Month: April 2023

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 36

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.

 

“How long have you been working on this?”

“A week. Lying in bed is boring, so I decided to look at everything I’ve got again, and then again. There were some old maps of the coastline stored with the treasure maps, so I think my father was trying to find the actual location his treasure maps were based on and came up against the same problem. Physical landmarks on the treasure maps are no longer there, and if you didn’t know any better, I would think you were looking in the wrong place.”

“So, in actual fact, what you’re saying now is that your father had no idea where the treasure was buried, that he was just producing maps for the Cossatino’s’ to sell.”

That, of course, could be looked at from a different angle, one that I wasn’t going to suggest right then because Boggs was not ready to hear it. I think the real maps Boggs had found with eh treasure maps were the basis for the treasure maps, that is, his father had to give them real-life elements to keep the punters interested.

“No, not necessarily. I think he knew it was somewhere along this coastline give or take a hundred miles, because of its proximity to the Spanish Maine, but essentially you’re right. He probably had no idea.”

So, he hadn’t come to the same conclusion I had. Yet.

And if I could come to that conclusion, surely Cossatino also would, after all, he was the one who got Boggs senior to make the maps. Why all of a sudden did he think that there was a real treasure map. It couldn’t be simply because Boggs had said there was one. He’d have to know that anything Boggs junior found was an invention commissioned by him,

Or hadn’t Vince told his father what he was doing? Surely the father would have told the son about the treasure map scam.

As for Benderby, senior could base his assumption of the fact that he’d found some old coins off the coast nearby that could be part of the trove. Alex then may have decided to usurp his father’s search with one of his own, conveniently forgetting the treasure maps were an invention of the Cossatino’s. IT was a tangled web of lies deceit and one-upmanship, one that was going to leave a trail of human wreckage in its wake.

Boggs and I were two of the first three. We had lived to tell about it, Frobisher was the first casualty.

But what I suppose was more despairing was how taken Boggs was with the notion that the treasure was real, hidden out there somewhere, and that his father had ‘the’ map. I was loath to label him delusional, but his pathological desire to prove his father’s so-called legacy was going to not end well, especially when we found nothing.

And, yet, I had to admire the lengths he had gone to, to prove his case. Even now, looking at the overlaid maps, there was no guarantee we’d find anything, but at first look, the evidence was compelling.

Except I had a feeling Boggs had something up his sleeve. I had to ask the question. “Where did you get the idea of matching the treasure map to the real map?”

“My father’s journal. It was tossed in the bottom of a box of his other stuff. There are about ten boxes stacked in the shed, stuff my mother just couldn’t be bothered sorting through after he disappeared. Again, boredom pushed me into going through everything over and over just in case I missed something.”

He reached in under the mattress of his bed and pulled out an old leather-bound notebook. It had a strap that bound it together, and by the look of it had extra papers inserted or glued to pages, as well as papers at the start and back of the volume, making it look about twice the original size.

He handed it to me. The leather was old, cracked, and had that distinctive aroma of the hide. I loosened the strap and the top cover opened. The first page was a newspaper cutting, a small piece about some old coins being found about a hundred yards offshore by some surfers. Were these the same coins that Benderby had claimed were part to the trove?

“Benderby was getting that antiquarian that was murdered to identify some coins,” I said after a quick glance through the article.

“I spoke to one of the surfers the other day,” Boggs said. “He told me he came off his board on a big wave and as he was going down saw something glinting on the seabed. He managed to pull up three coins. There were more but he had to come up for air. When he went down again, he realized he’d been dragged away by the current.”

Tides and currents along this part of the coast were particularly bad, and the undertow, at times could get surfers and swimmers alike into a lot of trouble. I’d been caught out once in a dinghy myself, finishing up ten miles further down the coast that I expected to be.

“Then, I take it he can’t remember the exact spot so he could go back.”

“He tried, but alas no. Said he sold the coins to old man Benderby for a hundred apiece and told him approximately where he thought the others were, but nothing’s been found since.”

Not that Benderby would tell anyone if he did. But it explained where the coins came from that he gave to Frobisher.

“Except we can assume that it’s off our coastline somewhere, right?”

“Five miles of coastline to be precise. He and his mate always had a few reefers before they went out, made the ride more interesting he said. He could have been off the coast of Peru for all he knew.”

Surfers, drugs and a colorful story.

“It explains why Benderby and a team of divers have been out in his new boat,” Boggs added, “probably trying to either find the location or line up landmarks on his map from the seaward side at the same time. But he doesn’t know what we know.”

What did we know? I leafed through a few more pages of the diary, but the scrawled notes were almost illegible. I picked up various words, like a marina, underground river, dry lakebed, but none of it made any sense.

“Which map did we give to Alex?”

Boggs went over to a drawer in the wardrobe and leafed through the papers in it and pulled out one and gave it to me. Like the rest it showed the shore, the hills, the lake, and two what looked to be rivers flowing into the sea. Each of the maps had those same features but in different places.

I didn’t want to say it, but it seemed to me we were playing a very dangerous game. The maps might look different in some respects, but the chances were, if Alex was smart enough to hire an expert, that we might run across him out there, and, to be honest, he would be the last person I’d want to see.

“You do realize our paths are going to cross at some point.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

A shiver went down my spine, an omen I thought. Boggs has something up his sleeve, and I really didn’t want to know.

Not right then.

 

© Charles Heath 2020

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 – C is for “Confused”

…

Here’s the thing.

I spent years listening to my brother, the perfect child in my parents’ eyes, tell me just how good life was.

For him.

He landed on his feet.  One of those students who had no learning difficulties graduated top of his class, was in the right place at the right time to get a dream job, and, yes, you guessed it, the dream wife.

His favourite line every time we met, usually at a very exclusive restaurant, or after celebrating the purchase of a new car or apartment, was “You could have all of this too…”

And, wait for it, “if only…”

His mantra relied on one factor, we both had the same genes and in his mind, we had the same possibilities in life.  To him it was simple.  And after years of the same, over and over, I began to wonder why it wasn’t so.

The simple fact was that we were as different as the proverbial chalk and cheese.

It was one of those quirks that appeared in families.  The progeny although produced by the same father and mother quite often were totally different, even when they looked so similar.

George and I were not alike in appearance although my mother always said I had my father’s hair and nose, whereas George was the spitting image of him.

My two younger sisters Elsa and Adelaide, though two years apart were almost identical twins and looked like our mother.

Our mother, long-suffering at the hands of her husband had died five years ago, and my father, in what was the longest deathbed scene ever, had finally died, the previous evening with all his children in attendance.

I was surprised my father wanted me there, and equally so when he usually spoke to me as though I was dirt under his feet. That he treated me better this time I put down to the fact in dying he had become deranged.  The others, George, Elsa, and Adelaide simply ignored me.

His death was the end.  I had no reason to stay, less reason to talk to my siblings, and muttering that my duty was done, left.

I never wanted to see any of them again.

…

Of course, we never really get what we wish for.

She had never deigned to come and see me before, and our meetings could be counted on the fingers if one hand, her wedding, my 21st birthday, fleeting as it was, and the death of our father, three times in fifteen years. Nor had I met the two mysterious children they had and wondered briefly what George had told them about me.

I could guess.

Two days later. I was getting ready to go back to my obscure job, the one George said was beneath a man of my talents, without qualifying what those talents were, when the doorbell rang.

Unlike my brother’s apartment building with a concierge and security staff, visitors simply made their way to the front door.  I was on the third floor, and the lift was out of service, so it was someone who wanted to see me.

I looked through the door viewer, I didn’t have the CCTV option, and saw it was Wendy, George’s perfect wife.

I could tell she didn’t want to be knocking on my door, much less come into the salubrious apartment, in a building that should have been condemned a long time ago.

I could just ignore her, but she looked increasingly agitated.  People sometimes lurked in the corridors, people who looked like jail escapees.

She just pushed the doorbell again when I opened the door.  She didn’t wait for me to ask her in, stopping dead in the middle of the one other room I had other than a bedroom.

I could see it written all over her face, this, to her, was how the other half lived.  I closed the door but didn’t move.

“How can you live here?”  The tone matched the shock on her face.

“When you ignore the faded and peeling wallpaper, the mould on the roof, and the aroma of damp carpets, it isn’t so bad.  There are far more of us living like this than you can imagine, almost affordable.  My neighbour has the same apartment but has three kids and a wife.”

She shook her head.

“Why are you here Wendy?  I can’t believe George would send you down here to do his dirty work.”

“George didn’t send me.  He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Then how did you know where to find me?”

“Don’t ask.  The funeral is in three days’ time.  You should be there?”

“Why?  Everyone hates me.  Even your kids hate me, and I haven’t even been formally introduced.”

“Just come, Roger.  You don’t deserve to live like this, no one should.”

“It’s the real world, Wendy.  Not everyone can afford weekends at Disneyland, and apartments overlooking Central Park.”

She crossed the room back to the door and I opened it for her.  “I’ll think about it.”

“Do think too hard.  After all is said and done, he was your father.”

Sadly, that was true.

…

I was having dinner in the diner not far from my apartment block, when Alison, a waitress I’d known for a year or so, and like me, could not catch a break, came over to offer a second cup of coffee.

I was a favourite, not everyone got seconds.

“I heard your father died,”: she said. 

It was the end of the shift and just before closing. The last of the customers had been shooed out.

“My life hasn’t changed with him in it, or not.”

“He was your father.”

I shrugged.  “You free tomorrow?”

“Why, you finally asking me out on a date?”

“If going to a funeral is a date, yes.  The service will be boring, the people way above our station in life, and my brother and sisters will be insufferable, but there’ll be good food and top-shelf booze at the wake.  Date or not, want to come with me?”

“Why not?  I’ve never had real champagne.”

She lived in the same apartment block, and I’d walked her home a few times.  “Pick you up at 10?”

She nodded.  “I’ll even behave if you want me to.”

…

Alison looked stunning in her simple black dress.  She was wearing more black than I was, and looked like she was going to a funeral.  She had turned the drab waitress into something I didn’t realize lurked beneath the surface.

She did a pirouette.  “You like?”

I smiled, which was something given the way I felt about everything to do with my family.  “I do, very much.”

We took the train to Yonkers, upstate, where the family home was, and where my father had gone to die, as he put it.  I’d lived there, in the mausoleum until I was old enough to escape.  The catholic church would no doubt be gearing up for the service.  It was due to start at 11:30, and we made it with a few minutes to spare.

I planned it that way, I did not want to sit with the rest of the family up front.

“You should be sitting with the others,” Alison said, not understanding why I wouldn’t.

“You haven’t met them yet.  When you do, you’ll know.  Besides, I find it better to sit in the last row.  You can escape quickly.”

She shook her head, and we sat.  Not in the last row, she was adamant she would not.  It was about halfway up, on the same side as the family were situated.  From there, I could watch George and Wendy, and my two sisters looking very sombre, receive the guests.

There were quite a few, I counted nearly a hundred.  My father may have been awful to me, but a lot of people respected and liked him.

Soon after we sat two young girls came and sat in the seats in front of us.

Then they turned around and looked at me, then Alison, then back at me.

“Daddy said you wouldn’t come,” the elder of the two said.

“Are you his daughters?  If you are, you could ask him why I’ve never seen you.”

“He thinks your eccentricity would rub off on us.”

Alison couldn’t contain herself at that remark.  “Your father actually said that to you?”

“Not directly.  They’ve been talking about him since my mother went and asked you to come.  He doesn’t really think much of you, does he?”

An astute child.

“I left home and became a motor mechanic.  We are supposed to be bankers, lawyers or doctors.  If you got a car you want to be fixed, then I’m your man.  You want advice on money, don’t come to see me.”

“Are you coming to sit with us?”

“I don’t think your mother and father could handle the shame.  No, we’ll stay here and leave them in peace.”

I watched Wendy glance in the direction of her girls, they came almost running to rescue them from the monster.

The elder girl looked at her mother when she arrived, breathless.  “He’s quite normal you know.”

I had to laugh.  Wendy looked aghast.  She glared at the girl, then her sister.  “Come, the pair of you.  Enough of this nonsense.”  She grabbed their hands and almost dragged them away.

I could see George up the front of the church, glancing down in our direction.  The fact he didn’t come said a lot.  It was clear neither of them wanted me sitting with them, and that was fine by me.

“They’re lovely girls, Roger.”

“The first time I’ve seen them, but they don’t seem to belong to my brother.  They don’t have his arrogance or her disdain.”

“I’m sure, now they’ve met you, it won’t be the last time.  It seems odd that Wendy, that was Wendy, wasn’t it?” 

I nodded.

“Then it seems odd that she would ask you to come and then treat you like that.”

“No, not at all.  I’ve only met her three or four times, and that’s her.  I won’t tell you what she thought of my apartment.”

The service took an hour and various people got up to say nice things about a man who was not very nice, but that was the nature of funerals.  He was dead now, so there was no need to live in the past.

I didn’t intend to.

I had intended to leave and go back home after the service, but now I’d decided to go to the wake at the old house.  It would be nice to show Alison where I grew up and give her some context as to why I hated my family so.  I was willing to bet my room would be the same as it was the day I left.

And it would be good to see Alex and Beatrice, the manservant and housekeeper again.  There were more parents to me than my mother and father.  There were sitting up the front of the church and hadn’t yet seen me.

What I hadn’t noticed during the service, was that a woman had come in and quietly made her way to our pew and sat down.  She had given me a curious look, one that said I know you, but can’t place who you are.

But that wasn’t the only odd thing about her.  I had the feeling she was related in some way, that sort of feeling you had when you met someone who was family but you didn’t really know them.  It was hard to explain.  Perhaps she was one of my mother’s friends, there were a few in the church,  and they, like me, had a strained relationship with my father.

He had not treated her very well, in the latter stages of her life before she died.

Just before the service ended Alison leaned over and said quietly, “The woman next to you.  You and she are related in some way.  She has the same profile, perhaps an aunt.”

As far as I knew my mother was an only child, she certainly never spoke of having a sister, in fact, she rarely spoke about her family at all.  Now I thought about it, it was all very strange.

The service over we could all finally stand and stretch.  The woman slowly stood, then turned to me.

“You are Roger, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Shouldn’t you be up the front with the rest of the family?”

“No.  I’m the black sheep.  I didn’t like my father all that much, and he certainly hated me, so it’s a miracle I came.  Perhaps you should introduce yourself to my brother, George.”

“I’m not here to see him, Roger, I’m here to see you.”

“Were you a friend of my mother’s?  I know there are a few here, keeping their distance like I am.”  This woman was trouble, I could sense it.

“Yes, and no.  I knew your mother briefly.  I knew your father better, I used to work for him a long time ago.

“Like I said, you’re probably better off talking to George.  I rarely saw him when I was a child, and when I did, he ignored me, and as soon as I could I left, and only saw him on a few occasions since.”

“Do you know why he was like that?  Did he treat George the same way?”

“No.  George was always the favourite son who could do no wrong, the heir apparent.”

“Then I’m sorry to hear that.  That was not how it was supposed to be.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because Roger, I am your real mother.”

…

© Charles Heath  2023

An excerpt from “Amnesia”, a work in progress

I remembered a bang.
I remembered the car slewing sideways.
I remember another bang, and then it was lights out.
When I opened my eyes again, I saw the sky.
Or I could be underwater.
Everything was blurred.
I tried to focus but I couldn’t. My eyes were full of water.
What happened?
Why was I lying down?
Where was I?
I cast my mind back, trying to remember.
It was a blank.
What, when, who, why and where, questions I should easily be able to answer. Questions any normal person could answer.
I tried to move. Bad, bad mistake.
I did not realise the scream I heard was my own. Just before my body shut down.

“My God! What happened?”
I could hear, not see. I was moving, lying down, looking up.
I was blind. Everything was black.
“Car accident, hit a tree, sent the passenger flying through the windscreen. Pity to poor bastard didn’t get the message that seat belts save lives.”
Was I that poor bastard?
“Report?” A new voice, male, authoritative.
“Multiple lacerations, broken collar bone, broken arm in three places, both legs broken below the knees, one badly. We are not sure of internal injuries, but ruptured spleen, cracked ribs and pierced right lung are fairly evident, x-rays will confirm that and anything else.”
“What isn’t broken?”
“His neck.”
“Then I would have to say we are looking at the luckiest man on the planet.”
I heard shuffling of pages.
“OR1 ready?”
“Yes. On standby since we were first advised.”
“Good. Let’s see if we can weave some magic.”

Magic.
It was the first word that popped into my head when I surfaced from the bottom of the lake. That first breath, after holding it for so long, was sublime, and, in reality, agonising.

Magic, because it seemed like I’d spent a long time under water.
Or somewhere.
I tried to speak, but couldn’t. The words were just in my head.
Was it night or was it day?
Was it hot, or was it cold?
Where was I?
Around me it felt cool.
It was very quiet. No noise except for the hissing of air through an air-conditioning vent. Or perhaps that was the sound of pure silence. And with it the revelation that silence was not silent. It was noisy.
I didn’t try to move.
Instinctively, somehow I knew not to.
A previous bad experience?
I heard what sounded like a door opening, and very quiet footsteps slowly come into the room. They stopped. I could hear breathing, slightly laboured, a sound I’d heard before.
My grandfather.
He had smoked all his life, until he was diagnosed with lung cancer. But for years before that he had emphysema. The person in the room was on their way, down the same path. I could smell the smoke.
I wanted to tell whoever it was the hazards of smoking.
I couldn’t.
I heard a metallic clanging sound from the end of the bed. A moment later the clicking of a pen, then writing.
“You are in a hospital.” A female voice suddenly said. “You’ve been in a very bad accident. You cannot talk, or move, all you can do, for the moment, is listen to me. I am a nurse. You have been here for 45 days, and just come out of a medically induced coma. There is nothing to be afraid of.”
She had a very soothing voice.
I felt her fingers stroke the back of my hand.
“Everything is fine.”
Define fine, I thought. I wanted to ask her what ‘fine’ meant.
“Just count backwards from 10.”
Why?
I didn’t reach seven.

Over the next ten days, that voice became my lifeline to sanity. Every morning I longed to hear it, if only for the few moments she was in the room, those few waking moments when I believed she, and someone else who never spoke, were doing tests. I knew it had to be someone else because I could smell the essence of lavender. My grandmother had worn a similar scent.
It rose above the disinfectant.
I also believed she was another doctor, not the one who had been there the day I arrived. Not the one who had used some ‘magic’ and kept me alive.
It was then, in those moments before she put me under again, that I thought, what if I was paralysed? It would explain a lot. A chill went through me.

The next morning she was back.
“My name is Winifred. We don’t know what your name is, not yet. In a few days, you will be better, and you will be able to ask us questions. You were in an accident, and you were very badly injured, but I can assure you there will be no lasting damage.”
More tests, and then, when I expected the lights to go out, they didn’t. Not for a few minutes more. Perhaps this was how I would be integrated back into the world. A little bit at a time.
The next morning, she came later than usual, and I’d been awake for a few minutes. “You have bandages over your eyes and face. You had bad lacerations to your face, and glass in your eyes. We will know more when the bandages come off in a few days. Your face will take longer to heal. It was necessary to do some plastic surgery.”
Lacerations, glass in my eyes, car accident, plastic surgery. By logical deduction, I knew I was the poor bastard thrown through the windscreen. It was a fleeting memory from the day I was admitted.
How could that happen?
That was the first of many startling revelations. The second was the fact I could not remember the crash. Equally shocking, in that same moment was the fact I could not remember before the crash either, and only vague memories after.
But the most shattering of all these revelations was the one where I realised I could not remember my name.
I tried to calm down, sensing a rising panic.
I was just disoriented, I told myself. After 45 days in an induced coma, it had messed with my mind, and it was only a temporary lapse. Yes, that’s what it was, a temporary lapse. I would remember tomorrow. Or the next day.
Sleep was a blessed relief.

The next day I didn’t wake feeling nauseous. Perhaps they’d lowered the pain medication. I’d heard that morphine could have that effect. Then, how could I know that, but not who I am?
I knew now Winifred the nurse was preparing me for something very bad. She was upbeat, and soothing, giving me a new piece of information each morning. This morning, “You do not need to be afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The doctor tells me you are going to recover with very little scarring. You will need some physiotherapy to recover from your physical injuries, but that’s in the future. We need to let you mend a little bit more before then.”
So, I was not going to be able to leap out of bed, and walk out of the hospital any time soon. I don’t suppose I’d ever leapt out of bed, except as a young boy. I suspect I’d sustained a few broken bones. I guess learning to walk again was the least of my problems.
But, there was something else. I picked it up in the timbre of her voice, a hesitation, or reluctance. It sent another chill through me.
This time I was left awake for an hour before she returned.
This time sleep was restless.
There were scenes playing in my mind, nothing I recognised, and nothing lasting longer than a glimpse. Me. Others, people I didn’t know. Or perhaps I knew them and couldn’t remember them.
Until they disappeared, slowly like the glowing dot in the centre of the computer screen, before finally fading to black.

The morning the bandages were to come off she came in bright and early and woken me. I had another restless night, the images becoming clearer, but nothing recognisable.
“This morning the doctor will be removing the bandages over your eyes. Don’t expect an immediate effect. Your sight may come back quickly or it may come back slowly, but we believe it will come back.”
I wanted to believe I was not expecting anything, but I was. It was probably human nature. I did not want to be blind as well as paralysed. I had to have at least one reason to live.
I dozed again until I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. I could smell the lavender, the other doctor was back. And I knew the hand on my shoulder was Winifred’s. She told me not to be frightened.
I was amazed to realise in that moment, I wasn’t.
I heard the scissors cutting the bandages.
I felt the bandage being removed, and the pressure coming off my eyes. I could feel the pads covering both eyes.
Then a moment where nothing happened.
Then the pads being gently lift and removed.
Nothing.
I blinked my eyes, once, twice. Nothing.
“Just hold on a moment,” Winifred said. A few seconds later I could feel a cool towel wiping my face, and then gently wiping my eyes. Perhaps there was ointment, or something else in them.
Then a flash. Well, not a flash, but like when a light is turned on and off. A moment later, it was brighter, not the inky blackness of before, but a shade of grey.
She wiped my eyes again.
I blinked a few more times, and then the light returned, and it was like looking through water, at distorted and blurry objects in the distance.
I blinked again, and she wiped my eyes again.
Blurry objects took shape. A face looking down on me, an elderly lady with a kindly face, surely Winifred, who was smiling. And on the opposite side of the bed, the doctor, a Chinese woman of indescribable beauty.
I nodded.
“You can see?”
I nodded again.
“Clearly?”
I nodded.
“Very good. We will just draw the curtains now. We don’t want to overdo it. Tomorrow we will be taking off the bandages on your face. Then, it will be the next milestone. Talking.”
I couldn’t wait.

When morning came, I found myself afraid. Winifred had mentioned scarring, there were bandages on my face. I knew, but wasn’t quite sure how I knew, I wasn’t the handsomest of men before the accident, so this might be an improvement.
I was not sure why I didn’t think it would be the case.
They came at mid morning, the nurse, Winifred, and the doctor, the exquisite Chinese. Perhaps she was the distraction, taking my mind of the reality of what I was about to see.
Another doctor came into the room, before the bandages were removed, and he was introduced as the plastic surgeon that had ‘repaired’ the ravages of the accident. It had been no easy job, but, with a degree of egotism, he did say he was one of the best in the world.
I found it hard to believe, if he was, that he would be at a small country hospital.
“Now just remember, what you might see now is not how you will look in a few months time.”
Warning enough.
The Chinese doctor started removing the bandages. She did it slowly, and made sure it did not hurt. My skin was very tender, and I suspect still bruised, either from the accident or the surgery, I didn’t know.
Then it was done.
The plastic surgeon gave his work a thorough examination and seemed pleased with his work. “Coming along nicely,” he said to the other doctor. He issued some instructions on how to manage the skin, nodded to me, and I thanked him before he left.
I noticed Winifred had a mirror in her hand, and was somewhat reticent in using it. “As I said,” she said noticing me looking at the mirror, “what you see now will not be the final result. The doctor said it was going to heal with very little scarring. You have been very fortunate he was available. Are you ready?”
I nodded.
She showed me.
I tried not to be reviled at the red and purple mess that used to be my face. At a guess I would have to say he had to put it all back together again, but, not knowing what I looked like before, I had no benchmark. All I had was a snippet of memory that told me I was not the tall, dark, and handsome type.
And I still could not talk. There was a reason, he had worked on that area too. Just breathing hurt. I think I would save up anything I had to say for another day. I could not even smile. Or frown. Or grimace.
“We’ll leave you for a while. Everyone needs a little time to get used to the change. I suspect you are not sure if there has been an improvement on last year’s model. Well, time will tell.”
A new face?
I could not remember the old one.
My memory still hadn’t returned.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 39

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at 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

…

Sometimes the best-laid plans worked out, but today it was as if the Gods were trying to ruin my day.  Earlier days this week had been getting darkish between three and four, but today it was a little later.

It meant we had to spend a little more quality time together before we embarked on some breaking and entering.

Of course, it might have helped if I’d told her what I was intending to do before I brought her along for the ride, but it was exactly for that reason I did because if she didn’t like the idea, there would be little option to change he mind.

But the initial displeasure was expected.

“Breaking and entering is not exactly how I envisioned my first few days on the job market.”

“You learned all of the requisite skills in training.  I know, I was your partner in crime more than once.”

And that was a question I had once told myself I’d ask her if I ever ran into her again outside of work.

Which I did now.  “Why was that?”

At a guess, it had to be because I knew what I was doing whereas the other men were more like blunt instruments.  They’d taught us the finesse in breaking into a wide variety of entrances, but they seemed to like and use bashing the door in.

“I knew I had a better chance of success if I stuck with you.”

“What about Yolanda?”

She was another woman I had put into the same category as Jennifer, she was possessed of a calm demeanor in a crisis, and actually took the time to lean the subtitles of her tradecraft.  I had been disappointed when she didn’t make the final cut, though I suspect there was more to her ‘failing’ than met the eye.

And, I never got to find out the real reason.

I had liked her and had thought the feelings were mutual, but after she left, I’d not heard from her again.  I guess I could have tried to reach out, and might still do if this ever came to an end where I didn’t finish up dead.

“She was never going to stick the distance.  I got the impression she wasn’t happy about one of the others making life uncomfortable for her.”

“Student or instructor?”

Interesting she should say that because I had thought there was something going on between her and Maury, and when I asked her she didn’t deign to answer.

“Both.  She considered it was best just to leave.”

Which apparently, she did.

But, back to our current problem.  “All I need you to do is have my back.  I’ll go in, see if he is there, or anyone else, and if the coast is clear, we’ll search the place and leave.  No need to be there one second longer than we have to be.”

But I will; be disappointed if the USB is not there.

“That means we have about an hour to kill,” she said.

Which is why I decided to stop off at a traditional English pub and have an early dinner of bangers and mash.  I was not sure why it just appealed to me.  I’d feel so much better breaking in with a full stomach.

And a mobile phone with the sound turned off.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

newdevilcvr6

In a word: Flower

It’s what we expect to see when we walk past the front of some houses but instead sometimes see lawn, rocks, or a disaster.

They are what makes the difference between a delightful street and an ugly one, and by that I mean flowers.

By definition though, it means the state or period in which the plant’s flowers have developed and opened/

Just beware the man who turns up with a bunch of flowers that look vaguely familiar to those that grow in your neighbour’s gardens.

They are also in abundance in horticultural gardens, and in florist shops.

My favourites are roses.

And just a word of warning, look out for triffids.  If you read John Wyndham’s science fiction you’ll know what I mean.

Another meaning for the word is to reach the optimum stage of development, though the word bloom could also be used to describe the same thing.

There is another similar-sounding word, flour, but this is the stuff used to make bread, scones, and puddings.

By definition, it is the result of grinding wheat or other grains to a powder.

If something is said to be floury, then it means it is bland.

An excerpt from “One Last Look”: Charlotte is no ordinary girl

This is currently available at Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

…

I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense.  Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.

I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.

It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.

The boy was Alan.  He was about six or seven.  The girl was Louise, and she was five years old.  She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.

I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.

We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds.  I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.

We were so happy then.

Before the tragedy.

When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell.  Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.

It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children.  They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.

Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.

Until one day she couldn’t.

Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand.  She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it.  The damage done to her was too severe.

The doctors were wrong.

She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants.  It was enough to have them arrested.  It was not enough to have them convicted.

Justice would have to be served by other means.

I was outside the Bannister’s home.

I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die.  It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing.  I had murder in mind.  It was why I was holding an iron bar.

Skulking in the shadows.  It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.

I waited till Archie came out.  I knew he eventually would.  The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go.  I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.

I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.

“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me.  He knew what it was, and what it was for.

It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes.  He was alone.

“Justice.”

“For that slut of a sister of yours.  I had nuffing to do with it.”

“She said otherwise, Archie.”

“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.”  An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.

I held up the pipe.  It had blood on it.  Willy’s blood.  “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up.  He sang like a bird.  That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”

“He dunnit, not me.  Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.”  Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.

“No, Archie.  He didn’t.  I’m coming for you.  All of you Bannisters.  And everyone who touched my sister.”

It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.

I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries.  Those were the very worst few hours of my life.

She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late.  If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.

If only I’d not been late…

When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood.  The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.

At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told.  He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.

I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy.  There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.

He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone.  It was a half mile walk, through a park.  The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness.  He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.

He didn’t.

It took an hour and a half to get the names.  At first, when he saw me, he laughed.  He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.

When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list.  I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.

When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi.  The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me.  I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.

At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality.  The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.

Archie could help but rub it in my face.  He was invincible.

Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out.  He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged.  I didn’t care.

Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me.  I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.

I revisited Willy in the hospital.  He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come.  Suffocation was too good for him.

David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters.  His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful.  Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered.  A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.

He and I met in the pub.  We got along like old friends.  He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges.  We shook hands and parted as friends.

Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared.  I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me.  He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.

When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes.  I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it.  He told me he was just a spectator.

I’d read the coroner’s report.  They all had a turn.  He was a liar.

He took nineteen bullets to die.

Then came Archie.

The same factory only this time there were four seats.  Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities.  She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.

Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.

A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.

Archie’s mother cursed me.  I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.

Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily.  The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family.  I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.

He was a little more worried about his sister.

I told him it was confession time.

He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.

I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony.  I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes.  This time he did, it all poured out of him.

I went over to Emily.  He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm.  Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.

“Louise was my friend, Archie.  My friend.”

Then she shot him.  Six times.

To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this.  May God have mercy on your soul.”

Now I was in jail.  I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession.  Without my sister, my life was nothing.  I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.

They were not allowed to.

For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors.  I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.

Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.

Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”

When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone.  They ignored me.  I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.

I was beginning to think I was going mad.

I ignored him.

“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that.  You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”

Death sounded good.  I told him to go away.

He didn’t.  Persistent bugger.

I was handcuffed to the table.  The prison officers thought I was dangerous.  Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that.  McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.

“Why’d you do it?”

“You know why.”  Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.

“Your sister.  By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”

“It was murder just the same.  No difference between scum and proper people.”

“You like killing?”

“No-one does.”

“No, I dare say you’re right.  But you’re different, Alan.  As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen.  We can use a man like you.”

“We?”

“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”

I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him.  It looked like I didn’t have a choice.

Trained, cleared, and ready to go.

I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible.  People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.

People like me.

In a mall, I became a shopper.

In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.

On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.

At the airport, I became a pilot.  I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.

I had a passkey.

I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.

That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life.  Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.

Two pilots and a steward.  A team.  On the plane early before the rest of the crew.  A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.

Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.

Me.

Quick, clean, merciless.  Done.

I was now an operational field agent.

I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides.  It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.

I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.

It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.

Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.

Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.

I was Barry Gamble.

I was Lenny Buckman.

I was Jimmy Hosen.

I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.

That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision.  If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.

Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.

God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness.  Not that day.  Not any day.

New York, New Years Eve.

I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag.  They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.

This time I failed.

A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…

Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her.  It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.

I was done.

I’d had enough.

I gave her the gun.

I begged her to kill me.

She didn’t.

Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.

How could she?  No one could know what I’d been through.

I remembered her name after she had gone.

Amanda.

I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.

Someone else had the same imperfection.

I couldn’t remember who that was.

Not then.

I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it.  After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.

The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.

It was late.

People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks.  Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.

A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.

He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”

Two of his friends dragged him away.  He shrugged them off, squared up.

I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground.  I looked at his two friends.  “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”

They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk.  She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.

I looked around to see where her friends were.  The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.

She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.

I sat beside her.  “Where are your friends?”

“Dunno.”

“You need help?”

She looked up, and sideways at me.  She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state.  Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nobody.”  I was exactly how I felt.

“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care.  Just leave me here to rot.”

She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.

Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.

“Where are your friends?” I asked again.

“Got none.”

“Perhaps I should take you home.”

“I have no home.”

“You don’t look like a homeless person.  If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.”  I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.

She lifted her head and looked at me again.  “You a smart fucking arse are you?”

“I have my moments.”

“Have them somewhere else.”

She rested her head against my shoulder.  We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.

“Take me home,” she said suddenly.

“Where is your place?”

“Don’t have one.  Take me to your place.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m drunk.  What’s not to like until tomorrow.”

I helped her to her feet.  “You have a name?”

“Charlotte.”

The wedding was in a small church.  We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot.  Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.

On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.

I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.

Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.

And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age.  She arrived late and left early.

Aunt Agatha.

She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look.  “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.

“Likewise I’m sure,” I said.  It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte.  It was clear she feared this woman.

“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.

“You know why.”

Agatha looked at me.  “I like you.  Take care of my granddaughter.  You do not want me for an enemy.”

OK, now she officially scared me.

She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.

“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.

“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”

Charlotte never mentioned her again.

Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.

Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us.  Her husband was not with her this time.

Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother.  She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.

We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends.  For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.

I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother.  It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.

Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.

Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close.  I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness.  We were never close.

But…

This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head.  It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.

And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction.  “You seem distracted,” she said.

“I was just remembering my mother.  Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”

“Why now?”  I think she had a look of concern on her face.

“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.

Another look and I was wrong.  She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.

I was crying, tears streaming down my face.

I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.

It was like coming up for air.

It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life.  I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.

And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”

I could not speak, but I think I smiled.  It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye.  Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.

“Welcome back.”

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

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NaNoWriMo – April – 2023 — Day 3

“The Things We Do For Love”

…

Michelle, to Henry, was the proverbial black widow, having arrived with every stitch of clothing black or near enough.

They settle into an uneasy co-existence, by the fire, waiting out the rain and weather, not avoiding meals because it would require explanation, but stumbling over the conversation, mainly because of Henry’s shyness and reserve.

The arrangements come to a head when she goes out and comes back soaked.  She stands by the fire to get warm; Mrs Mac brings a towel for her to dry her face and hair, and here Henry discovers her injuries make it difficult.

He helps but makes a mess of it through inexperience and fear of, yes, making a mess of a moment, which, word-wise, he does.

At this point, we discover a lot more about who she is and why she is there, and why she can never have a relationship, friendship or anything with that enigmatic, shy, boy.

Then the weather breaks.

Alone, Henry goes out to explore the coast, finds a way down to the beach, goes for a walk to be alone with his thoughts, and remembers where he had seen her before.

In magazines, ads.  Not only a model but a lot more.  A woman he realizes he is way out of his depth when with her.

She ventures to the beach, and they talk, he discovers small talk is not something that comes easy and is left in despair at his ineptitude.

I know this feeling from experience, and it makes this story easy.

…

Words written 3,909, for a total of 9,694

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — D is for Deserving

…

It’s one thing to put a date in your diary; it’s something else to remember it’s there.

And then it’s something else entirely if you lose the device the calendar is on.

Of course, in this modern day and age, there’s this thing called the cloud, and any and all of your devices can connect to it, so really, there is no excuse.

Is there?

It was one of those things, you know, four inseparable friends at university, all going through the ups and downs of life, love, learning, and success and failure.  Two boys, Jake Sever and me, Albert Mendall, and two girls, Gillian Rogers and Melanie Monk.

We had lived separately, together, in relationships, and in the end, as friends.  After graduation, there was the party, the celebration, the reminisces, and the parting.  There were no romantic attachments, at least not one I was aware of, and each of us had applied for and got jobs in various parts of the country.

We all promised to catch up once we were settled, and all put an entry in their diaries to meet at the Empire State Building on Christmas Eve in two years’ time, a nod to Gillian’s favourite film, and just in case we lost track of each other. 

That final farewell was, for me, poignant, particularly with Gillian.  We had one of those on-again-off-again romances, it started out well enough but Gillian had always thought there had to be more, and as each succeeding romance of hers failed, for one reason or another, it brought us back together.  The last, she believed she had found the one, and when she left, with Derek, the one, I felt more than a little sad.  For me, she was the one, and it would be a long time before I found another.

Fast forward a year, and I had had sporadic communications from the others, all pursuing their dreams, their lives taking turns they could never have predicted.  Jake has literally married the boss’s daughter, the company he chose to work for a family-owned business.  Melanie had gone from being a forensic accountant to a footloose and fancy-free nanny doing the tour of Europe with a wealthy American family with three young children.  It was she said the only way to finance her travel bug.  Gillian had married the man of her dreams, Derek, and was living in a castle in Scotland.

That left me.

Of the four, I was the one with the most nebulous plans, having taken the first opportunity that presented itself.  I could do anything, but what I really wanted was to be a journalist, a stepping stone to becoming a writer, and then, if the planets lined up, a best-selling author.  That may have been possible if Gillian and I had remained together because she was my muse and fiercest critic.  Without her, that dream had lost its shine.

Now I was languishing at my desk, working for a weekly magazine that was one of the last of its kind in the American Midwest, on the outskirts of Cedar Rapids.  I liked the place the moment I arrived, but there had always been a big if hanging over the job and staying there, so I had diversified into becoming an English Literature teacher part-time at first, but now looking very much like my new vocation.

I’d just finished a feature story on the gradual disappearance of reading and writing skills in schools when I realised, I was running late for class.  I dropped the story on the editor’s desk, ran out the door, jumped in the car, and sped off, thinking that I would make it with five minutes to spare.

That was, until another driver, also running late, failed to stop at a T intersection, and just seeing the oncoming car out of the corner of my eye and gave me no time to react.  I didn’t even have time to say a prayer.

When I woke, I was in unfamiliar surroundings, though the combination of disinfectant, pale-coloured walls, and curtains surrounding the bed were all a dead giveaway I was in the hospital.

I didn’t know why, but a cursory glance showed no visible signs of injury, so I had to wonder if it was something else, like a heart problem.  I had palpitations recently, the first time since I had been much younger.  It had not been serious then, but the doctors had not ruled out, then, it might return one day.  Had that day come?

Inevitably, my waking brought visitors, a doctor, and a nurse.

And not surprisingly it was the first question I was expecting, virtually a cliche, asked by the doctor, “How are you feeling?”

I answered it with a question, “How should I feel?”

He looked almost amused.  “OK.  Let me ask you another question, and this time, an honest answer, not another question.  What is your name?”

An honest answer?  Did I have more than one name?  That should be easy, except…  I couldn’t remember, or was it I didn’t know?  Surely everyone knew their name.  Or was that the reason her asked, that he knew that I didn’t know or that I could not remember.

He could see that I was having trouble.

“I should know the answer to that question, shouldn’t I.”

“Normally I would expect in normal circumstances you would, but yours are not normal circumstances.  You were in a very bad car accident, so bad that we had to put you into an induced coma.  It was supposed to be a week, two at the most.  Instead, it’s turned out to be nearly a year.  To be honest we had no idea when or if you would come out, and when you did, how you would be when we woke you, but loss of memory is probably the best outcome we could have hoped for.  Your name, by the way, is Albert Mendall.”

“Then what else don’t I know?”

“Most likely for the past three weeks, once you started waking, it’s been a rather intense time for you.  Chances are you don’t remember any of it, but it’s fairly standard for long-term coma patients to take time to recover.  We kept you sedated for the last three days, gradually allowing you more wake time, and come to terms with your recovery.  All in all, this is the outcome we hoped for.  It could have been very, very different.  You’ve lost a lot of weight, and you’re going to need a month or two before you will be able to move around.  Other than that, you will have time to work on those memories.  What is your last memory?”

“Going to work, I think.  Going somewhere in a car, that much I can remember.”

“Family?”

“Nothing.”

“Friends”

“I knew people at University, faces but not names.  I know what I studied, Literature, but beyond that, not a lot.”

“You were a teacher, in fact, one of your colleagues has been dropping by every week just in case.  She’s here now if you’d like to see her?”

“It might jog something, but I hope she isn’t offended if I don’t remember her.”

“I’m sure she won’t be.  We’ve kept her apprised of your recovery.”

It made me think perhaps there had been more between us, but I couldn’t remember working as a teacher let alone anyone that I may have worked with.  It was going to be interesting if it sparked anything.

Eileen Westmacott did not look like a schoolteacher.  When she put her head in the door and asked if it was alright to come in, I thought she was looking for someone else.  She looked more like a model, or actress though I had no idea why I thought that.

She came in, crossed to the bed and sat in the chair, perhaps giving me the time to examine her and see if I could remember.  If I had known her, I would remember her.  I didn’t.

“How are you?  Oh, sorry.  Typical silly question to ask in a hospital.”

She had a shy manner and put her hand to her mouth as if she wanted to put the words back in.  Her manner and her smile lit up the room.

“The doctors tell me I’m fine, except that I have no idea who I am, other than the name Albert Mendall.  I’m very sorry I can’t remember you because I feel as though I should.  I know this is a dumb question, but were we…”

“We were very good friends, Al, and things were going in the right direction.  We were going to have dinner the night of your accident and talk about our future together.  I was on the verge of taking a role in a television series.”

“Did you…”

“Yes.  I managed that and came back every week to see how you were.  Tiring, but in the end it satisfied my desire to be an actress, and harsh enough to make me realise it requires someone more hardened and single-minded than me to pursue it.  Teaching ratty teenagers is far easier I can tell you.”

“Did you give it up?”

“No.  Just took a break from it, and wait until the series is aired, successfully or a failure.  It seems failures are far more common than we’re led to believe.  Besides, you gave me a reason to come back home.”  She reached out and took my hand in hers.

It was like an electric shock and sent a wave of feelings through me.  And a few memories surfaced.

“Oh, God!  I did something to hurt you, didn’t I?  I can see you, crying.  It was me, wasn’t it, and a woman named Gillian.”

“What do you remember?”

“Fragments.  I said something really stupid, but I can’t remember anything else, except I hurt you, and you cried.  I’m sorry.  I rather think now, before all this I must have been some sort of bastard.  You said we were going to talk about it the night of the accident.”

“It’s more complicated than that.  You were not a bastard.  I wanted to talk to you about the acting role, and you said that it might be better if I pursued my dream and put us on hold.  You’d just got a letter from Gillian, an old University friend, who obviously meant a great deal to you, and you were going to see her, and I said a few things I regret now, mostly because I think I was the reason why you had the accident.  If we had not argued the night before, you would not have stayed up to finish that article for the paper, you were tired, and … well, you know the rest.”

“I don’t remember anything about her other than her name.  If she and I were meant to be together, she would be with me?”  Another memory popped into my head.  “She never seemed to be satisfied and went off with a guy called Derek something or other.”

“Whom she divorced.  It was the reason for the letter.  She came to see you, I brought her here, and she stayed for a few days, then left.  I sent her an update each month but never got a reply.  I can send a message to her and tell her you’re awake if you like.”

“What would be the point.  I don’t remember her.  I don’t remember anything, other than it seems I was horrible to you, and I was pining after a girl I could never be with.”

“I think you are being a little harsh on yourself.”

“I’m so sorry.  Perhaps you should come back tomorrow when I’ve had some rest if those memories have surfaced, maybe some others will.”,

She stood.  I saw a tear escape one eye and trickle down her cheek. 

“You were the only one who believed in me, Al.  The only one, and for that, I will always be grateful.  And despite what fragments of memory you have, you were never horrible to me, you were probably the only one who was totally honest.”  She leaned over and kissed my forehead.  “I’m glad your back, and if there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

It was not as if after a year of being ‘absent’, you can leap out of bed and do a quick circuit of the hospital corridors.  It took three days to work my way from the bed to a wheelchair, the most time taken disconnecting me for all the monitoring, and IV tubes.

It took another week to get out of the room and venture further afield.  The physio visited me every day, working on a regimen that might see me on my feet in a month.  A month?

No more memories came, not in the next three weeks, and neither did Eileen.  While it made me feel sad, I had to expect it because all I could remember was not being the person she expected me to be, or that’s what I assumed.

The other thing was that I didn’t call her.  I went to, several times, but hadn’t I disappointed her?  What would be the point of doing it again?

Exactly a month to the day, another woman put her head in the door and asked if she could come in.

I thought she was another physio, or perhaps the hospital psychiatrist because I was sure I would be having issues with missing the world for a whole year.

She sat down in the same chair Eileen had sat in.

But her opening gambit wasn’t to ask me how I was.  Instead, she asked, “Do you know who I am?”

First off, the face was not familiar, and yet I knew it should be.

Then I remembered Eileen asking if she should send Gillian word of my walking.

“You must be Gillian.”

“You remember me?”

“No.  I think we were at university together.

“We were.  We lived together, off and on, for most of that time.  In the end, we had an argument, split up, and you came here.”

“You got married, didn’t you?  I have had a couple of flashes, one being you married a man called Derek.  I didn’t remember the argument.  How is Derek?”

“Dead, I hope.  I can state with some authority, the grass isn’t greener on the other side.  He wasn’t you.”

“Well, sadly, I don’t remember who he was, and even worse I don’t remember who I am now.  I’ve been told I was a teacher and a part-time journalist.  It’s been a year, they probably think I left town or died.  What I feel like right now is like I died and come back with a clean slate.  One thing I do know, is I don’t deserve it.”

“There is nothing you remember about us?”

“Nothing.  Did I hurt you?  I’ve been having a few memories where I don’t think I was a very nice person.”

“No.  You were always the kindest and most forgiving person I knew.  I’m sorry that you have ended up like this.”  She stood.  “I should not have come.  I wish you well Albert.”

Then she was gone.

Two weeks later the doctors decided I could go home.

It appears I had a home, a small two-bedroom house in a quiet street, bought from the proceeds of a story, well, several stories, I had sold to a magazine, and on the back of it a sizable advance from a book publisher.

In that year in limbo, my book had been published and I  wasn’t quite the number one bestselling author yet, but my career, I was told, was only just beginning.

Something I did remember … the follow-up novel to the first.

That was the first surprise.

When the nurse wheeled me out into the pick-up area, Eileen was waiting, leaning against a rather expensive European import.

“Your car awaits, literally.  It is your car.  The insurance company replaced the one that was wrecked in the accident.  Good thing it was this type of car, it basically saved your life.”

“Where have you been?”

“Working out the details of becoming your guardian until you’re back on your feet.”

“I can walk.”  I got out of the chair and stood, albeit a little wobbly.

Eileen had come over and taken me by the arm.

“Like I said until you are back on your feet.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.  Besides I had to quit my teaching job.  They are making a series two and asked me to come back.  With a lot more money.”

“Good for you.  How long before the departure?”

“A few months.  Problems with the other actors.  They all thought it would fail.”

She helped me into the car.  It had that new car smell, the one that costs a lot of money.

“By the way,” I said, once she was out in traffic, “I remembered two more things, one which might be of interest to you.  The first, you played each one of the seven women characters in my next book, taking my ideas of them and becoming them.”

“Which one did you like the most.”

“The one I had a dream about, Mary-Anne.”

“I should hope so, she is the wife of the character you based on yourself.”

She smiled at the thought. 

I would remember that portrayal as long as I live, crash or no crash.

“The second, you were not the cause, directly or indirectly, for my crash.  Gillian was.  She called me that morning while I was in the car, and when I went to pick the phone up, I dropped it on the floor and took my eyes off the road for just a few seconds.  It was a few seconds too long.”

“You distinctly remember that, out of everything else?”

“She came to see me two weeks ago.  Perhaps she was looking for the old Albert, the one that took her back every time her romance hit a rock, and then happily left when something new came along.  I’d called her the day before and told her I was no longer that person, that I had moved on.  I was going to ask you to marry me at that dinner.”

She had a wider smile now.  “I know.  I found the ring when I was looking for something else.  The answer’s yes by the way.  While you’ve been on vacation, that’s what we’re going to call your time away, by the way, I moved in and did a little redecorating.”

“Anything else I don’t know about.”

“Probably a zillion things, but the most important, you have a daughter,  she’s four months old, and her name is Mary Louise, after both our mothers.  How does the first day of the rest of your life feel?

There were tears and no words.

She squeezed my hand.  “I know how you feel.  We’ll be home soon.”

…

© Charles Heath 2023