There was something about this one that resonated with me.
This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.
I’ve been guilty of it myself as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.
For the main characters Harry and Alison there are other issues driving their relationship.
For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.
For Harry, it is the fact he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.
Between observation, the less than honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.
When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, she realises only the truth will save their marriage.
But is it all the truth?
What would we do in similar circumstances?
Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.
And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, nothing is ever what it seems.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the 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 prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Chasing leads, maybe
Just because you have a security card with your name on it doesn’t mean you are cleared. Yesterday, maybe, but today? Anything can happen in 24 hours, much like the political landscape.
When I walked in the front entrance and up to the scanning gate, I was just another employee coming into work. I ran my card through the scanning device, and the light turned red.
It failed.
In the time it took for me to scan it a second time, a security guard had arrived from the front desk, and a soldier, armed and ready was standing behind me.
I didn’t doubt for one minute he would shoot me if I tried to run.
“What seems to be the problem?” The security guard was polite but firm.
“My card that scanned the last time and worked, doesn’t seem to work now.”
I could read his expression, ‘you just got fired, and are trying to get back in.”
“Let me try.”
I gave him the card, he looked at it, no doubt to see if there was any damage, then tried it.”
“Have you any other means of identification?”
Now, here’s the thing. This was the office full of spies and support staff all of whom could be using assumed names, different guises, or just plain secretive with their private information. Luckily I had a driver’s license with the name on the card, but not much else.
I thought about telling him about the place he was guarding, but I doubted he would listen.
He looked at both, then handed back the license.
“Come with me over to the counter and we’ll see if we can sort this out.”
It was not a request, nor was I unaccompanied. I now had a soldier permanently attached to me.
When we all arrived at the desk, he joined another guard behind.
“Who is your immediate superior?”
It was a toss-up between Dobbin and Monica. Since Dobbin spent a lot of time in his car or appeared to, I said it was Monica.
I watched him search slowly through the phone list until he found her number, then called her.
He had his back to me when they spoke, but it wasn’t for long; after a minute, perhaps two, he replaced the receiver and turned back.
“Ms. Shrive will be down in about five minutes.” He pointed to a row of chairs against the wall, remnants from the last world war. “If you would like to wait over there, sir.”
He didn’t hand back my card.
The wait was more like a half-hour, but I had become engrossed in an old copy of Country Life, and an article that made me consider retiring to the country in an old thatch cottage beside a babbling brook somewhere in the Cotswolds.
Until I read the price.
The arrival of Monica came at a fortuitous moment. Coming to the desk.
“Nnn, I was hoping you would drop by sooner rather than later.”
“My card doesn’t work.”
“Oh, that’s because we revoked it.” She held out another in her hand. “We’ve replaced it with one with better access, or as we say jokingly, you’ve moved up in the pay grade scale.”
I took the card and went to put it in my pocket.
“You need to register your presence, so I’m afraid you’ll have to go out and come back in again.”
I did as she asked, this time greeted by the friendly green light. The soldier seemed disappointed that I was not free of his attention. The security guard on the desk had alt=ready forgotten I existed.
“Come.”
I followed Monica to the antiquated elevator, we stepped in, closed the door and she pressed a button for the third and fourth floors. It seemed creakier than usual this time.
“I’m assuming you have come in to use the computer resources?”
“Yes.”
“Good thing then we upgraded your access level.”
“And is there someone who manages access to CCTV footage?”
“Yes. Same floor, four. Her name is Amelia Enders. Tell her what you need, and she’ll find it. I assume it will have something to do with the surveillance exercise of yours.”
How could she guess, or had she been already investigating?”
“Come and see me when you’re finished. I live on the third floor. Literally.”
The elevator stopped on the third floor with a creak and a thump.
A smile and she headed off down the passage.
If I wasn’t mistaken, she had that cat who ate the canary look, and it worried me.
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.
For those who break the law, they will be very familiar with the meaning of the word cell. It’s a room a jail, not very big, with an uncomfortable bed, and no sharp edges.
And I’m sure the prisoners are not supplied with knives so they can dig through the mortar and remove bricks on their way to the great escape. That, I’m sure only happens at the movies.
A cell can also be a building block in the creation of humans, animals, fish, and plants. No doubt there are a million other things that require cells.
Perhaps the most interesting aspect of this cellular activity is whether or not there is life, and therefore cells, on Mars. I’m guessing we’ll have to wait a little longer to find out.
We can have a cell phone, which in some parts of the world is also the name of a mobile phone.
Don’t get me started on what I think of cell phones, or how intrusive they are on our everyday lives, the number of people who seem to be continually glued to the screen, or how many near misses there are in the street and crossing the road.
On the other hand cell phones in the hands of a writer are very useful because when we get flashes of story or plotlines in one of those once awkward moments, we can now jot it down on a cell phone scribbling pad.
A cell can also be used to describe a smaller unit within a larger organisation, or, if you are a thriller writer who dabbles in espionage, you will be very familiar with the concept of a sleeper cell.
Who knows, in reality, there might be some living next door to us and we would never know. Oops, been watching too much television again.
Digging deeper into the more obscure definitions of the word cell, we come up with a single transparent sheet that has a single drawing on it, one of many that make up an animated film, or film. If a film runs at 32 frames per second, that means there are 32 cells.
There are fuel cells
There are dry cell batteries
And as a general warning, don’t go too near cell towers or you will be a victim of radiation that might be extremely harmful to your health.
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.
Michelle meets Henry on the dock in the pouring rain.
It only takes one look between them, for both of them to know this is not going to end.
But…
She is going to tell him the truth.
They go to her place, and selfishly she decides to consummate the relationship. He is surprised but does not refuse.
…
It wasn’t my first idea to do this, I was going to have her deliver the truth and have him leave in disgust. But, after giving them a lead in at the wharf, it could not just simmer and die.
I decided then that she has to make a decision on whether or not she wanted to find a way for them to be together. Angie makes the suggestion, earlier when she finally had to give in, that the only way they would get free of the Turk was to kill him. And Felix.
It’s why I’ve kept the truth, and she relates it even when he doesn’t want to hear it, and refuses his help when he offers it, because he would not survive in her world.
…
She succeeds in getting him to leave, and it almost breaks her heart to do so in such a fashion. Little does he know he left with something else.
He doesn’t go home, he finds another hideaway hotel and retreats back into himself. Back on the ship a month or so later, the pain is no less than before, and it changes him to the extent the shipboard crew are dismayed, and the captain seriously considers making him ‘walk the plank’.
I don’t know, at first, what it was that brought back a raft of memories that had been long forgotten, I had woken up in an ambulance on its way to a hospital, and by the way, in which it was moving at breakneck speed, siren wailing, it had on be for a very good reason.
“He’s awake,” a nearby voice yelled near me, and then a face hovered before my eyes, “How do you feel.”
It was an odd question because I felt fine. “OK. I guess. What happened?”
For a minute or so, he checked my vitals and asked, “Do you know who you are?” I gave him my name, which matched my ID, and then my address, which was also correct. He asked me where I was, and got it right too. “You can slow down; I’ll tell them it’s not urgent.”
He made a phone call to the hospital, then turned back to me.
“You had a fall, hit your head on the concrete sidewalk, and started having a fit. When we arrived, you were unconscious, and the signs indicated you had gone into a coma. It was a situation that could have gone anyway, which is why we were trying to get you to the hospital as soon as possible. You need to get an MRI as soon as possible.”
“But I feel fine.”
“That may well be the case, but what happened to you can have ramifications later. You have suffered a heavy knock to your head.”
It was not as if I could feel anything, so I reached up to feel for any indication of the accident and touched a bandage, covering what felt like a big lump. I could not feel any pain when I touched it. “Should I feel something?”
“You should, yes. We have not administered any pain medication, so it should be very sore. It’s a fairly large gash. You say there is no pain?”
“No.”
Not right then, but about five minutes later, I started having blurred vision. The paramedic went back to checking my vitals, and as he was taking blood pressure I started shaking, and moments after that, I passed out.
When I woke up, I was home, in my room, overlooking the stables, and beyond that the hills. Montana. How did I get there?
Everything was exactly as I remembered it, the rodeo curtains, the breeze coming through the open window, the aroma of newly mown grass after the rain wafting in, accompanied by the rustle of the curtains. Summer, my favourite part of the year.
And yet, I could not be here, because after my parents died, the farm was sold to pay of the mountain of debt they’d accumulated, and sadly the reason why they were no longer alive.
I slipped off the covers and went over to the window. Exactly as it was when I returned after graduating from university, just before my father and I was going to make repairs to the roof. I remember that exact time in my life. I had just broken up with the girl I had planned to spend the rest of my life with, and, heartbroken, I’d come home to be miserable.
There was a pounding on the door. “Get up now, lazy bones, there are chores to be done.” Suzie, my older sister, never took crap from me, had no aspirations of getting a university degree, ‘What use would it be in running a farm?’, was always at me since I was six, and had more than once thrown cold water over me, in the morning.
“I’m up,” I yelled back, a reflex action. This must all be in my imagination. The last time I’d seen Suzie, it was when I took her to the airport, off to find peace and tranquillity in Tuscany, and was still there with a friend.
But it was my room, and those were my clothes in the dresser, and … Oh. My. God!
My imagination was in overdrive. I looked exactly like my 23-year-old self. That reflection in the mirror was startling. I touched my face, and it seemed real.
Another bang on the door made me jump. The door opened and Suzie put her head in. “Good, you’re up. You just saved yourself a lot of grief.”
She looked so young, so happy, a far cry from the woman she was now, broken by a man we all thought the world of, but turned out to be a monster. I’d often wished I could go back and change things as we all did.
I crossed the room and gave her a huge hug. It felt real.
“What was that for?” She was taken aback by an action that, back then, I would not have contemplated. Our relationship, then, had been rocky at best.
“You know I love you to pieces, sis, and I don’t think I’ve taken the time or made the effort to tell you.”
“I know that. You don’t have to say anything.”
“Too many things are left unsaid.”
“You’re going batty, I can see that now. That fall off the roof of the barn has affected you, though I have to say this version of you is an improvement. Oh, and by the way, I asked Samantha to come over today, so be nice. She’s had a hard time of it while you’re away and you were good friends once.”
Samantha. The girl I dated all through middle school, the one I was supposed to end up with, everyone had said so, except she had other ideas and chose the local football hero instead. It was around about the time I came back that he was killed in a car accident, though rumours had it, it was not an accident. It would be interesting to see her again. The last time I saw her, it was when she ditched me rather unceremoniously.
“You know me, friends with everyone.”
“She dumped you, and you hate her. I get it, but there’s enough water under that bridge. Later.”
I just remembered that fall off the roof, too, showing off, and paying for it. I didn’t break anything, but I had landed rather hard, and shaken a few things up. The bump on the head hadn’t helped either. I shrugged and pulled out work clothes. It was going to be an interesting day.
At the breakfast table, Mom in her usual manner had everything out and just finished up the last of the cooking. I missed her breakfasts, in fact, I missed that first thing in the morning with family, the food, and, well, just the moments I realised much later I’d taken for granted.
Dad was there, his usual gruff, and jovial, self, complaining about everything that was going wrong, from the tractor to the crops in the south paddock, the lack of rain, and having to pump water from the dam.
When I left for college, we needed help and that’s how Walter Fisk came into our lives, particularly into Suzie’s. He called in one day, in his battered Ford truck asking if there was any employment available in the area, and because I was not there, Dad hired him. He was, at first, a hard worker, and then, once he had charmed Suzie, changed. The first time I met him I took an instant dislike to him, and he knew it. It was why he then spent the time I was away to break the relationship I had with my sister.
I was sitting at the table when he came in. I hadn’t realised he was welcome at the breakfast table, and it marked a turning point in his acceptance, almost into the family. I’d forgotten quite a lot about his time at the farm. It was only several years later when the damage was done, that we learned who he really was, a thoroughly bad man by the name of Walter Reinhart who had murdered his wife and disappeared, only to turn up on our doorstep. It wasn’t until he nearly murdered Suzie that we realised his true nature.
“Morning all.” His eyes stopped at me, and his expression changed for just a second. “David.”
“Walter.” It was a pity all of this was running in my imagination, or I’d go into town and see the sheriff and tell him about Fisk. Just seeing him brought all the old memories back, and it made me angry, so much so that I lost my appetite, and couldn’t sit at the same table with him.
I went past him as he sat down, and muttered, “Don’t get too comfortable, Reinhart.”
He grabbed my arm, stopping me from leaving, the expression on his face now one of fear. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“I think you have me confused with someone else.”
“If you say so. Now, I would like my arm back, Walter.”
Suzie had noticed that something was happening between us, and said, “I hope you two are not going to be tiresome, again. I thought we got past all that nonsense.”
“There’s nothing going on here, is there Walter?”
He let go of my arm. “No, nothing.”
In my imaginary world, I had just scored a small victory.
I went outside into the fresh morning air, something else that I missed greatly after leaving home. The mornings were never the same in the city, with no open spaces to speak of and everyone living on top of each other.
And in a city with millions of people, it was ironic that I never felt more alone than I did back home.
Perhaps my mind had had enough of being where I was and had decided to put me back to a time when I had a chance to make a difference in my life. This moment in time was when I made several regrettable decisions, each of which eventually set me on a path to where I was now.
It was not what I had envisaged my life would turn out like, then or now.
Perhaps I was taking stock, going over the choices and seeing what life might have been like.
I walked slowly towards the barn. I could see materials and tools scattered around in my father’s usual haphazard manner, mine too for that matter. We were in the middle of patching the roof, a job long overdue, and it must be just after I fell off the roof. Luckily, I’d landed on a haystack next to it, but though it softened the fall it still hurt.
I could feel the aches and pains from it still.
Inside the barn, I knew what I was looking for. Grandfather’s Indian motorcycle was the only thing he left in his will to me. I loved that bike and used to go out on it whenever I could. I also remembered that Walter stole it when he finally left, and I never saw it again.
I had to do something about that.
I pulled the tarpaulin cover off it and checked it had fuel, then wheeled it out. A minute later I was off, deciding to go into town. I was still undecided about telling the sheriff about Walter.
About five miles up the road I saw Samantha and her truck on the side of the road, hood up. She heard the bike and turned to see who it was, then waved.
I stopped.
I hadn’t seen her for a long time, much less the in those years following my return. I remember when I came back I was bitter and said some regrettable things. I had a chance to change that.
“David.”
“Samantha.” I switched off the bike and it was suddenly eerily quiet.
“You know I get worried when you ride that thing. I never think it’s safe.”
“One ride and you hated it, Sam. You should embrace the freedom.” It had been a constant basis for conflict between us, neither willing to back down. I realised then that I was still annoyed, and it showed in my tone. Had I learned nothing?
“I’m sorry. I should have listened to your concerns, and I was a little selfish when I didn’t.”
She looked at me as if to say, ‘Who the hell are you, and what have you done with David?’
“You were right though. I should. Perhaps you might consider giving me another opportunity. I know I haven’t been as understanding as I could have been.”
I shrugged. We were both making an effort. “It was what it was. We were young, first love is like that, I guess. What’s up?”
“It just stopped. And you know me, I’m hopeless at everything.”
I got off the bike and had a look. I was not much of a mechanic, but living on a farm you got a rudimentary knowledge of everything, so basic problems I could solve. This one was a loose cable that had come away. I put it back and then asked her to start the car, which it did.
“Are you coming back to the farm,” she asked.
“Yeah, just getting some air before I get back to work. Falling off the roof sort of changes your perspective, especially when you consider what the consequences could have been. It just feels like the world is closing in on me lately.”
She got out of the truck, came over and have me a hug. At that moment a whole raft of memories returned. I kissed her and she kissed me back, and suddenly it felt like we had never been apart.
“I never stopped loving you Sam.” It seemed the right time and the right thing to say.
“I know. I always knew you were the one, but I was young and stupid. I learned my lesson, and it won’t happen again. If you still want me.”
I smiled. Was it that easy to fix?
“I do, very much.” I kissed her again. “Let’s start again. Hello. My name is David Westbrook. What’s yours?”
She smiled back. “Samantha Bailey.”
“Well, Samantha, I like you a lot. Would you be interested in going on a date?”
“Just tell me where and when.”
“Do you like motorbikes?”
“I do now.”
“Good. I’ll see you back at the farm and when my father had finished flogging me to death, I’ll take you to a place I know that has the best burgers in the county.”
After another hug, a tear, perhaps two, she left. I watched until she disappeared out of sight.
…
It was going to be a good day.
I went to the sheriff’s office; Mike was a good friend of my father’s as he was to all the residents of our little town.
I told him about Walter Fisk and his other name, and that I suspected he was a murderer sought by the Sacramento police. Mike had an assistant who was clever enough to access police records from all over the country and found the information on Walter, and the wanted poster photograph was almost an exact copy of the man we had working for us.
He asked me how I knew, and I said a friend of mine was working on an assignment for his forensic science degree and had pulled up a number of cases by wanted posters and seen Walters among them. That and the fact I always thought he was not who he said he was.
Job done; I went home.
Back on the roof, I was careful. Working with my father again was special and I savoured the time together. I hadn’t really wanted to get stuck on the farm, seeing what it had done to him, and his father before him. Farming was a rough business given everything that could go wrong, and I didn’t want that responsibility.
But maybe with Suzie, who had always said she would never leave, between us, we could make it work. Especially if we adopted an idea I had read about back in the city. Time would tell.
Suzie, and Samantha, a farm girl herself, came back from the northern paddocks where we had cattle; and she had been taking feed for them because the grass was getting a little thin after a prolonged dry period.
Then they brought lunch to us, sitting at the table where we’d often have a BBQ Saturday night and inviting the neighbours over. Sam sat next to me and it didn’t go unnoticed. Suzie was pleased but didn’t state the obvious.
I thought that was the moment to tell them my plan for the future. I also knew that from this point on things were only going to get worse, my father getting ill, the drought, Walter, and my departure all compounding onto the terrible end to everything I knew and cared about.
“I have an idea which as some of you know can be a bad thing, but thus might be another string in the bow for the farm. I read a while back that one of the schools back east was considering introducing a farm stay for their students, say for a week or fortnight to get a feel for what happened, other than believing all food came from a supermarket.
“I thought about a dozen bunkhouses down by the river with a mess hall, classrooms, and stables would make that a reality. You know how many schools there are, and we have everything right here. Just think about it. It could become a very good income stream.”
Suzie looked surprised. “You thought of that all by yourself?”
“I am capable of thinking, you know.”
“It’s a good idea. Dad, what do you think?”
“It will cost money we don’t have.” The man was ever practical, quite often the devil’s advocate.
“Then what if I get a journalist to come down and go through the plan, show him everything, and get him to sell it for you. At least it will gauge reaction, and if it’s positive…”
“One of your cronies?” Suzie asked.
“He’s a good journalist and he owes me a favour. I’ll call him later.”
Dad shrugged. To him, it was about the money. Not the idea, which was sound and would work, if there was a market. Secretly I think he was pleased with me, trying to find ways to keep the farm.
The day ended on a date and perhaps for the first time in a long time, I felt content. I had, in my imagination, corrected everything that had gone wrong in my life, and just before I fell asleep, I wished that it could go on forever.
…
I felt a hand roughly shaking me by the shoulder, and a voice in the background saying rather loudly, “David, David, wake up, wake up.”
I put my hand out to grasp the hand that was shaking me while trying to open my eyes and wake from, well, I had no idea what it was.
It felt like I was drowning.
Then, eyes open I was staring directly at Samantha’s face. Only she was 30 years older than the last time I saw her.
“Sam?’
“David. Oh God, I thought I’d lost you. She leaned down and kissed me then hugged me which was difficult.
I was in a hospital bed with cables and tubes everywhere.
“What…”
“You’ve been in a coma. You hit your head on the sidewalk and one minute you were fine, the next, we didn’t know if you were going to live or die.”
My other hand was being held and I looked over to see Suzie equally as concerned.
“Suzie? Why are you here? You live in Tuscany?”
She looked blankly at me as if I was mad. “Where did that come from? I came up from the farm the moment Sam told me what happened. Some second honeymoon you two are having.”
“What? This is all wrong. None of this is real.”
I was back in another nightmare where I was being tormented by the same two protagonists as in the last. But why were they here and what was this second honeymoon business.
Samantha looked concerned, perhaps a little scared. I was too because it seemed I was not back in the ambulance on my to the hospital for other reasons. And that life didn’t have either Suzie or Samantha in it.
Suzie came into view. “You should not be overly worried if none of this is familiar to you. We were told by the doctor that you might have difficulty remembering anything, but that wouldn’t last forever. So, a quick recap may or may not help. You’ve been married to Sam for thirty years, and you have three children, not here of course, I’m now running the farm, that was a great idea of yours and it’s all we do these days, Mom and Dad retired to Florida like they always intended, and you and Sam work with me.”
“Walter?”
“He was arrested and charged with murder. God, that was a bullet dodged. That was your diligence too, David, and I cannot thank you enough.”
“How long have I been out of it then?”
“About a month. We’ve been rather frantic I can tell you.”
A coma? It had seemed very real to me.
The problem was my life had been nothing like this one, but coincidentally it was the one I had always wanted and had dreamed of often. It wasn’t possible I could have gone back in time, so what really happened?
Suddenly around me, alarms were going off and there was a sudden movement of people coming into the room. One minute I was conscious, the next I found myself in a white room, sitting at a table with a bearded man.
St Peter at the pearly gates? Was I dying?
“David, David, David.” His tone had just the right amount of disapproval and, what was it, disappointment. “You are given a second chance and you’re not grasping it with both hands.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s been your problem all your life, looking for meaning in something that just is. Are you going to stop procrastinating, and just go back and live your life, the life you have been given? You do not want to miss out on being a grandfather, do you? To go back, a simple yes or no will suffice.”
I didn’t want to think what a no might do, so it had to be a yes. I had no idea what was happening to me, but it was the life I always wanted, to be with Samantha, and have my sister back to her old self again. Whether or not I had intervened, and made it so, was moot. I had hit my head, and basically, everything in it was scrambled anyway.
“Yes.”
“Good. Now don’t come back, not until it’s your time.”
…
There was relief written all over the faces in that room, of the doctors, the nurses, a dozen other spectators, and the two who mattered the most to me. Samantha was holding my hand and I squeezed it, and moments later, opened my eyes. Perhaps I was still dazzled by the white room, but I could have easily confused her with an angel.
“You’re back.”
“Did I go somewhere?” Did she know what had been happening to me?
“I think it might have been that place just before you leave this mortal earth. You weren’t dead, but I think it was touch and go. I’m glad you came back. Our life together is not over yet, and there are so many experiences we have to look forward to.”
“Like being grandparents?”
“How do you know that? I only just got a text message not five minutes ago.”
“I have connections. Don’t worry. I’m back now, and I’m not going anywhere. I think what happened to me was the universe telling me not to be an ass. I’m sure I did something wrong.”
“Well, you’re right about being an ass, but we all have our quirks. We’re together now, as it should be.”
Yes, we succumbed and went to the cinema to see the final chapter.
But, Disney on a winner, will it be?
However…
What was I expecting?
A mega weapon in the hands of the bad guys that can destroy planets. Tick.
The bad guys amassing to destroy the resistance. Tick.
The last of the resistance amassing to take on the bad guys in a battle they can’t win. Tick.
The fate of everything put on the shoulders of the Last Jedi. Tick.
A bad Jedi versus a good Jedi. Tick.
And, of course, the bad Jedi trying to turn the good Jedi to the dark side. Tick.
It doesn’t matter what we call the bad guys, whether it’s the Empire, the First Order or the Last Order. They’re all going to lose; we know that before we stepped into the cinema. It’s what we came to see.
The internal struggle within those who are the Jedi provides some deep thought-provoking moments along the way, but this ever-pervasive sense of doom and gloom is overshadowed, and sometimes counter-balanced by the comic light relief that the robots, sorry droids, provide.
And the fact no one really dies. The physical version might disappear, but they always come back, glowing, and with all of their powers somehow still intact. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that one.
Along with the fact that only the magic of the movies could bring back someone who had died years before, and appear so lifelike.
There were surprises, and a few of my assumptions were dashed, but it was worth it, despite some of the negatives I’ve read about it. Could it be longer and flesh out some of the disjointed plot lines, maybe, but 140 minutes was long enough for me.
Long enough to prove that good will always triumph over evil.
But I do have one question; going back to the days of old westerns where you could always tell the bad guys because they always wore black; why were the empire/first/last order stormtroopers always in white?
This is the staircase down to the bedroom level of a two-story holiday apartment at the Rosebud Country Club on the Mornington Peninsula in Victoria Australia.
It was the first time we stayed there for a long time.
However…
Innocuous stairs leading downwards to a black hole suggest a great many other things, especially if you left your imagination run wild.
For instance:
What if you are an only child being dropped off by your parents at your creepy grandparent’s place in the middle of the woods. Imagine driving up on a cold, wintry, windy, cloudless dark night, and when you get there, this old rambling mansion looks like the coven for witches.
What if when you get to the door this creepy old man who looks more dead than alive answers the door, and when you step over the threshold you hear what seems to be a high-pitched scream coming from outside the house.
What if, when you are being taken up the staircase, every single wooden step creaks or groans, that at the top of the stairs, every painting you pass, the eyes seem to follow you.
What if, when you explore, against the express wishes of your grandfather, you come across a door that leads down into a basement. There has to be some interesting stuff down there, a torture chamber, a medical laboratory with a half-finished Frankenstein, a workshop with coffins stacked in a corner.
Captains invariably hated the word ‘problem’. I did too, because it conjured up so many different scenarios, each more scarier than the last, and maginified exponentially because we were in space.
We took a closer look, and it was the sort of damage if it was back on Earth, one would associate with weapons fire, lasers to be exact.
Yes, in the 24th century we had ray guns, handheld, and ship bound.
The only problem was, only the cruise class vessels, like the one I was now on, were allowed to have them, and using them, well, the paperwork alone could keep a complement of 20 working day and night for a month.
Test them, yes, less paperwork, use them, no. There had never been a reason to.
But someone had, and on a freighter, which only meant one possibility, that whatever the freighter had been carrying, had been worth violating a thousand regulations and rules.
And bring their ship and selves out into the light.
It was, of course, Space Command’s worst nightmare realised, that the ideal of space exploration as a united effort by everyone, had a member who had decided against unity.
Unless, of course, the improbably had happened, there was life outside our solar system, and we were dealing with a new planet, or people.
Except I would not expect them to use something as conventional as a laser.
Myrtle had put us very close to the damaged area and taken a number of photographs, and the engineer had analysed the damaged area.
Then, cleared to enter the freighter, she took us up to the cargo doors and waited as we watched them open.
It was the same time the engineer’s hand held computer started beeping.
And a warning light on the console in front of Myrtle started flashing, accompanied by a warning klaxon.
Another vessel had just entered our proximity zone.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 