…

When I woke up that morning it was like every other day.  Everything was familiar.  Except…

The first thought that popped into my head was a question, “Why did I walk through the blue door?”

Usually, it was those few minutes when the aches and pains of old age were something to look forward to the moment I got out of bed.

But…

The blue door?

Here’s the thing.  I don’t remember walking through a blue, or other coloured door.  When I thought about it, it had been in a dream where, the night before, I had wished I could go to a place where the pain was negligible, and, more importantly, the family were at peace instead of at war, over, of all things, our father’s will.

I hadn’t thought that money would be everyone’s first thought, but I was wrong.  I guess the amount he left behind was large enough to fuel that inherent monster in all of us, greed.

Being the only one not motivated to dispute the will, and being the principal beneficiary, I was over it, and in fact was ready to wipe my hands of the whole business, and let the lawyers take most if it in fees, leaving the rest with next to nothing.

All of it had come to a head and good old-fashioned pugilism.  Blows were exchanged, words that couldn’t be taken back, said, and threats made.  What was meant to be a congenial meeting of family members to discuss the will, very quickly degenerated into a disaster.

No surprise then that I would metaphorically step through any coloured door to escape reality.  There had been a green door, a red door, a blue door, a yellow door and a brown door.  Blue was my favourite colour.

OK, so another fragment of the dream returned while I was staring at the ceiling and thinking it was not like that the last time I looked.  Each of the doors represented a different outcome in my life.  Then I realised the MC, dressed in a ring master’s outfit, yes, there was a circus element.

Obviously, my mind wanted to go somewhere, anywhere but where I was right then.

I looked sideways at the form that had burrowed under the blankets, not the sort of thing Margret, my wife of many long-suffering years did.  She hated my family to begin with and we had distanced ourselves from them.  It was not a thing I did to please her, I hated them too.

Having come back to nurse my father to the grave, the last six months had been difficult.  The relatives, known and obscure, had come from everywhere, smelling blood in the water.

Her hand was on the pillow, and I gave it a squeeze.

A head popped put, a smile, and then shock.  Not hers, mine.

It was her younger sister Margery.

“What the hell,” I said.  “What are you doing here?”

I remembered having a think for Margery before I met Margaret and had been resentful and bitter when Margaret stole me away.  But, as a first love, she had never quite left my mind.

“Have you been dreaming again?  Yesterday you thought you’d turned into your father.”

Good Grief.  Behind the blue door was one of my fantasies.  I shook my head.

“Where’s Margaret?”

“Forgetful too it seems.”  She sighed as if this was normal for me.  “She died two years ago.  Cancer.  I came back to see how you were, and you were broken.  Then I discover you had this crush, so we gave it a fling.  Married last year, don’t regret it, just hated Margaret more for stealing you.”

My dreams summarised in seven sentences.

“OK.  That sounds about right for me.  What about Dad?”

If my life with Margaret was over then everything else could be changed.  I could only hope.

“Still hanging by a thread, knowing the longer he drags it out the more he can torment the family.  It’s going to be a blood bath at the will reading.  God, I hate money.  Can’t live with it, can’t live without it.”

“Isn’t that women for men and men for women?”

She punched me in the arm.  “Don’t try and make me feel better.  On the other hand,” she leaned over and kissed me.  “Please make me feel better.”

It was the one thing I remembered about Margery, how much fun it could be with her.  She was one of the few what you see is what you get girls and I had loved her quite intensely until Margaret came along and turned me into the dull and responsible version that my father approved of.

That was when my two brothers both irresponsible troublemakers abused the privilege of their position, squandered their inheritances, and then went cap in hand to our father for support and instead got disinherited.  Now, knowing what he was worth they were like Hyenas circling their prey, waiting to swoop.

I wasn’t going to burst their bubble by telling them that disinherited meant no recognition in the will.  I’d seen a copy where the bulk of the estate was left to the responsible one, me.  They got nothing.

Margery was right.  It was going to be a bloodbath.

I visited my father every day.  He had been a heavy smoker and suffered because of it.  Now breathing was almost impossible and the cancer was going to kill him.  Did he regret any part of his life or anything he did?  No.  What was the point?  You do the best you can.  There’s always someone telling you what you did was wrong, but there’s no such thing as being perfect.

Except for our mother, his first wife, was perfect. And I agreed with him.

He was looking better.  To me, that meant the end was close, that short period of remission before death.  Time to order up the priest to administer the last rights.  He might have been a bastard and a crook, but he was also steadfastly religious.

“The jackals were in.  Never saw a worse pair than those two.  Their mother would be ashamed to call them hers.:

“No.  She had a higher degree of tolerance than you.  She expected more of me, like you, but they could do no wrong.  In a way it was her fault they turned out the way they did.  Are you sure you want to cut them out?”

“Teach them a lesson.  They’re survivors.  People like them always are.  You can take pity on them if you want, but once you open the door you won’t be able to close it.

That conversation was different, but then so was the woman I was married to.  Perhaps there was some sort of joke in this alternate universe, that my father just shunted all of his problems into me.

If the blue door was what I wanted rather than what I had, the red door was hell.  I mean, it was a red door.  What was I expecting?

The green door was all sweetness and light, everyone was sickly kind and thoughtful without a hint of discord and enmity.  Even my father was the epitome of generosity and kindness.

Behind the brown door was a void.  It was like stepping from the light into the dark.  There was no one but the voices in my head, and if I’d stayed there too long, I would have gone mad.

That left the yellow door.  There was a reason why I’d been dragged three ought each, leaning more about the people I knew or thought I did, and in an odd sort of way discovering more about myself.

I knew that I’d spent most of my life compromising, taking the easy way, doing what was expected of me and not what I wanted.  I guess that was what life was meant to be like.  So few of us ever got to do what we wanted, mainly because we couldn’t afford to, and that was basically it.  Money ruled our lives.

I looked at that yellow door for a long time, believing it was going to be more of the same.  A horrible father, obtuse relatives, greedy little sycophants who’d willingly sell their souls to the devil for 20 pieces of silver.

Did I want to see more about a life I should have had and didn’t get?

And there it was, the yellow door beckoning, and who was I to resist?

I opened the door and went in.  It was a room, with a desk, two chairs on opposite sides of the table, and a sign on the back wall that said, “Please sit”.  Below that was a two-way mirror, that only reflected one way.

An interview room in a police station?

Five minutes later a door opened beside the mirror and a woman came through.

My mother.

Or a very young version of her, before my memories of her started.  I had not known she was so beautiful, or blonde.

I said nothing but watched her sit, then when settled, smiled.

“Well, Walt, this is a fine kettle of fish.”

Metaphors?  Who was this woman?

“Why am I here, and just to be clear, you are my mother.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  This is your imagination, Walt, and I could be anyone.  But, you have used a memory of your mother.”

“So, you do know about me?”

“More than I care to, but yes.  You’ve come to a crossroads in your life, and you have to make a decision that will affect the rest of it.  You can choose to live or you can choose to die.  You’ve always made the right choice, Walk.  Always.  Quite often to your detriment, or to please others, while all the time suppressing your hopes, wishes and desires.  Admiral but depressing.”

She was right.  But it wasn’t that simple.

“I had no choice.”

‘You always had a choice, Walt.  You just chose the most expedient.  Like marrying Margaret rather than Margery.  Of course, you knew that was a huge mistake.  So did your father and I which is why we paid Margaret to steal you away before Margery’s bad ways destroyed you, like she was destroying herself.  You loved Margery, I know, but love was never going to be enough.  You needed solid and dependable.  That was Margaret.”

“What else did you do?

“Too many to be listed.  Just be assured we did it for your own good.  And, fortunately, it had led you here, now.  I guess if your father hadn’t been the bastard he was, we wouldn’t be here, but he was dependable like that.  And lazy, leaving all his messes for you to fix up.”

“Like my bothers?”

“Nice boys, but utterly useless.  We knew that from the moment they could speak.  You were our only hope, Walt.  Those two, all the love in the world was never going to fix them, and that’s apparent now in spades.  You must look after them, Walt.  Your father wouldn’t, but you are not your father.”

“Margaret?”

‘You’ve been planning to leave her.  She’s financially independent and will have no claim on the inheritance.  Like I said, we gave her a fortune, so you can leave.  Find someone else.”

“Margery?”

“If you can find her.  Last we knew of her whereabouts, it was a commune in Tibet, or on the side of a mountain.”  She shrugged.  “That PA of yours, Ms Pendle, she seems a good sort.  “has a thing for you, too.”

Ms Pendle was a little too staid for me.  But then, perhaps I was the same and didn’t realise it.

“Right, enough yammering Walk.  Time to go.”  She stood.  “Just remember, the future, your future, is n your hands, no one else’s.”

I woke, in the same bed, in the same house, looking at the same roof, and when I looked on the other side of the bed, the same hidden form with a hand on the pillow.

I touched it, thinking it might be Margery, but it was Margaret.

I watched her wake and wondered if it was true, she had been paid to get me away from Margery.

“You were late in last night.”

“I was with my mistress.”

She snorted.  “You, with a mistress?”  She shook her head.  “When did you become a comedian?”

I decided on a change of subject. “Did my parents pay you to get me away from Margery?”

The smile disappeared and a frown appeared on her face.  “Who told you?”

“Mother, just before she died.  Wanted to go with a clear conscience.”

She thought about what sort of answer to give me, then said, “It was the right thing to do.  They wanted you to have a future, not flame out before you were 35.  Margery would have killed you, Walt.”

“Well, your job is done.  I made it.  Today is the first day f the rest of my life, and while you may be in it, it will not be as my wife.  I thank you for your service.”

“To be honest, I thought you’d divorce me long before this.  I did love you, you know.  I guess we just sort of grew out of love in the end.”

It seemed so, well, I had no idea what it seemed like.

“What are you going to do with the family?”

“Annuities.  They live within their means or go to hell.”

“And you?”

“First day and all, Margaret.  I have no idea.”

It was odd to discover Margaret had a case packed and ready to go, she had for a long time.  Everything else she owned; she didn’t want.  It would be, she said, like taking her memories with her, and she was past that.

We had a last breakfast together, one last kiss, and she was gone.  No, she wasn’t parting with the Audi A5.

I was going to go into the office but decided not to, and instead called the lawyers and for the next hour told them what I wanted done.

Then, I went out onto the patio, put on some melancholy jazz, and stretched out in one of the sunbeds, my last thought before dozing off, was the endless possibilities of what I was going to do.

I was lost in a mist, going upriver in a boat, slowly wending towards the mountains.  It had started out very warm, and the further inland we went the closer it got.  I had the feeling I was not alone on the boat, the figures were indistinct shadows, flitting about in the background.

Then it started to rain, and I woke with a start.

I realized I was at home and the automated sprinkler system had started.

When I went to get up, I realised something or someone was holding my hand and a looked over.

Margery.

“What are you doing here?”

“My, my, Walt.  I thought you would be more pleased to see me.”

“I am.  But…”

” Margaret called me about a week ago.  She told me what had happened all those years ago and apologised.  She said you two were splitting up, and if I wanted to get first in line, I’d better get my butt home.  I just knew she had something to do with splitting us up.  Not that it wasn’t a good idea, I was in a bad place then.”

“Now?”

“Now I know better.  And the best thing about it.  We have a lot of years to catch up, perhaps it will take the rest of our lives.  Never stopped loving you, Walt.  Not for a minute.”

“Nor I you.  I was just coming to find you.”

“Then everything is as it should be.  Now, let’s get out from under these sprinklers before one or other, or both of us get pneumonia.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2023

Here’s the thing…

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.

…

Three a.m. is meant to be so quiet; you could hear your heart beating.

Ten to, all hell had broken loose when one of the conveyor belts broke, and a replacement was needed, and the engineers were on the clock.

Ten past, the hullabaloo had died down, and back at the desk, I was contemplating a long scotch to calm the nerves.  Drinking on the job was not condoned, but not unheard of.  I opened the drawer and looked at the bottle, then thought the better of it.

And, when I looked up, Nadia was standing in front of the desk.

She was as quiet as a ninja, and just as dangerous.

“Never a dull moment,” she said, dragging a chair over and sitting down.  “I got here a half hour ago and all hell was breaking loose.”

“Conveyor broke.  No one wants to see production stop or slide.  Too many questions.”

“Fixed?”

“Of course.”  I made a note to order a replacement.  Better to have two in store, just in case.

“How did you get in?”

Security was tight, not like it used to be, especially after what happened to me.

“I know the guards, they know I’m not a threat.”

I could beg to differ, but I was glad to see her.  “Did you know Alex was a caver?”

“A what?”

“One of those people who go scrambling through caves.”

“I doubt it.”

“He used the word spelunking.”

“Which is?”

“Exploring caves.”

“He’s no explorer, I bet he’s looking for the treasure.”

“And so has a million others before him.  I seriously doubt the treasure will be in a cave in the hills, which is where all the known caves are.  Of course, that doesn’t necessarily include the so-called underground river under the mall, but apparently isn’t.”

“You heard?”

“That the flooding was not necessarily the result of a flood of water from the mountains, yes.  A problem with the foundations, it has been suggested.”

“A fact Benderby is working overtime to cover up.”

Nadia seemed well informed.  I was guessing the Cossatino’s could see an opportunity to blackmail Benderby, if they had proof.  I wouldn’t put anything past them.

“You know something I don’t?”

“We always know something others don’t.”

“Have I got a dark secret?”

“That depends.” 

She smiled, and it worried me.

“Your mother and Joshua Benderby used to be very good friends when they were at school.”

Old news, well, not so old news, but if I hadn’t seen the flowers…

“What are you insinuating?”

“They had a fling before your mother realized what sort of a man he really was and picked your father instead.  But, from what I’m told, they were close, and there wasn’t a lot of time between the breakup and you coming along.”

Odd, but that was just the thought that entered my mind at the exact instant she said it.

“But, I look nothing like the Benderby’s.”

“Benderby didn’t look anything like his parents either, it’s a generational thing, so you might want to find a photo of his father and mother, you know, just to settle the nerves.  Or a DNA test.”

It was the last thing on my mind.  Imagine being a stepbrother to Alex.  Wouldn’t that get his nose out of joint, going from the only son and heir to sharing the mantle?  I was older than him, too, which gave me more of a claim on the fortune.

No.  Not a chance in the world.  There wouldn’t be enough money to assuage the horrors of that family.  It would be bad enough if they got together now, which wasn’t as unlikely as it sounded.  His wife had died, and he hadn’t remarried, or, for that matter, found someone else.  Yet.

“Have you come with any other news?”

“No.  Just a picnic basket.  I thought you might want a late, late supper.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t.  It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room.  It was quite large and expensively furnished.  It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917.  At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring.  Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years.  She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity.  She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined.  After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month.  There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited.  She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends.  She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy.  Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful.  In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit.  She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine.  She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend.  That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue.  It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour.  It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms.  When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report.  After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report.  She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen.  Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room.  She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit.  She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival.  It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality.  A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

…

Every year we bowed to the absurdity that Edward John Berkely bestowed upon us for that one week we all agreed to, somewhere back in the mists of time, for reasons now, no one could remember.

It took the form of Edward’s version of the Amazing Race, with 25 clues that took us to places we’d generally never been to before, each of us starting from our home city, and ending up in the same destination, the Empire State Building.

It was always that week beginning the first Saturday in December, and ran for a week, each day ending up in a particular hotel where the numbered clues for the next day would be delivered.  The first day’s clues were delivered by email and told us when to start.

We also had a burner phone, delivered before the start, used to track each team, mostly so that we did not cheat.  No one ever had, but perhaps that was due to having the phone.  It was the only means of communication with Edward, along the way, in case of problems.

Elaborate, yes.  Exciting, yes, in the beginning.

Last year, I had suffered a series of misfortunes and failed to finish, the first time, and I had told Edward I was no longer interested.  So soon after the death of my wife, I didn’t want to go, but he cajoled me into it.

This year, when he sent the email to ask if I was participating, I told him I wasn’t.  Without Jane, who loved the challenge of it more than I did, it seemed pointless, and when I didn’t hear back, I assumed my name had been struck off the list, and gave it no more thought.

As time passed life began to assume a form of normality.  It might have taken less time if we had children, but that was not possible, and we accepted it.  By myself in a big empty house, it took a while to realise all it did was shackle me to the past, and I had to move on.

There was nothing to keep where I was, our friends were great when there were the two of us, but not so much after she had passed.  They came, gave their condolences, and then slowly stopped coming.  They were mostly Jane’s friends, and I learned later, didn’t like her choice of husband, but tolerated me for the sake of her happiness.

On the other side of the country, I knew I could lose myself in a city as large as New York, and never run into anyone I’d known.  I was happy to be by myself.  At conferences, the six I attended around the country each year, they were people I knew and liked Jane, but she was not one of us.  When she passed, that first conference was difficult.

Now, I was the one without a plus one, and had settled back into a bachelor’s existence, and, no, I was not interested in finding a replacement for Jane.

Of course, what we tell ourselves and what happens, in reality, are two entirely different things, particularly when a random chance meeting with an old friend I’d not seen for 20 years came out of that proverbial left field.

Mary-Anne Dawkins.  Or at least that was the last name I knew her by.

The girl next door, the girl I grew up with, the girl I went through grade school, elementary school, and later, for a time, college.  We never dated, it never got to that, but we were inseparable, always had each other’s back, and it had been a sad day when her parents decided to return home and took her and her brother with them.

That day broke my heart, for reasons, then I could not explain.  Much later I realised she had been the love of my life, and the one that got away.  And with the passing of time, I had almost forgotten her.

I saw her standing at the reception desk of the hotel I was staying for the latest conference when I returned to change for the dinner being held on the last day. 

At least I thought it was her. When I stood beside her, and she turned to look in my direction, she simply smiled and ignored me.  It was her smile, the one that reminded me of the cat who ate the canary.  There were three attributes, the smile, the wavy hair, and the infectious giggle.  All three were present in that girl beside me, an older version. But exactly how I would have expected her to age.

“Mary Anne Dawkins,” I said when she turned to go to her room.

She stopped.  “Yes, once.  It’s now Mary Anne Thomas.  Do I know you?”

Interesting that she would not remember me.  “My name is Gary Johnson.  We used to be friends back in Saratoga.”

“Exactly when?”

I explained the relationship we had for over a dozen years, and that still didn’t register.

When she saw my puzzled expression she said, “Oh, sorry.  I was in an accident about a year back, a bad one as it happens, and lost most of my memories before it happened.  Basically, I was lying in the hospital with absolutely no idea who I was, where I came from, or what I did.  You have no idea how scary that can be.  Anyway, one of my friends recognised the photo in the paper and came to rescue me.  If you were who you say you are, then if I had those memories, I would remember you, but, I’m sorry, I do not.”

And her point was, this would probably look like I was trying to hook up.

I shrugged.  “Then I’m sorry to hear about what happened and will leave you in peace.  It was nice to see you again, anyway, Mary Anne.”

Over the next hour or so I pondered the plight of people who lost their memories and what it must be like, waking up one morning and not knowing who you were.

Some people might be thankful given their circumstances.  It only highlighted the fact my memories were intact, and sometimes I wished they weren’t because of how painful some were.  My life had too many moments that inspired grief rather than rejoicing and seeing Mary Anne again had dragged a lot back to the surface.

Enough to make it impossible to go to the post-conference dinner.  Feeling as miserable as I did then, I would not make good company.

Instead, I went down to the hotel restaurant and asked for a table in a corner and was going to have dinner on my own.

I was on my third drink when a familiar face appeared at the restaurant doorway, scanning the tables.  Mary Anne.  Was she looking for someone?

Our eyes met and moved on, but in a single moment, I felt a spark of regret.

A few minutes later a waiter came and asked me if she could join me for dinner, the restaurant was full, and she had not made a booking.

I shrugged.  Why not?  It would be like dining with a total stranger, which could be interesting, or just plain sad.

“Thank you for this.  I was supposed to be dining with someone else, but they had to cancel.  I didn’t fancy going elsewhere, and thought, well, you might tell me a little about myself.”

“Are you sure you’d want to do that?  I would think it might be better to leave the old you behind and embrace the new you.”

She settled in the chair and ordered a drink.  Those few minutes gave me time to glance at the older version of Mary Anne, and my mental vision of her didn’t match the physical version sitting opposite.  She looked, to me, very sad.

“Someone else told me that, and I remember at the time, it might have had something to so with my past, something very bad.  I wake up some mornings very frightened and have these bad dreams from time to time.  The doctor said it might be just a result of the accident, but some of them are quite real.”

Perhaps that was what was driving the sadness.  “I only knew you when you were a child, from grade school to the start of college.  Without that friendship, I don’t think I might have achieved what I have over time.”

“Were we more than just friends, weren’t we?  I feel that it might have been more.  Another result of the accident is that I can sense things from people.  The tenor of your voice conveys a depth of feeling.  It also tells me you recently suffered a terrible loss.  A wife?”

Or she could just see right through me.  I’d never really recovered from losing Jane, and yes, being with her now, those feelings had resurfaced.

“My wife died about a year ago, and with you, I always suspected my feelings were one-sided.  I never expressed them, and by the time I realised what they were, you were gone.  A regret, yes, but we all learn to live with regrets and mistakes.”

It was a convenient moment for the waiter to arrive and take our order.  I needed the time to reshelve those memories and change the subject.

“It has to be a monumental coincidence our being here at the same time.  I’m at a law enforcement conference.  You?”

It seemed odd saying it, law enforcement because it was not exactly true.  I was not in a police or sheriff’s department, but something else.  I just used the anonymous cover of working for the NYPD as a cover.  I had once, earlier on, and people usually accepted it.

“I’m looking for a Xenolith”

She saw the curious expression on my face, and added, “A rock, a large rock.”

Inevitably I had to ask, “Why?  Are you a geologist?”

“No.  A travel guide of sorts.  I work for a company that finds unusual things for travellers to do, or at the moment, elements of a tour that is like the Amazing Race.  We have a client who does it once a year for his friends.”

“Edward Berkeley”

Her turn to be surprised.  “You know him?”

“An old friend from school days.”  And then it occurred to me, she would have known him had she had her memories, because we all used to hang out together, and another memory resurfaced, the fact he fancied her, and then a pang of jealousy, she fancied him.

This was too much of a coincidence.  “Have you met him?”

“No.  I was out of the office a few months back when he brought the list of places for us to look for.  Oh, I see, would he have recognised me?”

“He did have a thing for you.  I’ll be honest I was a little jealous, but his parents were very rich and I couldn’t compete.”

“One thing I remember is when they told me had come to the office just to see me, I got a very bad vibe.  Conversely, here with you, it does seem familiar, and don’t get me wrong or write anything into it, I feel, for the first time, safe.  It’s a very odd feeling to have, but perhaps it comes from our time together.  I don’t know.”

Food was served, it was time to leave that and change the subject.  I could see a change in her, one of confusion.  I didn’t want to be the one that might bring back memories that had been taken from her for a reason.

It was something I’d read about once when dealing with head trauma, and bad things that happened to people.  The mind, given an opportunity, just simply shut them out to protect.

Waiting for the next course, a bottle of wine was ordered and served, and the conversation moved on.

“What do you do in law enforcement?”

“Research.  You know, you watch the TV shows and there’s this guy or girl behind a computer reeling off stuff relevant to the case.  It doesn’t quite work like that, it’s sometimes a lot more difficult, but it’s more or less the job.”

“That’s why you’re here?”

“I was asked to come and lead a session on the more obscure sources of information.  Sometimes I think when I retire, I will be able to do family trees with my eyes closed.  I researched mine, going all the way back to the people who came over from England.”

“Oh.”

The main course arrived, and it seemed to have an effect on her because she closed her eyes, put her hands on her forehead, and said, “Oh, no.  Oh, God no, no, no…”

And then passed out.

It was three days before she woke.

I had tried to find if there was any significant person in her life that should know what happened but found nothing on her, nor in her room.  Other than her name on the booking form, the fact she had paid herself, she had paid cash and had no credit cards or driver’s licence, or any documentation to verify who she was.

I knew her as Mary Anne Dawkins and tried to trace her that way, but her identity disappeared after she left my hometown.  No Mary Ann Dawkins from there could be traced, nor her parents.

It was like she had appeared out of thin air.

With no one else available, and with the permission of the local police force, I stayed with her, and would until she woke when we could get answers to the mystery.

It was a relief when she opened her eyes.  Those first few seconds when there would be disorientation, showed through the surprise, then fear in her expression.  Then she saw me, and I wanted to believe it was a smile, but it might have been something else.  I was holding her hand at the time.

“Gary, Gary Johnson, of Saratoga, yes?  I know you, don’t I.”

“The same.”  OK, what just happened?  The girl I’d seen before didn’t have a clue who I was.  Could that have been an act?  If it was it was very convincing.

“What are you doing here?  Where am I. by the way?  A hospital, yes.  I had an accident though I don’t remember anything of it.  T-boned in a taxi on the way to the airport?  Hey, I was coming to see you…”

“Whoa.”  This was getting freakish.  Had she just come out of the fog left behind by the accident, and time had stood still for, what, a year?  I asked her, “What day is it?”

“October 7^th, 2021.”

“Actually, it’s March 23^rd 2023.”

“Oh my God.  What the hell?  Have I been in a coma all this time?  How is it possible to lose that much time?”

At that point, the doctor and nursing staff came in and took command of her, and I was relegated to the passage, on the outside looking in.  I watched her go through a dozen different states of mind and the gamut of emotions until finally, she had settled, and I was allowed back.

I just sat down when she reached out and grabbed my hand and held it tightly.

“You have to do something for me.  It might sound very weird, but believe me, it’s very important because if you don’t, he might succeed in finishing what he started out, killing me.”

“Who?”

“James Fordsburg.  You would remember the Fordsburg case; the family were funnelling finds into a private army with the intention of staging a coup and taking over the country.  They had property in remote places that were discovered to be training camps, munition dumps, an airport with fighter planes.”

I remembered it.  The closest we ever came to civil war again.

“The reason why we left in a hurry.  My father worked for the Fordsburgs.  He found out what was going on and became a whistleblower.  The case never made it to court, the Fordsburgs killed themselves, along with the top military people.  What you and everyone else didn’t know was the was a junior Fordsburg, but he did use that name, he used his maternal family name, Berkeley, and his name, Edward Berkeley.

“He never stopped searching.  He killed my father, mother and brother, even if the police still say it was an accident, and he’s never stopped looking for me.  I then got the idea if I found you, you would know what to do and tracked you down.  I spoke to Jane.  When I explained who I was, she said she would tell you.  Anyway, a year ago, he found me, and I just managed to get away, get a car, and come to see you.  I was on my way to the airport, and here I am 18 months later, the message finally delivered.”

It was an amazing tale.  If it was true, then Fordsburg the younger would be on the wanted list.  That Edward was this Fordsburg, that was a little harder to come to terms with.

“OK.  You know I have to check the facts, and that means leaving you here, but I will arrange for protection.”

I heard the door to the room close behind me, and a voice say, “That won’t be necessary, Gary.  I can take it from here.”

I heard Mary Anne gasp.  I turned around and saw Edward in a county Sherriff’s uniform.

“I don’t know what tales she’s been telling you, Gary, but all of it is in her imagination.”

“So you’re not a Fordsburg?”

“Me?  No.  You know who I am, Garry.  The middle of the road, invisible guy, with rich parents that made my life miserable.”

“I’m not made,” Mary Anne said.  “He’s dangerous, and we will not leave this room alive.”

I was inclined to agree with her.  He was behaving oddly, like he was strung out, and trying to keep a lid on it.  That made him highly unpredictable.

I stood and turned to face him.

“Be careful Garry.  No sudden moves.  I hope you’re not buying into this tissue of lies.” 

No, but I was playing for time.  The fact he was in the room meant he had got rid of the guard at the door.  It was possible the doctor might come back, and equally possible he might be momentarily distracted.

As I was thinking that he had drawn his weapon, I had to assume the safety was off.

“No need for guns, Ed.  I’m not a threat.  Nor is Mary Anne.  Not if what you say is true.”

The next thing that happened was a loud clanging sound which was the distraction I needed, but it didn’t quite turn out the way I expected.  Yes, I got to him, yes, I partially neutralised the gun, and yes, in the scuffle that followed the weapon discharged.

Twice.

And that was all I remember.

…

© Charles Heath  2023

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:

It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.

The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.

He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent.  We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on.  Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.

Where was he going?

“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter.  He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing.  Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain.  He’s just sped up.”

“How far away?”

“A half-mile.  We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”

It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”

“Step on it.  Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do.  The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.

Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster.  We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.

Or so we thought.

Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility.  The car was empty, and no indication where he went.

Certainly not up the road.  It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit.  Up the mountainside from here, or down.

I looked up.  Nothing.

Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”

Then where did he go?

Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.

“Sorry,” he said quite calmly.  “Had to go if you know what I mean.”

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.

I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.

It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him.  It’s just a matter of time.”

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe”  available soon.