing, and that was one of the employees claims his building pass card had been stolen. Again, convenient, but the police are questioning him, but according to building security, that pass was used last night.”
“The person who killed Richardson?”
“If you put two and two together and get four. The police aren’t saying much, but that’s the inference I’d draw?”
“And the person with the missing card?”
“A janitor, or maintenance worker, not one of our people. He probably has a police record as long as his arm. You should go. And just a thought. If it was a desktop system connected to the in-house network, then one of our servers had to be used as a gateway. Tell me you installed those special log files when I asked you to last week?”
I had been in two minds about implementing that particular request because in part it when against the privacy regulations we had to adhere to. After reading the relevant legislation and taking to a consulting security company who had advised we were well within our rights to do so, in the end, I did. And it had given several positive results immediately after its implementation, proving beneficial in tracking down people using the network incorrectly. I’m glad he remembered it. In the panic, it slipped my mind. “Of course! How do you think I tracked down the troublemaker in Distribution?”
“Good. Start the investigation as soon as you bet back to the floor, but be careful to make sure no one knows about it, or what you are doing. People connected with this seem to be suffering from terminal health problems.”
I stood. I was not sure if I felt suitably inspired.
I feel like I’m on the outside looking in at this poor fellow struggling to work out what needs to be done, and in the end, getting nothing done.
Writing had suddenly become all that more difficult to do, not because I can’t, there’s an endless supply of ideas running around in my head, it’s just wanting to sit down and do it.
What are my expectations?
I had set a list of projects I wanted to work on, more episodes for the three continuing stories, and a start to the next episodic story, ‘motive, means, and opportunity’, though for this story I have brought together all the writing I’ve been doing in past few months.
Then there is the completion of ‘the things we do for love’ which at long last now has a completed second draft with a lot of updates and changes to properly reflect the situation of the characters. I have also got ‘strangers we’ve become’ to a point where it can finally get editorial sign-off. Publishing is not far away after that.
It would be easy to blame COVID 19 for the delays or the lack of commitment to the task, but that’s not the problem. I’ve been home and had the time, but there have been a number of distractions, and ideas for new stories always seem to divert my attention from what I should be doing.
It’s not writer’s block. It’s not laziness. It seems that I just don’t have the time to work on them, and that might be because my subconscious is telling me there are problems with the narrative, and I’m just not ready to address them.
What has got my attention then?
I’m not sure how or why, but something triggered the idea of passing through a portal into another time, in the past. I think I might have been looking for photographs to write another photo/story, and I came across a covered bridge, and which led to looking for photographs of ghost towns. What topped it off, there was an old western in black and white, High Noon, which provoked a whole lot of memories of many westerns I’d seen in the past.
What other reason do you need to write your own story?
Then, when visiting my grandchildren, we just happened to do some stargazing, using Google Sky Map, picking out the planets. Somehow I managed to take a photo, and looking at it, took me back to the days of Star Trek, and the many series, which sort of gave me an idea for another story, which has been running off and on over the last few months.
Equally, I’m always on the lookout for photo opportunities that I can use to write short stories, and these continue apace, the latest, number 150. These are being formed into anthologies, stories 1 to 50, and stories 51 to 100. The first has been assembled into book form and is awaiting the editor’s first reading and report. I’m still working on the second.
And, now there is the next, stories 101 to 150.
Perhaps some of the time has been spent keeping up with Twitter, where over the last six months, and more recently, sales of my books on Amazon have been increasing. Not to best-seller numbers, but people are reading my stories, and the reviews have been very good.
It has, of course, pushed me to work harder on marketing and that has consumed some of my time, which unfortunately takes me away from writing. It sometimes feels like a self-defeating exercise, but it is the same for all of us.
Oh, and something else that cropped up this month, my brother has been digging into our family history, and around the middle of the month, he found some interesting revelations about some family members, including a pseudo-Luddite that ended up in Tasmania of all places, and then later on, when chasing down the places that we, as a family, lived, and this brought out some very interesting information about our father.
I’m discovering for what I’d always assumed was an ordinary man, he had done a lot of very interesting things in his life, and not only that, I’ve been fictionalizing the story. I have potted pieces written over various stages, and, one day, it might come together as a sort of biography. It is astonishing just how much you don’t know about your family, until much later on, at least for some of us. Our relatives have always been a mystery to me, and it’s fascinating as each one is brought to life with a new detail here and there.
Looking back on what I’ve just written, perhaps the passing of time had been more productive than I first thought. It just seems like nothing major has happened.
It was 2 am, the ideal time to assemble a team that would be clandestinely boarding a vessel.
Dark and moonless, it was fortuitous rather than planned, and, dressed in black from head to toe, it was hard to see the others in the inky darkness. At least something was on our side.
Up until this point, we’d had nothing but bad luck, though I was more of the opinion we had a traitor in our midst because some of the events could not have any other explanation.
It had caused me to be far more selective in who I gave details of the mission to.
Each of the four team members had arrived and let themselves into the shed. It was not far from the ocean, and a small pier where there was a landing craft waiting. From there, it would be a half-hour trip out to the ship in question, where, if we got close enough, we would either have to go over the side and swim, or pull alongside, but either way we’d have to go up a rope.
A lot depended on the crew member we had recruited getting a rope overboard, and given the luck we had so far, if there was a flaw in the plan, that was it.
Aside from the four people sitting in front of me, there were only three others privy to what was about to happen. Now, with recent events, it was hard to imagine that one of them could betray us. That’s why I hadn’t completely told them what they were about to do, just that they needed to be prepared to get wet.
“I’m sure, now we’re here, you can tell us what’s going on.” Robert was the most trusted of my team and my best friend.
“And why all the hush-hush,” Linda added. She had been amused at the secrecy and my explanation.
I was never very good at spinning a story. She knew that but had not questioned why.
“It’s been touch and go for the last week. It’s why we’ve all been on standby, with this last-minute call out. We’ve been waiting for a particular ship to leave port, and now it has. So, without further ado, let’s get to it. A boat ride, just enough time to gather the courage to the sticking point, and then with any luck we won’t have to go into the water and swim, but a short shimmy up a rope. I hope you’ve all been working out.”
The boat ride was in silence. I’d worked with this group before and they were not big on talking. Aside from the fact that noise traveled over water, and since we had a specially silenced motor on the boat, there was not going to be any unnecessary conversation.
We could see the ship once we reached the headland, and aside from it’s running lights, there were lights where I presumed the bridge was, and several in the crew quarters. Closer again, I got the impression it was not moving, or if it was, it was very slow. It was hard to tell in the darkness. That same darkness aided our approach.
When we were within several hundred yards I could see that the ship was not moving, and, in fact, had the anchor out.
That was not expected. Were they waiting for us? Had they discovered the cream member who was working with us? We’d know soon enough if there was no rope in the designated point, not far forward of the stern, a spot where we could maneuver the boat under the hull curvature.
The driver piloted the boat slowly to the designated point and the rope was there. He would stay with the boat and wait. The four of us would go up and collect what we came for.
I watched the three go up the rope before me, waiting for the last to stop at the top and then go over the side onto the deck. It took nearly a minute before I got the signal it was clear to follow.
It had been too easy.
I went up the rope slowly, slower than the others, something else other than the object of the exercise on my mind. Not three days before I had a conversation with my boss, telling him that I’d been doing the job too long and that it was time to retire. Approaching forty wasn’t exactly retirement age, but in this job, lasting that long was almost a miracle. The places I’d been, the sights I’d seen, and the people I’d met. And how many lives I’d used up.
It was a dangerous thing, thinking about anything other than the job when you’re on the job.
I reached the top and pulled myself over the railing and onto the deck. A little off balance it took a moment to stand. By then it was too late.
Two of the three other members of the team were sitting by the superstructure, heads on their heads, two members of the crew were watching them, guns at the ready, and Linda had one pointing at me.
“I can’t imagine how MacIntyre thought he was going to convince Petra to defect. Or how this charade of a rescue attempt was ever going to work.”
I put my hands up. Not entirely unexpected. “It was not the mission objective.”
“What…”
I was surprised that she had made her move so early. If it was my operation, I would wait until we were well into the superstructure, heading to the cabin where Petra would be waiting, and then make the move.
Three seconds, three shots, two guards taken out, and Linda incapacitated. She would not be moving or fighting back any time soon. The Petra came out of the shadows, and I collected Linda’s gun and stood near her, just in case Petra missed the target.
Petra cut the two other’s bindings, and said, “get to the side and jump now.”
Linda looked up at me. “What now?”
I shrugged. “Time for us to leave.” I gave Petra a nod, and she went over to the side, took one look back at Linda, shook her head, then jumped.
“You’re just going to leave me here?”
“If it were up to me, I’d shoot you, but MacIntire is getting a little soft in his old age. But yes, I’m leaving you here. Now, I really must go.”
I took a last look at Linda, who realized that if she moved it would only worsen her injury, and jumped, not exactly my preferred way of leaving the ship.
The boat came up alongside me and two hands dragged me on board, at the same time we could hear the sound of the anchor chain being pulled up, and the propellers creating a wash as the ship started moving.
Job done, and not one that pleased me. “Let’s go home,” I told the driver, “it’s past my bedtime.”
Or to be more precise, the homestead at what is now O’Reilly’s vineyard, where there is a pleasant lawn out back running down to the river for picnics, an alpaca farm next door, and the homestead plays host to functions and wine tastings
My interest was that we had assumed there was a restaurant, and we were going to have lunch. There might be one, but not the day we visited, it was just cafe food or a picnic available.
I was more interested in the old homestead because it was a fine example of the homesteads built in the ‘outback’.
…
Today we are having lunch in the Platypus room, in the O’Reilly’s vineyard farmhouse, which, if you close your eyes and let your imagination run free, could see it as the master bedroom of a homestead.
Certainly, the building is old, made completely of timber, inside and out, with the traditional high ceilings to keep the heat at bay.
At one end, a large bay window, which would be ideal to sit and view the outside, past the sweeping verandah. There is a small lawn and a rotunda, but beyond that what might have been extended gardens, is the vineyard.
The homestead is in an ideal position midway between the main road and the river, has the traditional surrounding verandah, and shows signs of being extended on almost all sides.
On the other side of the wide corridor that leads you to the bar, and, coincidentally, down the centre of the house, is a smaller bedroom, also used as a dining room, and ubiquitously named the library.
It may be small but it does have a fireplace, which the assumed master bedroom does not, but now I’m thinking that room might have been the morning room.
Behind the room, we’re in is another bedroom, or perhaps this might be the master because it does have a fireplace and is quite large. And a name, the Ambassador room. Now it serves as the pickup place for picnic baskets.
There is another room on the opposite side of the corridor called the Drawing Room but is not open to the public. But, going into the room with the fireplace adjacent to it, you can sell the aroma of pizzas, so it’s probably an extension of the kitchen, and, walking around the outside that side of the house proves it to be the case.
After all, they do catering for weddings and need a very large food preparation area which I discovered runs down the whole of that side of the house.
At the end of the corridor I’d the bar and spare space, and running off that and behind that is where there is a large dining area, perhaps prior to COVID, the restaurant.
It’s not hard to imagine that area as a very large entertaining area, either for very large dinner parties, or dancing.
As for the food, it’s either a picnic basket or pizzas. We chose the latter, not realising the bases were not homemade, but bought in.
The toppings however were both plentiful and tasty. It could have been hotter, because it was a cold day, and it was cold in the room.
As for something to do other than taste the wine, and buy a few bottles, you can get up close to the vines, which, at this time of the year gave been pruned back and look quite dead, look at or walk an alpaca, even feed it, or all of them, or go down to the river and see if you can spot a Platypus.
Perhaps next time we’ll have a picnic down by the river.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 