I write about spies, washed out, worn out, or thrown out.
It’s always in the back of my mind, sometimes fuelled by a piece in the paper that has a sense of conspiracy about it, and from there, an idea starts turning into words that need to find their way to paper.
Then, if that’s the extent of the first draft, sometimes it goes into the ‘I will come back to this later’ folder and, sometimes, it’s gone and forgotten.
Until I wake up suddenly in the middle of the night, an old story with a new idea fills my head, and I have to get it down.
Then, it will bother me over the next few days, until I give it the attention it’s calling out for. This will often lead to more writing, but planning leading to a synopsis.
The first sentence of a novel is always the hardest. Like I guess many others, I sit and ponder what I’m going to write, whether it will be relevant, whether it will pull the reader into my world, and cause them to read on.
And that’s the objective, to capture the reader’s imagination and want to see what’s going to happen next.
The problem is, we have to set the scene.
Or do we?
Do we need to cover the who, what, where, and when criteria in that first sentence? Can we just start with the edge-of-the-seat suspense, like,
The first bullet hit the concrete wall about six inches above my head with a resounding thwack that scared the living daylights out of me. The second, sent on its way within a fraction of a second of the first found its mark, the edge of my shoulder, slicing through the material, and creasing skin and flesh. There was blood and then panic.
Milliseconds later my brain registered the near-miss and sent the instruction: get down you idiot.
I hit the ground just as another bullet slammed into the concrete where my head had just been.
It can use some more work, fewer commas, and perhaps shorter, sharper sentences to convey the urgency and danger.
Perhaps we could paint a picture of the main character.
He tentatively has the name Jackson Galsworthy. He has always aspired to be a ‘secret agent’ or ‘spy’ and but through luck more than anything else, he was given his opportunity. The problem is he failed his first test and failure means washing out of the program.
What had ‘they’ said? When the shit hits the fan, you need to be calm, cool, and collected. He’d been anything but.
Maybe we’ll flesh the character out as we go along.
OK, I just had another thought for an opening,
Light snow was still falling, past the stage where each flake dissolved as it hit the ground, and now starting to gather in white patches.
It was cold, very cold, and even with the three layers I still shivered.
What surprised me was the silence, but, of course, it was a graveyard beside an ancient church, and everyone who had attended the funeral service had left.
It was a short service for the few that came, and a shorter burial. No one seemed keen to hang around, not with the evening darkness and the snow setting in.
I stood, not far from the filled grave looking at it, but not looking at it. Was I expecting it’s occupant to rise again? Was I expecting forgiveness? I certainly didn’t deserve it.
The truth is, I was responsible for this person’s death, making a mistake a more seasoned professional might not, and the reason why I was shown the door. I had been given very simple instructions; protect this man at all costs.
It was going to be a simple extraction, go in, get the target, and get out before anyone noticed.
A pity then I was the only one who got that memo.
It’s a start, but with the TV going on in the background, Chester complaining about something, and the weeds in the yard are getting higher, there’s too much else going to consider this even a start.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
It was only an hours’ worth of skimming newspapers, for the dates I’d discovered at the cemetery, and the month around the time that Boggs’s father had disappeared, because the date of death for Friedrich Ormiston had a familiar ring to it.
They’d both apparently died in the same year, within months of each other.
Of course, there was a twist.
Neither of the two men’s bodies had been found, and both missing person’s cases had remained open for the specified period before being declared legally dead. I knew that to be the case for Boggs’s father, but I had not really known the details of the circumstances.
The paper had played up the disappearance of both men, pushing the Treasure hunt aspect knowing it would bring in readers, and perhaps get picked up by the big city papers. It had got a television crew down briefly, I remembered that much, and the fact Boggs had wanted nothing to do with it.
The story, though, was interesting, that everyone remembered that fateful night in the bar when he had been telling anyone who would listen that he had found ‘the’ clue to the treasure’s whereabouts, and the drunker he got, the more outlandish the story.
A number of people who were visiting the town because suspects simply because they were out of towners, and subsequently cleared in the ensuing investigation. What had turned up was the fact he owed a great deal of one to loan sharks, and one in particular, who was in town to collect on a prior loan for a fruitless search, and who was a prime suspect.
In the end, the price of his freedom was to forgo the collection of the debt.
Yet another was unmasked as a fellow treasure hunter with a dubious past, having been jailed for earlier transgressions of stealing other’s finds, but he claimed he was not a legitimate treasure hunter, and that he was in town at the request of Benderby, to oversee the dredging of a part of the bay for more coins. It had been a fruitless endeavor.
But despite his assertions, no one really believed Boggs’s father’s claims and had dismissed it as the usual ravings that had become his mantra for many years. Only his son believed him.
Boggs himself had made the newspaper, a photo of him by the grave where his father’s spirit rather than body had been buried, vowing to prove his father right.
What added to the legend was the disappearance and apparent death of Ormiston not long after. The story of his search for the treasure was long and fruitless, one of dissipating the family fortune in search of another.
His disappearance was attributed to the fact he had become erratic and forgetful, the town doctor at the time telling the coroner’s inquest that he had early onset dementia and was prone to wandering off. This time it had been his downfall.
A search had been mounted and all the cave systems were checked, known to be the places he frequented the most, and when a new rockslide was discovered in one of the caves, it was assumed he had ventured too far and been trapped. Several attempts were made to clear the way, but the fall had been far too extensive and had to be abandoned.
Every few years the paper revisited Boggs’s disappearance, but there was no new information, and after ten years nothing more was written. It seemed that Lenny had a continued interest in the Treasure hunt because he had filed a number of newspaper reports, making it easy for me to get the gist of the story.
Then, several months ago, he had written a new story, a small piece that I had missed, reporting on Boggs’s discovery of a new map of the coastline, one that suggested that the site of the ill-fated mall was, in fact, an entrance to the cave system where the treasure may have been placed. It referenced a survey that had been made before the second world war, one that hinted that the cave system was much larger than originally thought, and quite likely went all the way to the mountains, the origin of an ancient underground river.
The fact the mall site had been the victim of flooding made that seemed to make that assumption plausible, but apparently, no one else had seen that particular map, and Boggs had not been forthcoming in sharing it with the reporter.
But aside from those few paragraphs nothing more was said.
It explained what Boggs was doing when we went to the mall site.
All of that was condensed into a page of notes in my notepad, where it would have to stay for a day or so because I had to go home, change and go to work.
Perhaps tomorrow I would get to talk to Boggs about it.
As luck would have it, I ran into Boggs just up the street where he was coming out of the hardware store with a skein of rope slung over his shoulder.
“Just the person I’m looking for,” I said.
His look told me that I was the last person he wanted to see.
“I’m busy, Sam. Can we do this another time?”
“Planning a lynching?” My eyes went from him to the rope, and back.
“Climbing. I’m going away for a few days, get away from everything, and do something other than think about treasure.”
“Probably a good idea. I’m sorry I haven’t been much of help lately, with work and stuff.”
“How’s Nadia?”
It was a pointed question, and I knew he had seen me with her. I had thought it might be Alex.
“Being Nadia, leopards don’t change their spots, and I’m trying to keep the enemies close so I can track what they’re up to.”
“There’s close and then there’s too close, Sam.”
“True, but it’s not what you think.”
“I don’t know what to think anymore. Let’s just leave it at that, and I’ll call you when I get back.”
I knew the tone, and I could smell a burnt bridge. Maybe it was time to give him some space, and I could get on with a bit of research and bring it to him when he was in a more receptive frame of mind.
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.
On a night that most attendees would hope simply pass by without any fanfare, there proved to be more than just the usual rubbing shoulders and an opportunity to reacquaint themselves with the other movers and shakers in Marin County.
Yes, this year, there was a new theme, one that harled back to the mid-nineteenth century when the Gentry held balls, and there was dancing.
There was also a slight break in tradition when not all attendees were from the same social set, and finally, after many years of lobbying, certain residents of Cedar Falls were invited, one of who was our own, and rather well-known, William Benjamin Oldacre.
The Oldacres have been living in and around Cedar Falls for as long as anyone can remember, in fact, since 1807, nearly 19 years before the first vestiges of a town appeared. They were here long before the Reinharts, they have a school named after one, a street, the public library, and several buildings.
And, yet, no one received an invitation to the ball, or any of the fundraisers, until now.
Be this as it may, I mention this for only one reason, it brought about a change to proceedings, and the dancing and this reporter will bear witness to what was an excellent rendition of the Viennese Waltz in the first instance, led out by none other than William Oldacre, and the second daughter of James Edward Rothstein, Emily Rothstein.
Such was their flair and artistry one could almost assume they were an item. Watch this space if there are further developments.
The article went on the tell everyone how much was raised and where it was going, though tongue in cheek I got the impression it was not where most wanted it to be directed.
It wasn’t quite the hatchet job I was expecting, but it was an interesting touch to highlight the longevity and renown of the Oldacres in the area versus the new kid with all the money.
Our family just wasn’t good at taking over or making buckets of money.
I know Dad left the paper on the bench open at the page, and I could see his expression, when he read it, one of mock indignation. He preferred that no one remembered the Oldacres’ part in the town development. It wasn’t quite what everyone imagined it to be.
Darcy appeared, still in pyjamas and; looking sleepy. Her life had changed since the ball, a girl now in ‘demand’ as she put it. It was a notoriety she didn’t need.
“You’ve seen the assassination?”
“How do you know what’s in it?”
“Taylor rang and told me. You got a mention, liked infamously to the one and only Emily. That cat is well and truly out of the bag now.”
“We danced, that’s all it said.”
“Maybe but what it really says, between the lines, is that you two are an item.”
“It said ‘one could almost assume’.”
She shook her head. “Semantics, again, Will. We know differently, don’t we?”
I was off to the library to do some research on the Oldacre family, fired up again after reading Angela’s piece, just in case a rebuttal was needed.
I made it to the street when a very familiar limousine stopped, and Genevieve got out.
“Mr Oldacre.”
“Please, that’s my father, I think we knew each other well enough to use first names.”
“William.”
“Genevieve. What do I owe this honour?”
“Miss Emily would like to see you?”
“Would she now. Well, as it happens I’m off to the library. I might not be, if she had called and told me, but she didn’t, and I’m not going to drop everyone when she summons me. This is me telling you to tell her there is a way to do things properly.”
I thought she would get annoyed, certainly, her expression changed from bright and sunny to somewhat clouded.
“My thought exactly, and I did tell her, equally as politely.”
“I’m sure you did. Now, I’m going to start walking in the direction of the bus stop. If you choose to tell her my sentiments, that’s fine, otherwise I’m sorry you were sent out on a fool’s errand.”
She smiled. “I’d rather be here than there.”
I could understand that sentiment. She got back in the car, but it did not drive off. She was calling Miss Emily.
I made it to the bus stop before my cell phone rang.
“William?”
“Emily.”
“Genevieve says you’re being petulant.”
“No, Genevieve did not say I was being petulant. If you are going to paraphrase what people say to you incorrectly, Emily, I will hang up.”
Silence for a few seconds, then, “You’re going to be a pain in the ass, aren’t you?”
“No. I’m being me, and if you want to talk to me, call, we’ll arrange to meet, and then we’ll talk. You do not summon me by sending a car and an assistant. It’s a waste of resources and manpower.”
“I want to see you now.”
“Then you have to call and then we meet. If you’d called last night, we would be meeting now, if you get out of bed before seven.”
“I didn’t know last night. I just read the paper. She’s not very nice.”
“I thought we dodged a bullet.”
“We’ve become an item?”
“Assumed to be an item. There’s a big difference. People ask, you simply say it’s a work in progress.”
“What does that mean?”
“Exactly. Now if you want to meet this morning, then call me in an hour and I’ll tell you where and when.”
“This is not going to work.”
“That’s your call, Emily, not mine. I know you can be the girl I know and love, you just have to realize who that girl is. My bus is here. We’ll speak later.”
An hour and a half later we were sitting in a booth at the café near the library. It was one of my favourite haunts, it had a jukebox and all the old 50s and 60s hits. I had offered to buy it when the current owners decided to retire or sell.
It was playing ‘Irresistible You’ by Bobby Darin when Emily came in.
She smiled as she sat down. “Did you play that for me?”
“No, someone else put it on, but it is appropriate.”
“God, you are going to drive me nuts.”
“Isn’t that your job, to drive me nuts?”
She shook her head. “You made me think before nine William. Not happy.”
“Then you’d better get used to it. I don’t like wasting the day.”
I could see a retort forming in her eyes, and then she parked it at the back of her mind. I suspect I had an inkling as to what it was, she was going to say, and certainly what she was thinking. The same thought passed through mine, and it surprised me.
“Now,” I said, “What do you want to talk about?”
“The article in the paper. It was a bit nasty.”
“Semantics, Emily. Down among the common people, it is viewed as an elitist affair. I don’t agree about the stuff on the Oldacres. We may have been here since God created the earth, but we did nothing of note. If we had, the place would be called Oldacre Falls, not Cedar Falls. It’s just Amanda venting.”
“I thought journalists were supposed to report “the news, not comment on it.”
“You live in a different world.
“Daddy owns the company that owns the paper. He says the news is what he says it is.”
That was just a little scary. “You have heard the expression, don’t shoot the messenger, haven’t you?”
“She doesn’t like me.”
“And why is that, Emily?”
Dorothy, my usual waitress, came over with the coffee pot to give me a refill. Most mornings I usually stayed for three. This morning, I was considering adding some bourbon.
She looked at Emily with something akin to surprise. This café was hardly a place the Rothstein’s frequented. “Coffee, Emily?” She was not going to call her Miss Rothstein.
“Yes, thank you.”
Emily, on her best behaviour. Or perhaps because she was not with her friends. They had something of a reputation when visiting local stores.
Dorothy collected a cup and saucer and brought it over, then filled it.
Dorothy looked at me. “I read the paper.”
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
Emily frowned at me.
“I’m still waiting for my invitation,” Dorothy said, a smile forming.
We always said that the world would stop spinning on its axis if one or other of us got invited. Exactly the opposite had happened to me that night, the earth moved. I was not going to tell Dorothy that.
“Perhaps,” Emily said, “we should make the next more town centric.”
Dorothy looked puzzled so I translated, “Ask more of the town’s folk along. It’s a good idea.”
“Good idea.” Dorothy had to go; another customer was after more coffee.
I looked at Emily. “I have a great idea. It’ll kill two birds with one stone. If you are thinking of joining your father’s company, perhaps you should ask him if you could work in the charity functions area, as an organiser. Even better, since the company doesn’t specifically have a department to handle that, tell him to create a foundation, and ask him if you can be in charge. That would be a real job, and I know you can organise.”
“You mean work in an actual role?”
“It might actually work in your favour, showing Amanda you’re not the person she thinks you are, and if you impress her… What were you planning to do after Uni?”
“Go away with friends, like a graduation thing. Surely, you’re going away, like, to celebrate freedom after all that school stuff.”
“Some of us have to earn a living, we don’t all have rich fathers.”
“You could come with me.”
“With your current friends, Emily? You are so much better than they are. You just need purpose, and with them, it’s about being entitled and delinquent because they can. I know you’re better than that, and I think you do too.”
“I think my head hurts talking to you,” Emily said, standing. “I’ve known them all for a long time, William, and we have plans.”
“And I don’t expect you to change them on my account. Just think about it. If you want to be seen differently, and with respect, then you’re the one who has to make it happen.”
“Whatever!”
There was the Emily of old.
I watched her leave, as did Dorothy, who came back after she left.
“The course of true love…”
“Never quite works out when there’s a huge chasm between the social strata. I believe she can change; I just think at the moment she doesn’t believe in herself.”
Perhaps she saw my wistful look as I watched her cross the road.
“At least it was one tick in a box, the Viennese Waltz. The lessons paid off?”
“They did. It was like dancing on air, she is that good.”
“Perhaps it’s more than that, Will, she had the right partner. Don’t give up on her.”
I shrugged. She was the most vexing girl I’d ever known.
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.
This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.
The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Things are about to get complicated…
Joanne let me get away far too easily.
When I got back to my car, I ran the scanner over it. One tracker was easily found, another that took a full half hour to find, and some very strange stares from people on the sidewalk.
I put them both on another car and then went back to the safe house. Knowing O’Connell was just a pawn meant there wasn’t a hurry to find him. Anna had everything she needed from him, and now he was of little use to her. The only question was whether he was still alive.
Jennifer had taken my pyjamas and my bed in the master bedroom, so I was relegated to the spare.
Not happy.
We needed a plan. In all the excitement I’d forgotten O’Connell had three places, the original apartment with Herman, his mother’s house in Peaslake, and the apartment in Bromley.
I was up before Jennifer, making coffee, when she came out.
She made my pyjamas look good. And there was the distraction factor Maury was prone to banging on about.
“How did it go at the office?”
“Turns out Anna Jakovich, the apparent seller of the USB, is a biochemist herself, one who was involved in a laboratory disaster, and discharged as part of the problem. Make of that what you will, but it looks like her husband was just the fall guy.”
“Of course, it all makes sense then. Gets the husband to steal the data on the pretext they’re saving the world, then kills him, and pins the blame on him if anything goes wrong. gets us to stump up several million pounds, then ditches O’Connell and runs with the money, and the USB, to bilk another unsuspecting government, like the Russians, or the Chinese.”
“Can you read minds?”
“No. Got a call from Dobbin, though I have no idea how he found my number since it’s a burner. Seems he finally found the file on Anna, presumably the same one you got.
“He doesn’t know you’re involved.”
“He does now. He figured you’d seek help from your classmates that were still on the books. There’s two of us, me and Miss Desirable, Yolanda.”
“Didn’t she leave the Severin School of wannabes before qualifying?”
“And went straight to the city office of the department and offered up all details on our once fearless leaders for a second chance. On the books, and back in training, training we might be able to use.”
“Possibly. The question is, of course, whether she knew what they were planning…”
“Dobbin says she was fooling about with Severin, or perhaps that was Maury…”
“Then Dobbin or Monica or both knew in advance what was going to happen and could have prevented a tragedy if that was the case. I don’t think she quite knew everything.”
“Well, what I know now is that we’re simply pawns in a much larger game, dancing to a tune that is completely out of key. Makes things all the more interesting, don’t you think. By my estimation when we complete our mission, we’re likely to end up like Severin, we just have to work out which one it is before we reach our expiry date. That coffee smells divine, by the way. We’re not going anywhere until I’ve had a cup.”
At least she hadn’t decided to go back to her old life. Not yet anyway.
We tackled Peaslake first. It was a free-standing house, and we had reasonably covered access that gave us entry to the property with minimal chance of observation.
When we were close, I was nearly run off the road by a fire engine, in a hurry. Closer still we could see a plume of smoke rising from behind the trees, and when we reached the top of the street, we could see where the fire engine was going.
O’Connell’s house was on fire.
I parled the car and we went to join the throng of nearby residents, all with nothing better to do.
“What happened?” Jennifer asked one of the residents.
“There was an explosion, a fireball, someone said they thought it was a gas tank, and then a fire started. It was fully ablaze by the time the first fire engine arrived.”
The firefighters had most of the blaze subdued, and we could see the house was destroyed.
Was it Anna or O’Connell, or both covering their tracks? The house had become compromised when Jennifer and I turned up.
Five minutes later the Detective Inspector and her Sargent arrived.
“Should I be worried now you’re here,” she asked when she saw me.
“It belonged to the mother of one of our officers who is involved in the case I’m working on.”
“He has the information?”
“No, or maybe. We don’t know. We do know there’s a woman involved who was working with our agent.”
“Oh. I’ve been told there are two bodies found inside, one man and one woman. Nothing else yet, but I’m going to talk to the forensic team waiting to see if they know any more. Don’t go anywhere, I may need to talk to you.”
“Just a question. You didn’t let Jan out, did you?”
She looked puzzled. “Jan?”
“The girl who shot Severin.”
“Oh, her. MI5 came and took her away the moment my back was turned. Why?”
“She probably did this.”
“You might have told me she was dangerous. Who is she?”
“An MI5 assassin.”
She sighed. “You people are a law unto yourselves. Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back.”
We watched her stomp away.
“Well,” Jennifer said, “that just made our life a little more difficult.”
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
I have not yet had the privilege, or otherwise of being fired yet, but that meaning of the word fire is to get removed unceremoniously from your job.
Donald Trump used to use it a lot on the Apprentice, eg, “Your fired”. And, believe it or not, I used to like that show.
But…
Fire can be quite hot, something you can sit in front of on those cold winter nights, whether it be a gas fire, or a wood fire, my preference.
Then there’s a phrase, set fire to, which can be good or bad depending on what eventually gets burned.
I have on the odd occasion had someone fire my imagination, probably a good thing being a writer.
To feel the fire in the back of your throat when drinking neat whiskey, is so much better when it is an expensive brand
Then there’s the fire in your heart driving patriotism, but make sure it is for the right reasons.
If you have a gun, then when you pull the trigger you fire it. Just be sure not to be pointing it the wrong way or any anyone.
A good indication is when you hear the words, ready, aim, fire. Especially if you are in the wrong place at the wrong time. Napoleon can attest to that, it is alleged!
You can,
fire off a message, hopefully, a nice one
fire questions rapidly at someone (but not a politician, they have to have time to answer anything but the question asked)
or accidentally fire someone up by saying the wrong thing
or fire a piece of pottery, and in saying that, the best I could do was an awkward mug.
Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
Suitably warned off, and after agreeing to wait for the word to come to rescue her, one Henry feels sceptical about, they return to Henry’s hotel room and toast their good luck and savour the air conditioning.
And start making other foolish plans, like rescuing Angie and Millie, her friends, as a means of hastening Michelle’s decision to leave with them. Like any plan made without knowing all the facts, it is fraught with danger.
Radly tells Henry that his view of their world was stilted by his background, that not everyone wants to be saved, and that they just might like the life they have. Henry, of course, doesn’t get it, nor realise what he thinks and how he acts has been shaped by the world he lives in. It’s a shattering truth he still doesn’t consider possible.
Despite Radly’s reservations, that doesn’t stop them. Knowing where Angie lives, they make the assumption that Angie would want to be rescued, and suitably fortified by cold beer, they depart.
Doing something, or anything is preferable to sitting around doing nothing.
It was a mission that was destined to fail, but not for the reasons Radly postulated.
When they get to her apartment the door is open. Inside they are met with the unexpected and tragic consequences of a user that has just pushed the envelope a little too far.
They find Angie dead from an overdose.
For her, the knights in shining armour are too late.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 