Month: April 2023

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 – A is for “At the crack of dawn”

I remembered sitting in on the briefing for the raid the next morning.  The officer in charge said, at one point, you hit hard and fast just before dawn when everyone is still asleep.

It was the time of least resistance.

That raid went off exactly as planned, the people whom the task force had been targeting were all there, along with the contraband that had arrived the night before and was sitting on the kitchen table.

It was just one of several thoughts going through my mind, an hour before dawn, unable to sleep.

Another and perhaps more potent thought was the aftermath of what could only be described as a witch hunt. 

That task force’s success had slowly diminished, its raids were less effective and then ineffective.  The only explanation, we had an informer on the team

And in the usual blunt force methodology for handling problems, officers were singled out, investigated, and then moved on.  Guilty or not, their reputations are destroyed.

I was one of them.

Of course, I made a mistake, but the thing is I should have known the woman I’d been dating at the time was a relative of one of the crime families we’d been investigating, and for those investigating the task force it was a slam dunk connection.

It didn’t matter there was no link between her and the criminals other than by name.  I didn’t get booted out of the police, just sidelined into a dead-end basement, shuffling paper.

And the woman stayed with me, despite the heavy-handed investigative process that destroyed her reputation too.

I was angry, she was resigned.

I wanted revenge, she wanted to move to a remote croft in northern Scotland and forget about the rest of the world, and I was finding it hard to find an argument against doing just that.

Perhaps then I would get a good night’s sleep.

I heard a cell phone receiving a message, and then a minute or two later, Angelica emerged with the offending cell phone in hand.

“They’re coming,” she said.

The whole ordeal we had been dragged through had taken a toll on her more than me, and she was almost a shadow of her former self.

“Who’s coming?”

“Your people.”

It was not delivered with rancour, just as a statement of fact.

“How do you know this?”

“My father.”

“I thought you had no contact with them?”

“I didn’t, but after all of this, he reached out.  He offered a helping hand, but I declined.  Seems he wasn’t listening.”

She flopped into the seat next to me.

“How does he know?”

“How does anyone know anything?  We should go.”

“Where?  Running is the admission of guilt.”  It seemed obvious to me, knowing how the system worked.  They were not going to let it go.

“So, we’re staying?”

“Do you want to go?”

“Yes.”

“How long have we got?”

“About a half hour traffic withstanding.”

I shrugged.  Why not.  No point in going through another round of meaningless accusations.

“OK.”

We didn’t go far, oddly at Christina’s request, and it made me think there was more to the message she received.

She had insisted I bring binoculars and we took up a position on a carpark roof a little over half a mile from our residence, a sort where we had a perfect view of the front and rear entrances.

We just made it when several cars pulled up out the front and one blocked off the rear.  At least 20 officers in bulletproof vests and a dozen swat officers swarmed around the building.

32 officers versus two allegedly unarmed people.

Overkill.

What were they expecting?  A small army.

I watched the usual briefing of team leaders and then the disbursement of personnel to the front, rear, and escape points. There were three.

Then the swat officers went first, in sync through the front and rear doors, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

Just before dawn, at the peak of the targets unpreparedness.

In less than a minute, six shots rang out.  Six.

Angelica looked at me.  She knew the significance of it as well as I did.  “We were not meant to walk away from that.”

It was a simple statement with huge ramifications.

Someone was covering their tracks, and using us as scapegoats.

I watched the front entrance, waiting to see who emerged, and I was betting it would be someone else, other than the usual crew.

Fifteen minutes it took.  About as long as it would take to see that we had stuffed the bed with lifelike dummies, then searched the building, discovering the almost well-hidden entrance to the basement, and then the entrance to an escape tunnel.

The fact only three came out of the front entrance told me there were 20 plus officers down the rabbit hole chasing ghosts.  It would take several hours before they realised, they’d been deceived.

But, back at the front entrance, I knew the three, and none of them would pull the trigger on unarmed targets.

I waited and was rewarded.

Montgomery. A shadowy little man hired to train us in shadowy stuff.  I’d read a file on him that I’d received from an external source and among his many talents, alleged assassinations of people we couldn’t touch, not that any of the crimes his name was attached to had been proved.

The perfect man for an off-book operation.

A few sharp words to the officer in charge and he was gone.

“Scotland’s looking good then,” she said.

”Very good.  How did they know what was about to go down?”

“Bad people need badder people to organise hits like this.”

“And your father…”

“Knows bad people who do bad things.  Be grateful you’re still alive.  And, you know who it is now trying to kill us.”

“But not the person who ordered it.  Now you have an entry point.  If you want to stay, do so, but I’m not.  I’m going to Scotland.  I’ve been innocent of any wrongdoing, and the fact they chose not to believe that means their worst fears are going to come true.”

“They’re not all bad people?”

I wanted to believe that, but it looked more and more like I picked the wrong task force to be on.  It begged the question of how deep the problem was.

“You just saw what happened.  We’d be dead now if it had been for that message.  I think you can safely assume they want a scapegoat and you’re it.  I would have been collateral damage.”

She was right.  I could stay, and talk to friends, but who could I really trust?  And with the sort of lies and manufactured evidence they could create against me, who would believe me?

“Then, two for Scotland it is.”

She smiled and took my hand in hers.  “Good choice.  Time to go.”

Two words with so much left unsaid.  What had been the ‘bad choice’?

…

© Charles Heath 2023

An excerpt from “The Things We Do For Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself.  Feeling the dampness of the pillow, and fearing the ravages of pent up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs. Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived.  He’d heard her and Mrs. Mac coming up the stairs, and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs. Mac to show her to a table.

She was about mid-twenties, slim, long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines.  She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied.  Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity.  And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain.  Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs. Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.  She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one.  Coming up to the new arrival she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner.  Would you like to sit with Mr. Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back on his neck stand up.  He purposely didn’t look back.  In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six.  Out of a thousand!

“If Mr. Henshaw doesn’t mind….”  She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so.  Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.”  Mrs. Mac promptly ushered her over.  Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you.  You are most kind.”  The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.”  It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone but made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs. Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be.  There was something about him.

His eyes, they mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying?  There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No.  That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?”  Seconds later she realized she’s spoken it out loud, had hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilization, and home, as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal.  All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slight abrupt in manner, perhaps as a result of her question, and the manner in which she asked it.

She looked up.  “Rest.  And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note.  No doubt, she thought,  she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had actually said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs. Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel.  Of course, there had been no possible way she could know than anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but realized it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for very different reasons.

On discreet observance whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced and he had no sense of humor.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown.  And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame.  They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and rather incongruously, was he could do with a decent feed.  In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr. Henshaw?”

He looked up.  “Henshaw is too formal.  Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs. Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere.  It was, she thought, almost unbearably awkward.

Mrs. Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself.  Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle.  “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought.  He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone.  Then, to Mrs. Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humor.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought, when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs. Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses.  After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation.  “How did you arrive?  I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question, otherwise she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me I had an accident.  I ran up the back of another car.  Of course, it didn’t matter to him the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.”  His attempt at humor failed.  “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came.  Both had found, after getting to know each other better, their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs. Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling.  She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living,” Michelle asked in an off-hand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser.  I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening had worn on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well.  Even the carefully applied makeup, from close up, didn’t hide the very pale, and tired look, or the sunken, dark ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work.  I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you.  I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night and then smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner now over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet the compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

lovecoverfinal1

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 37

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

…

I had a change of mind before I went on an odyssey to Peaslake. I needed help, and I was going to try and convince Jennifer to help me. If she had been injured, that might be more difficult.

I caught a train and a bus to Putney and then walked the remaining fifty yards to her front door. It was a flat over the top of a shop, and, when I read the name of the shop, I thought I knew why she was there. The shop, and quite likely the building belonged to her family, not that it was her surname, but I could be hopeful.

I went up the side stairs and reached the landing. There were two doors, one with 1A on it, and one with 1B on it. Hers was 1A.

I knocked on the door.

A minute later nothing had happened.

I knocked again, this time a little harder.

There was no answer, again, but there was a movement in the flat next door, then the door opened and a scruffy young man, perhaps a university student put his head out.

“She’s not here.”

“Not here, and in no longer living here, or not here as in she is out somewhere and will be back.”

He looked at me blankly, like I’d spoken too fast, or used too many words for him to understand. Possibly he’d just woken up.

He shook his head. “Just out probably getting coffee or something. The shops on the other side of the road, three or four doors up. Can’t miss it, it smells like coffee.”

He gave me a look up and down, gauging whether or not I could be of interest to her, then went back inside his room and closed the door.

It might be a lie, but I was going to take him at his word.

I went back down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk and looked up and down both sides of the street. There was a café, on the other side, not far away.

I waited for a break in the traffic, then crossed the road.

She was inside, reading a paper, oblivious to those around her, and, in particular, those coming from outside. She should be casually keeping an eye out for trouble.

I managed to get inside and take the seat next to her before she raised her head to see who it was.

No surprise.

“You,” she said. “You made it out alive too?”

“You should be more careful.”

“I was told I was no longer employed, that the people who hired me were ex-agents with some sort of agenda.”

I glanced at the open page of the newspaper. The jobs vacant page.

“Then it might come as a bit of a surprise to realize you’re still on their books, just assigned to a different department. Same as me.”

“They told me I was redundant.”

“Who told you?”

“A woman. Monica Sherive she said her name was.”

“I spoke to her earlier this morning. I didn’t ask, but I will the next time I’m in the office. What do you remember about the assignment?”

“We were supposed to maintain surveillance on a man, no name, just a photograph. I heard you had him in sight and was about to pass him off to Adam. I didn’t hear Adam acknowledge. I heard an explosion and all hell broke loose. No point carrying on, so I left.”

And that was what saved her life. Incorrect procedure. Unless she reported in.

“Did you report to the overseer.”

“Over the radio. He told me to go. What happened to Adam and Jack?”

“Dead. Murdered by the target, I think. The target’s dead too. A chap by the name of O’Connell, though the more I find out about him, the more interesting it gets.”

I could see the cogs ticking over behind her eyes as she put one and one together. “So…”

“You should be dead too. What saved your life was just up and leaving.”

“How did you escape?”

“I didn’t. I found the target again after the explosion and followed him to an alley. When I got there he told me I was making a mistake, and then he was shot. Severin and Maury turned up, and that was it.”

“Did they kill him?”

“No. It was a sniper, and I’m still wondering why I didn’t get shot too.”

“The woman told me Severin and Maury didn’t work for the organization. How could that be? They seemed real to me. I think whatever they and we were doing became a mess that needed to be cleaned up by getting rid of everyone associated with it. I liked that job. Now I have to go back to a daily drudge job.”

“Don’t think so. Like I said, I saw your name listed as active in the same department as me, the head of which is a guy called Nobbin. I’ve met him, I’m supposed to be investigating O’Connell, who, by the way, was one of his people, who had allegedly some documents on him when he died. You feel like helping out?”

“I would, but are you sure I’m supposed to be working for these people, God, I don’t know who they are or what I was doing anymore.”

“We can go to the office and ask questions. Get this Monica and get her to tell you. But in the meantime, I had a job I need to do, and it would be better with two. Can you help?”

“If you come with me to the office?”

“Sure.”

She folded the paper and slid off the seat. “Then, let’s go.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers.  Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier.  I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village.  I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed.  In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passenger’s attention.  Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back.  He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury.  He looked at her ticket then nodded dismissively, and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway.  I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see there was something about her.  It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile.  I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone.  Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model.  I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris.  The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on.  I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me.  I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin.  My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast.  With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination.  It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight.  It would give me enough time to sample the local fare, and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch.  After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward.  I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and let the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked, and what part I played in it.  And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out.  What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land.  There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would need to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later a keen military mind.  If nothing else I could ride a horse, and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no-one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared.  I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue and I had an aptitude for programming.  I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which although I hated the subject, I excelled in.  Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse.  There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life.  My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks.  It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited the qualifications I had, and the rest, I think I intimidated the interviewer simply because of who I was.  In that time I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist, and through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.  Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues.  I knew that in building a relationship compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing.  There was a certain expectation I had to fulfill, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented.  The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged.  Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian.  He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties.  He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns.  He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa.  From that moment, my obscurity disappeared.  It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses.  He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door.  There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa?  For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her when she had a certain air of unpredictability.  That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future.  She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her.  It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move.  The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red.  It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific.  In fact, her sublime beauty was the one other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact her hair was short, rather than long, and jet black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid.  I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes, before retracing my steps to the front of the ship and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water.  It was almost mesmerizing.  There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa, and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned.  The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close me without my realizing it.  How did she do that?  I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping.  I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck.  There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her particularly around the eyes, and of her hair which was jet black.  An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtle, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory.  The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent, and fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate.  Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes.  My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No.  Not yet.”  I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak.  And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanor as a little warmth reached her eyes.  “So that’s a maybe.  Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away.  Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped she turned to face me again.  She did not move closer.

I realized then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket.  “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe.  By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease.  “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side then the other, looking intently at me.  “You seem to be familiar.  Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings.  If she was, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me.  Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.”  I also didn’t mention the fact she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realized who I was.  “Yes, I remember now.  You made the front cover of the Economist.  You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course.  She was not the first who had recognized me from that cover.  It had raised my profile considerably, but not the Sternhaven’s.  That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family.  I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.”  Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky.  It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.”  She smiled again.  “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts.  I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me.  It had been Sebastian on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money.  He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right.  I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around.  “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head.  Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit.  “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised, or amused.  “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment.  “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave.  Instead she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot.  To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true.  Aside from the fact this excursion was probably a bad idea.  And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignoring their natural instinct.  I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing.  I was supposed to be traveling with my prospective bride.  I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?”  Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment then came back to me.  She seemed surprised I might be traveling with someone.

“No.  She is back in England, and the wedding is off.  So is the relationship.  She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her?  I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge.  No walking the plank today.  She moved towards it and sat down.  She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair.  Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds if she used this approach with anyone else.  I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us.  After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message.  It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.”  She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her.  “But it is done, and I moved on.  Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry.  Sometimes I ask personal questions without realizing what I’m doing.  It is none of my business.”  She shivered.  “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood, and held out her hand.  Should I take it and be drawn into her web?  I thought of Sebastian.  What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet.  “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

newdevilcvr6

In a word: Flight

There is a saying, if God wanted us to fly then he would have given us wings.

Unfortunately, he didn’t, so we do not get to know what it’s like to be in flight,

Unless…

We take an aeroplane, which usually has a flight number such as QF607, or in conversation, ‘I’ll be taking the 6 o’clock flight’.

If someone runs away, then we say they have taken flight.

If we roll back a few years, say about 80, to World War 2, flight tales on a whole new meaning.

It refers to a group of planes, in one case a number of spitfires, or,

The man in charge, a flight lieutenant, also colloquially known as ‘flight’.

This is not be confused with the word flite which has several very obscure meanings,

First, it means to quarrel or argue, or engage in a debate, and

Second, to make a complaint.

But one that sticks in my my mind is Flyte, from Brideshead Revisited.  they were a very interesting family.

‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

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.

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

NaNoWriMo – April – 2023 — Day 1

“The Things We Do For Love”

…

There are moments in our lives when events happen that stick with us forever.

This story is based on personal experience, with a few twists in the tale.  Like the main character, I spent a year as a purser on a cargo ship, a situation I managed to fall into by accident rather than pursue as a career.

Like the main character in the weeks, I had off the ship I used to find out-of-the-way, almost forgotten places to stay, in essence, hiding from the world, and home.  I was painfully shy and had always avoided contact with girls for fear of making a fool of myself.

Love seemed eons away, and that hiding process just took it to the nth level.

And, as mentioned before, having read Mills and Boon, the stories my wife devoured, as did her mother, I thought I could write a story that fitted into the confines of the standard 187 pages or so.

All it needed was the key three elements, the boy finds the girl, the boy loses the girl, boy and the girl find each other in the end.

Thus we find the main character, Henry, finds himself on a train, heading to what is metaphorically, the end of the world, in reality, a small seaside town with a hotel that takes the odd guest.  It’s winter, it’s cold, wet and miserable.

It suits his mood.

I’ve stayed in small hotels, where the owner is larger than life, the receptionist, barmaid, cook, cleaner and basically does everything, including, at times, the resident psychologist.

At one, I met a girl, a painfully shy female equivalent to me, hiding away because she could no longer take the stifling nature of her parents, and their expectations she is married, with children.  Happiness had nothing to do with what the believed was her lot in life.

That week, in a place that was as magnificent as it was forgettable, is a memory that I will treasure for the rest of my life.

The story that came from it, is not what happened, but it just shows what the imagination can do with bare bones.

Did I meet her again?  No.  I don’t think that was the purpose of it.

What it did do was take that painfully shy boy and give him the necessary courage to go out into a world he had always been afraid of, and find what was eventually his true love.

…

At the start, we learn about Henry, and why he doesn’t want to be at home.  A father that is overbearing, a man who wants his son to be more than what he is.  It’s that old story, the parent who cannot accept a son for who he is.

…

Words written 3,332, for a total of 3,332

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — B is for “Beguiling”

…

Time and I never quite achieved that level of understanding required for me to be where I was supposed to be at the appointed time.

It was why my mother always told me my appointments were an hour earlier than the right time, and while she was alive that worked well.

At Uni I simply tagged along with the others and was rarely late for lectures tutorials and exams.

But once that ended and I was cast out into the big unhelpful world it became a problem again.  Time became my enemy.

It was that thought, along with a dozen other unrelated but equally worrisome thoughts that were uppermost in my mind.

I had an important meeting at 10am that morning, one that might just decide the course of the rest of my life.

I was lying awake staring alternately at the ceiling and that alarm clock, on one hand fearing I would go to sleep and miss waking up and on the other how unrelentingly slow time took to pass.

Only three minutes had passed since the last time I looked, and it felt like at least an hour.

Annabel had said she would stay with me and make sure I was ready, then take me, just to make sure I got there, but it seemed overkill, and surely, she had better things to do.

It wasn’t until about two hours ago that I finally realised what she really meant, and I’d been kicking myself for being so blind.

Several others had told me she liked me, but I thought she was being nice to a somewhat eccentric friend.  Now I realised it was more than that, and I would have to make amends somehow.

I just didn’t understand the nuances of romance or women for that matter.

As daylight seeped in he the cracks in the curtains I knew it was time to get up, and I’d never felt so tired before.

I looked at the clock and saw that it was after six, so nearly four hours to stew over the questions they were going to ask and the answers I’d give them.

That mock session in my head lasted precisely ten minutes when there was a knock on the door.

No one came to visit me at this hour.  No one came to visit me, period.  I crossed to the door and looked through the viewer.

Annabel.

Then panic of a different sort set in.  She’d never called by my place never expressed a desire to go there and now she was here.

I had never invited anyone home, it was always a borderline mess, but in an organised way, because I never thought that day would come, or that it be a girl who would want to.

The place was more disorganised than usual, I wasn’t dressed, and it had been impressed on me a long time ago that it would never do to be seen other than immaculately dressed, and I couldn’t leave her standing outside the door.

Whatever hope I may have had in fostering a relationship of any sort was about to go out the window.  I took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Annabel.”

“Richard.”

And then I stood there like a statue, the extent of my social small talk exhausted.

She waited about thirty seconds and then asked, “May I come in?”

“It’s a bit messy, well, a lot messy.  I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

She smiled.  “You should see my room.”

I shrugged, stood to one side, and let her pass.  I closed the door and leaned against it.

She did a 360-degree turn in the middle of the living room, ending up looking at me.

“This is what I would call a representation of you, Richard.”

I was not sure how to take that.  There were piles of papers and textbooks on the dining table and chairs.  Unlike some places I’d been, discarded clothes did not stay where they landed or languished on the backs of chairs.  The kitchen bench was crowded with appliances and food boxes.  The floors were clean, whereas stacks of books were not.

At least you could sit in the chairs.

“A place for everything, and everything in its place.  You have a lot of books.”

She’d notice the four sets of shelves filled to overflowing.

“I don’t get out much.”

“Perhaps you should.”

A hint.  Was she hinting she was available?  I had not realised then that I was still in my pyjamas, and could feel the pinkish tinge of embarrassment.

“Sorry.  Just got out of bed.  Didn’t sleep much.  Didn’t want to sleep through the alarm.”

“I thought I’d drop in.  Just to make sure you were OK.”

“I’m sorry about yesterday.  I wasn’t thinking.  I appreciated the gesture, and perhaps didn’t quite…”

“You get dressed, Richard.  I’ll make some tea and ferret out something to eat.  Then we can talk.”

About what, I wondered as I went up the passage.

I wanted to believe that it might be about her and I, but I was realistic enough to know that there were expectations of her from her parents that didn’t include people like me.

And I was fine with that.  Just to be her friend was enough.

I spent more time that I should, showering and dressing, and thinking of all the topics she might have up for discussion, and I finally came to the conclusion that this was probably the last time.

She had been mentioning the fact her parents were moving to the other side of the country, and she was to go with them.  Her studies were done, and she was now ready to take up a management role in her father’s company.

I knew she was having reservations, starting at the middle, over the top of others who had to fight their way up the ladder, and the resentment it would bring.    All I had said was it was a golden opportunity.  It hadn’t been received very well and I had wondered later if I should have not agreed with her father.

That’s the trouble with words, once they’re out there, there’s no taking them back.

When I came back, she had cleared the table and sat, a cup of tea in front of her, and one on the other side, waiting for me.

She had a pensive look on her face.  Or was it troubled?

I sat.  It felt like a seat at the inquisition.

“I’m not going.”  She used a tone that dared me to disagree.

“Going where?”

“San Francisco.  Why would I want to go there?  It’s the other side of the country, away from everyone I know, everyone I care about.”

Should I agree with her, or play devil’s advocate?  I sipped the tea instead.

Perhaps if looked closer before I might have seen the hastily repaired eye makeup, a sign that she had been crying, or maybe shed a few tears?  Had she been arguing with her father? I’d met him once and he was a force of nature, not a man I would cross.

And I just remembered last night she had been summoned to dinner with her parents and brother, an equally forceful type that I didn’t like.  He’s once warned me that his sister would never be allowed to have a boyfriend like me, and I’d assured him that had never been nor ever would be my intention.

I was just surprised he could think that.

“So dinner didn’t go well.”

“Not after I threw my pudding at Leonard.”  The seriousness left her face for a moment to allow a whimsical smile at the memory of it, then back to thunder.

“Well, that is an interesting way to decline an invitation, one I might add, most people your age would kill for.”

“I’m not a manager.”

That was another bone of contention.  She completed her MBA, as well as a few other degrees, as a means of staying here.  That was no longer a reason.

“Not what your qualifications paint you as.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“Whose side do you want me to be on?”

A ferocious glare told me I was treading on very, very thin ice.

“Alright.  I’m on your side.  Stay.”

“Where?  If I stay, no allowance, no apartment, no car, nothing.  I was virtually told that I would have to be either a checkout clerk or a waitress in a sleazy bar.”

“Why a sleazy bar?”

“Leonard obviously frequents them, enough to suggest it.”

A thought came into my head, and I cast it aside instantly.  “Would you?”

“No.  A diner maybe, I can and have been a waitress, and it’s not all bad.”

“With an MBA at your disposal?”

She made a face.

“What do you really want to do.  I mean, you have spent your life being someone else, someone who deserves more than just being a waitress.”

“There’s more.”

“How can there be more?”

“My choice of boyfriend.”

“I thought what’s his name, yes, William, was just the sort of boy who would be eminently suitable.  You took him home one weekend, and what was it you said, they loved him, more than they loved you.”

“That was the problem, he was too perfect.  I didn’t love him; I couldn’t love him.”

“Why?”

“Because… I care about someone else.  Of course, he’s too blind to see what’s right in front of him.”

A new boyfriend.  She’s been playing that one close to her chest.

“Then perhaps I should go and see him and drop some very unsubtle hints.”

Of course, it took a few more seconds for the cogs to turn, and the pieces fall into place.  It was not another boy.

“I have no real prospects, Annabel.  If it’s me you are alluding to?”

“Yet I know how you feel about me, how I feel when I’m with you, even if you are frustrating me into the middle of next week.  You’re going to get that job, Richard, and then you will have prospects, certainly enough for me.  You do love me?”

“More than you can imagine, I just never thought…”

“No.  It’s what I love about you, you never assume, and you never take me for granted.”

“Where are you going to stay?”

“Here, of course, though it could do with a woman’s touch.” She smiled.

“Are you going to survive without the Davison billions?”

“I have an MBA, you said so yourself.  I’m sure I’ll come up with something.  Besides, when I told my father anything he could do I could do better, my mother muttered under her breath, ‘good for you Annabel.’.  At least she had faith in me.”

Well, that seemed settled. 

“When are you moving out of the penthouse?”

“Now.  We have just enough time for me to move in before your appointment.”

…

©  Charles Heath 2023

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 14

I’m always rummaging through the endless photographs that, if you were to ask me, I would vehemently deny I took.

It’s like the camera on my phone takes them itself, you know, the latest upgrade they didn’t tell you about, the artificial intelligence.

OK, so it’s simply a ferry crossing a wide stretch of water. You ask, why didn’t they build a bridge? A good question, and not one I can answer.

But, what does the thought of a ferry conjure up?

It brought to mind the film Jaws, and the summer visitors to the island, or should I say, shark hunting ground.

Here?

Perhaps a little less sinister…or not.

To me, at this point, it suggests the possibility of a get away, depending on what side you’re on, mainland, or island. I’m going to say, you’re on the island and going back to the mainland.

Running.

The island is like one of those remote places, with one way in and one way out. a place where people go to try and breathe life back into a marriage that’s falling apart under the stresses of city life, but it failed.

The problem wasn’t the fact you didn’t see each other enough, it’s just that you had grown to dislike each other, and going into a small isolated situation only made the problem worse.

It was just easier to blame everything else.

But going home, well that’s a whole different kettle of fish, because bridges were burned before you left, and going back, well, there was going to be grovelling involved.

Or not.

There’s a story here, but not right now. Perhaps in a day or two.

It’s late, very late, and I need some sleep … well, thinking time.

My disdain for some reporters, and reporting these days

It is sometimes quite trashy and that’s saying something!

Having been a journalist in a previous lifetime, and one that always believed that the truth mattered, it didn’t take long to realize that journalists should never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

Newspapers, and all other forms of media, will only write what they believe will sell, or what they think the public wants to read. The truth, sadly, is not the first thing on the reader’s mind, only that someone is to blame for something they have no control over, and it doesn’t matter who.

And the more outlandish the situation, the more the public will buy into it.

This, I guess, is why we like reading about celebrities and royalty, not for the good they might do, but the fact they stumble and make mistakes, and that somehow makes us feel better about ourselves.

Similarly, if the media can beat up a subject, like the coronavirus, and make it worse than it is, then people will lap up the continuing saga, as it relates to them, and will take one of two stances, that they believe the horror of it, and do as they’re asked, or disbelieve it because nothing can be that bad, and ignore it and the consequences of disobedience. knowing the government will not press too hard against the non-compliers simply because of democracy issues it will stir up.

That is, then the media will get a hold of this angle and push it, and people will start to think disobedience is a good thing, not a bad one.

So, our problem of trying to get a fair and balanced look at what the coronavirus is all about is nigh on impossible. We are continuously bombarded with both right and wrong information, and the trouble is, both sides are very plausibly supported by facts.

And that’s the next problem we have in reporting. We can get facts to prove anything we want. It’s called the use and abuse of statistics and was an interesting part of the journalism degree I studied for. We were told all about statistics, good and bad, and using them to prove the veracity of our piece.

I remember writing a piece for the tutor extolling the virtues of a particular person who was probably the worst human since Vlad the Impaler, using only the facts that suited my narrative. I also remember the bollocking he gave me for doing so but had to acknowledge that sometimes that would happen.

The integrity of reporting only went as far as the editor, and if the editor hated something, you had to hate it too. This is infamously covered in various texts where newspaper publishers pick sides and can influence elections, and governments. It still happens.

So, the bottom line is, when I’m reading an article in the media, I always take it with a grain of salt, and do my own fact-checking, remembering, of course, not just to fact check to prove the bias one way of the other, but then get a sense of balance.

We have state elections coming up where I live, but it does not sink to the personal sniping level as it does in the US, we haven’t sunk that low yet, but we haven’t got past the sniping about all the wrongs and failed promises of the government of the day, or the endless tirade against the opposition and how bad a job they did when they were previously in government.

You can see, no one is talking about what they’re going to do for us, no one is telling us what their policies are. It’s simply schoolyard tit for tat garbage speak. What happened to the town hall meeting, a long and winding speech encompassing the policies, what the government plans to do for its people in the next three years, and then genuinely answering questions?

Perhaps we should ban campaigning, and just get each party to write a book about what they intend to do, and keep them away from the papers, the TV, and any other form of media, in other words, don’t let them speak!

And don’t get me started about the drivel they speak in the parliament. Five-year-olds could do a better job.

OK, rant over.