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!
This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.
…
Planning was the order of the day, and I needed to see where this story was going.
Firstly, a meeting with Maryanne’s handler will give some perspective on what might be in the mysterious diary.
After rescuing Jack’s mother, Jack has a host of questions; about his biological father, who he was, and what happened to him when he was sent to prison.
Jack makes further contact with his biological father, now that his mother is free, and considers a meeting, but he has to be careful where and when.
This meeting, if it happens, is to get some insight into who is after the diary, and for Jack to possibly mediate a resolution between all of the people who are after it.
It’s naïve of him to think he can tread a path between them and not get hurt in the process, but people do foolish things.
Remember that Rosalie is still out there with the diary and there might be/will be a concerted effort to find her. McCallister, the people who want the diary, Jack’s mother (now regretting dragging Jack into her problems), Maryanne, and Jacob are looking for her.
There might be a possibility that Rosalie might read the diary, and then tell Jack – an eventuality that might cause more trouble.
Jacob is out there, very close, watching Jack, thinking Jack will lead him to the diary. Jack is going to ask McCallister to tell him about Jacob, though I’m not sure whether I want him to consider the possibility of talking to him about the past.
Where is Jack’s mother’s twin (Her name is Chloe), and what is she doing? The last time Jack saw her, she was tied up in the empty apartment building. The conversation with her didn’t go so well.
…
Now, possible outcomes:
Jack’s mother isn’t Jack’s mother but Chloe masquerading as her,
Rosalie does in fact get caught, because she foolishly decided to find Jack and tell him what’s in the diary,
Jack’s meeting with McCallister is interrupted by both Maryanne and Jacob, bullets fly, and people get injured,
Jack’s mother is not the innocent she pretends to be,
Jack’s life is far from what he thought it was.
…
This story is going to be finished within the time limit, and the estimated 60,000 words.
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.
This word, where I live, had taken on a new meaning. We have telephone scammers who ask your name when you answer the phone, and when you say yes, they hang up.
It doesn’t take much imagination how they can use that recording.
So, I now answer the phone with maybe, which confuses the real callers who want to know if it is you.
Of course, maybe is one of those words that have so many meaning, but the best one is to use it while you have time to think of a proper answer.
For example, did you get the potatoes? You haven’t been out, it slipped your mind, or you just plain forgot, but run with a ‘maybe’ so you can judge the reaction.
Angry face, you know no matter what, you’re in trouble.
Genial face, you know that it didn’t really matter and all is forgiven.
Then there’s the person who doesn’t know you and comes up to you in a crowded room. Are you [put name here]?
Maybe. We want to know if we’re in trouble, or if it for something good.
Using ‘maybe’ in writing probably isn’t the best word to us, but I like defying the experts. You can always find a maybe or two in any of my books.
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’.
It was odd because when I had gone to bed the previous evening, it had been quite warm, after one of those balmy autumn days. We had all been basking in what seemed to be an endless heatwave and finally getting some relief, and the last thing I’d seen was storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
It had been the strangest of summers, unprecedented, and as some of the more radical climate change so-called experts said, the beginning of the end.
The more rational scientists, the people the government relied on to advise them, had said that changes were occurring though not in a manner that rang ring alarm bells, but it was not part of the normal weather patterns.
Storms like that being predicted were normal, what was not normal, was feeling cold.
Also, I’d woken to an eerie darkness because there didn’t seem to be any lights on in the room. A few minutes later, that darkness had given way to a murky light as dawn broke, and I shivered.
Something was not right.
I looked at the clock, and it had stopped. I checked my phone, and it had a seventy per cent charge where it should be full. The charger was not working. A few seconds later, I tried the light switch.
Nothing. There was no power.
Another shiver went through me, but this time, it was generated by fear. I was being drawn to the window, and then when I looked out, what I saw took my breath away.
What in hell’s name had happened?
Outside, there was nothing but snow as far as the eye could see.
I’d gone to sleep after spending a few hours on a warm balmy night with Tricia, the waitress from the flat above, over a cold bottle of white wine.
Over the last few weeks, we had talked about this, about that, about nothing at all, slowly discovering that spending these few hours together relieved the boredom and inanity of our mundane lives.
For me, it had given me the hope of something else in the future than of being nothing of consequence and going nowhere.
That landing we had sat on only a few hours before was now deep in snow. If it was January, I wouldn’t give it a second thought, but this was September.
I threw on some warm clothes, buried in the bottom drawer and smelling of mothballs because I wasn’t supposed to need them for a few more months. It looked bleak outside, and I wanted to see just how bad it was close up.
After another look out the window to make sure I wasn’t seeing things, I went downstairs where there were a dozen or more people in the foyer and more out on the sidewalk, most of whom had looks of stunned disbelief.
As I descended the stairs it got colder, and with the door open, we could all feel the breeze swirling the lightly falling snow outside and in through the opening. The building supervisor was rugged up, standing by the door, making sure it closed after someone entered or left.
I knew most of those downstairs. I also recognised the looks on their faces.
Fear.
“What’s happening,” I asked. “Aside from the obvious.”
Mr Jacobson, the oldest member of our little enclave and the most educated, peered out the door and then looked at me. “It seems winter has come early this year.”
There was a hint of irony in his tone. The previous day had been in the low seventies, and the weather forecast had been for rain. Instead of rain, we got snow. How was that possible? I’m sure he would tell me if I asked, but I was not sure I’d understand him. He was a scientist in his previous life before forced retirement.
“Or, if it isn’t that…” I said, perhaps expecting him to complete the sentence. I knew he had a thing about climate change, even though everyone else had dismissed it when it seemed the planet’s climate appeared to have readjusted itself a few years back.
Some said it was a miracle. Some said we were all worried about nothing, but some said it was a sign, one last chance to stop going down the path we were on. If it was a reprieve, we ignored it.
Mr Jacobsen had told everyone that adjustment was only temporary, but he’d been saying the same thing for the last few years, and nothing had happened. Now he was simply the man who cried wolf.
“Mother Earth has been waiting patiently to take her revenge, and because we preferred to be complacent, this is just the beginning.” Mr. Jacobson wasn’t saying it out of spite, I believed he knew what was happening but couldn’t explain it in words any of us would understand.
But Harry Johnson, the man who knew everything but knew nothing, threw in his two cents worth. “You scientists have been banging on about this nonsense for decades, and nothing has happened. This is an aberration. Something had to give after an abnormally hot summer. It’ll be gone in a day or two. Mark my words.”
Mr Jacobson shook his head, but he said nothing more. There was no point. No one was going to believe him now. “There’s no power,” he said to me. “And it’s going to get colder. They should have insulated the power stations when they had the chance, but they didn’t. My advice, to everyone, get some extra blankets.”
“Or head south,” someone yelled out.
“You think it’s going to be better there?” Someone else asked.
“Out in that cold.” Another resident, one from a few floors above me, came in from outside shivering as if to emphasise his point. “You wouldn’t get far. The police are saying it only goes as far south as Washington, but everyone has the same idea, and the roads are clogged with people trying to get out of the city. They also say we’re actually not as badly off as those further north.”
“I didn’t see any police outside,” Harry Johnson said, and I’ve been out a few times.”
“They’re moving from building to building, telling people to stay indoors and keep warm until the power is back on. There is only limited transport options and office buildings and shopping centres are closed due to the blackout. They say we should tune into the radio for further information. Didn’t any of you take notice after the last disaster when we were told to be prepared in case it happened again?”
“That was different,” Harry muttered.
“How? This is worse. Then they rationed power, but we had power, and trucks and transport could move. This time, we have no power at all, and nothing can move because of the snow and icy conditions. This is going to take a while for the authorities to fix. If the weather changes out there, and it doesn’t look like it will change any time soon. Go to your apartments and keep warm. Find a radio and keep yourselves informed.”
There was murmuring, and a few complaints about people telling them what to do, but within five minutes, they were all trudging back up the stairs. With nothing more to see, I went back up the stairs myself. When I got to my apartment, Tricia was outside the door, dressed in her ski gear.
“What happened? Where’s the heat. I just woke up freezing.”
“Mr Jabobson says it’s Mother Nature taking revenge on us horrible humans.”
“The mad scientist?”
It was one of several names the residents gave him.
“I don’t think he’s as mad as we want to believe he is. He says it’s going to get colder and we need extra blankets.”
“I could get mine, bring them down, and we could share if you like. I know you’d like to be with me as much as I would like to be with you. It’s as good a reason as any. I am assuming you like me as much as I like being with you.”
I hadn’t expected whatever we had to move quickly, but I had thought my feelings towards her were not fully reciprocated. I didn’t want to take advantage of the situation, but it was a sensible idea.
“I do, and I’m happy if you’re happy. I don’t think the heat or the power will be back in a hurry, so we are not likely to be going far.”
“Then let’s go up and fetch the blankets.”
It was coincidental that recently, I had been reading about doomsday events. The oil crisis was not likely to happen again, and someone had thought about that Hormuz bottleneck, built alternative pipelines, and considered a lot more scenarios again after the recent mini-crisis. Then there was the possibility of a meteor crashing into the earth and knocking us out of orbit, but that was a bit more extreme and unlikely.
Nor was it because I was one of those prepper types who were hoarding necessities in an underground bunker, but because for a few months, about a year ago, the Middle East went up in flames and the oil supply briefly stopped, again.
It just proved that we should never put politicians in charge of trying to de-escalate a potential war. For those few months, it began with anarchy until the order was restored, and everything was rationed until common sense prevailed.
We saw what could happen, and it wasn’t pretty.
This, however, was a different problem. What could be a prelude to the next ice age had just arrived on our doorstep, and it would be interesting to know what was happening, even get a weather report that could tell us it was temporary. If we had learned anything from the past, people needed to be kept informed.
Even if they told us a lie, that everything would get better soon, it would be better than nothing. After the last crisis, everyone was aware that there had been precious little truth spoken as time passed, and inaction was met with unrest. It came very close to martial law, and no one wanted to see that again.
After that, I bought a small battery-operated radio, knowing there would be a designated radio station that had its own power supply to advise people of what was happening and what to do in a crisis like this; once Tricia and I were comfortable and warm, we tuned in to the station. It wasn’t confidence-inspiring, and the deadpan announcer’s voice only added a sense of the sinister to the news.
It definitely wasn’t good.
What we did learn; the snow basically blanketed the whole of the northern hemisphere from the north pole to the latitude below Washington, though there were snowy conditions for a further hundred miles south past that point. It was similar to the southern hemisphere, where it reached as far up as the bottom of Tasmania, an island south of mainland Australia.
And it wasn’t predicted to stop snowing for a few days at the very least. The poles were apparently clouded over and in a similar situation to being fogged in. There, the temperatures were a lot, lot colder.
No one was commenting on why it was happening, only that it was an unexpected turn of events that was not expected to last, and that the city’s services would be soon operating on a reduced scale, predicted to be within 24 hours, and that people, unless they were designated as working for essential services, should stay home until advised otherwise.
They acknowledged that power stations had been temporarily disabled by an abnormal amount of snow. The drifts had also caused problems in the substations and along the feeder lines, whatever that meant.
Then, the message looped after saying to stay tuned for any change in the situation. At the very least, they would advise the latest weather report on the hour. That was twenty minutes away.
We both listened to the weather report, and we both agreed that the wording was a signal. Not necessarily to us, but to others, and that was most likely to say things were not going to get better in the short term and to prepare for trouble.
The announcement underlined the necessity that we all stayed in place, the conditions would soon improve, and, shortly after that, another announcer said there would be limited power returning in a matter of hours.
A specific number wasn’t mentioned. It was as close to saying that no one knew definitely.
After several minutes of a rather sombre symphony playing softly in the background, both of us agreed it was weird because New York was never this quiet, ever. Tricia said to no one in particular, “What are they not saying?”
She was right. The announcer had spoken for nearly half an hour and told us nothing we already didn’t know. In words we really didn’t understand.
“My father always said that when people start using big words, they’re trying to hide the truth.”
“It’s not getting better, is it?”
“We don’t know. Mr Jacobson, the man you call the mad scientist, said that winter had come early, and while he made it sound like a joke, I don’t think he meant it that way. I’m going to see him and ask him what he’s going to do.”
“Don’t you think he’s crazy?”
Everybody did. Especially after he lost his job after telling anyone who would listen that exactly what happened was going to happen. Maybe if it had been five years ago, someone might have listened.
“No.”
Outside the door, we could hear raised voices. Had Harry decided to tell Mr Jacobson to keep his theories to himself. “I’d better go and see what’s happening.”
By the time I got the door open, it was to see Jacobson being escorted by two policemen. I ran up to them before they descended the stairs, yelling out, “He’s not mad, just concerned like all of us.”
He stopped and turned to me. “It’s fine, Alex. I’m going to have a talk with the meteorologists. They requested I go and meet with them. Remember what we talked about a few months back?”
For the moment, I couldn’t, but I had made a note of it on my phone.
“No matter. When you do, it’s Z. Do you understand? Z.”
I repeated it, and he nodded. Then they continued down the stairs, a few of the residents following.
On the way back to my apartment, I tried to remember what it was we were talking about. He had been, I remembered now, rather disjointed, as though he was having a hard time articulating what he wanted to say. He’d been more distracted than normal, but I had put it down to the anniversary of his wife’s death. It had hit him very hard, and I could only imagine what it would be like for him.
I went in and closed the door behind me. Tricia was still under the blankets. “What was it?”
“Jacobson, your mad scientist, was being taken away by the police. He says he’s been taken to see the meteorologists.”
“Or the loony bin. I heard Harry say more than once Jacobson was a loose cannon.”
“Harry wouldn’t know his ass from his elbow. Jacobson reminded me of something we talked about a few months ago. It might not be relevant; he was rambling more than usual at that time. He asked me to write it down, so all I have to do is find the notes on my cell phone.”
Which then took the next two hours to go through. I hadn’t realised that I’d accumulated so much junk over the years, nor so many photographs of New York all through the year, a visual reminder of what it was like before the snow.
“We will have to think about food soon,” Tricia said. “I usually only cater from day to day, like everyone.”
It was probably what a lot of people inside and outside the building were also thinking about, and given what happened the last time food supplies were interrupted, it could get ugly very quickly.
That was why I stocked up on some essential long-life items like milk, canned meat, vegetables, and fruit. Enough for two people to last a month.
“The thing I do remember from talking to Jacobson several months ago was to store up some essential items in case the oil stopped again. He said it was prudent these days to have supplies because of how things are in the Middle East.”
Tensions never die down there, and rockets were always flying about threatening to extend the current conflict between Israel and the Palestinians into a wider war with Lebanon, Syria, and Iran.
Who knew we’d have something else to worry about.
“For you, perhaps.”
“For two. I have always included you in my disaster plan.”
“Then believe me when I say you are the first.”
“I know how that feels. But only if you want me to. I don’t want you to feel obligated or have to do anything in return.”
She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I know. Now, what was the mad scientist trying to tell you?”
I found the relevant document file and scrolled through the pages, a whole mass of disjointed and in places almost unintelligible notes. Jacobson had been reciting stuff so fast that I could hardly get it down. His wife had been an expert on shorthand, and he forgot that I was not her.
But then I got to the section that had a ‘Z’ on it, in capitals and bolded so that it stood out. He must have slowed down by then.
“It says that Plan Z was to get ready for an ELE event.”
“ELE, what is that?”
“Can’t remember, hang on.” I scrolled through a few more pages and then stopped reading. It was not on the page, but I suddenly remembered what it was.
An apt description of what happened when the meteor struck Earth and killed all the dinosaurs. I said, “It’s what is known as an Extinction Level Event.”
“I thought that was when meteors were coming.”
“It could also be a deadly virus like Covid, or an ice age, though that wouldn’t kill everyone, but it would make things very difficult to survive. Maybe that’s not what he specifically meant. Perhaps it’s just some of the suggestions he made if such a thing happened.”
“He did say z, plan z.”
“No, just Z, but he did say it was what we had been talking about, and that was the only z I can remember, or made notes on. And if they’re pulling him back to be an advisor after scoffing at his ideas, then what they’re not telling us is quite telling if you ask me. If you don’t mind the irony of it all.”
It was met with a wan smile from her. “What did you think we should do?”
I shrugged. “If It was just me alone, I’d probably head south. There’s no transport, so I’m not sure what I’d use.”
“And go where?”
“Always wanted to go to California, and that’s past the current freeze line. Somewhere where there’s power for starters, though.”
“I’ve got a car. It’s not a very good one, but I used to hang out in my dad’s workshop, and I pretty much know everything there is about cars and trucks.”
“And you waitress?”
“Girl mechanics don’t get far, just hit on. Lasted a week before I hit one jerk with a spanner. They’re very useful for teaching jerks lessons. Do you have any hidden talents?”
“Aside from washing dishes, not really. I can read, not comics, but textbooks and learn from them. Very good at trivia questions. I can program computers, and I have a funny little program running at the moment collecting every digitised book on the planet. Useful, of course, to no one but me.”
“Every book?”
I shrugged. “That can be freely downloaded, yes.”
“Why?”
“The usual reason, because I can.”
“How about speaking other languages, like Russian, or German?”
“Yes, several. Why?”
“Another quirk, I guess, that I have too. I can speak about six or seven different languages. I just can for some reason. Helps to talk to the customers at the diner when their English is kaput.”
Interesting. But time for a change of subject. “Does the car have petrol?”
“Diesel.”
“Spare fuel?”
“Some. So, we have a car, we have food, we have blankets and warm clothes. Still might not be enough. We certainly will not get on the roads with the stay-at-home order in place, but when things get better, it’s a possible plan.”
Another announcement had just been made, that if you had no reason to be on the street, stay at home, until further notice. There was also a specific reference to looting and the fact that perpetrators would be apprehended. This time, they were not waiting until everything went to hell.
“The question is, and don’t take this the wrong way if I was to consider going anywhere, I would not want to leave you here, not while this is all going on. And if it does pass, I would consider going south, but again, I don’t want to leave you unless…”
“I have something better to do with my life, or I have a secret boyfriend or ex-husband, or maybe I just don’t like you. What you see is what you get, Alex. I don’t want to be alone, and yet that’s what always happens. The type of guys I get to meet, well, you’re not one of them. Let’s see what happens in the next few days when we are so close; bad habits are bound to surface. I’m not perfect.”
“Neither am I. Nor do I have many dates. Talking to you on the fire escape has been the highlight of my life. Make of that what you will.”
It was hard to tell what she was thinking, though, at times, it was easy enough to gauge her mood. At the moment, with everything, there was an element of fear, tinged with something else. But the fact she wanted to stay with me and see what happened was a good sign.
She took my hand in hers and held it with both of hers. “I’m not sure if I should curse or thank this weather. But one thing is for sure, it brought us together in a way I never expected, though part of me was hoping something might develop. Lives such as ours don’t give scope for much, but it doesn’t mean we can’t try. Plan for two. I think soon, we’re going to be in for a hell of a ride if we can get in front of it. That said, in the meantime, what have you got to eat?”
I have reworked the first part of the story with a few new elements about the characters and changed a few of the details of how the characters finish up in the shop before the policewoman makes her entrance.
This is part of the new first section is the one that involves the shopkeeper`:
This wasn’t the shopkeeper’s first hold up. In fact, over the years there had been a dozen. But only one got reported to the police, and that was only because the robber was shot and killed.
He’d taken a bullet that night, too, which, from the police point of view, made him a concerned citizen simply defending himself.
The rest had been scared off by the double-barrel shotgun he kept under the counter for just such emergencies.
The young punk who came into the shop with his girlfriend had pulled out the pistol and told him if he reached for the shotgun he’d shoot him. The kid looked unstable and he’d backed away.
When the kid collapsed, he should have gone for the shotgun, but instead, he thought he could get to the gun before the girl realized what was happened. She wasn’t an addict and clearly looked like she was only along for the ride. Her expression, when the kid pulled out the gun told him she’d known nothing about her partner’s true intentions.
But, he wasn’t fast enough, and she had the gun pointing at him before he’d got past the counter.
From one pair of unpredictable hands to another.
Like the girl, he was just as surprised when the customer burst in the door, just before closing time.
The situation might have been salvageable before the customer came in the door, getting the girl to go along with the robbery being about money, but there was no denying what the kid on the floor’s problem was.
Damn.
He had to try and salvage the situation simply because there was a lot of money involved, and other people depending on him. He looked at the boy, on the floor, then the girl.
“Listen to me, young lady, you would be well advised to let this man go as he suggests. And, please put the gun down before someone gets hurt. Your friend needs medical help and I can call an ambulance.”
The girl switched her attention back to him. “No one’s going anywhere, so just shut the hell up and let me think.”
The storekeeper glanced over at the customer.
He’d seen him come into the shop once or twice, probably lived in the neighborhood, the sort who’d make a reliable witness, either a lawyer or an accountant. Not like most of the residents just beyond the fringe of respectability.
If only he hadn’t burst into the shop when he did.
This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.
The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Things are about to get complicated…
With Jan safely in custody, probably for about 15 minutes when Dobbin discovered she was in police hands, Jennifer and I were free to chase up O’Connell and maybe we would also find Anna.
It was a long shot at best.
But we had to find out more about Anna Jacovich. For that, we would have to go back to the office and talk to Joanne. I told Jennifer what I intended to do and dropped her at the safe house for some much-needed rest before we went after O’Connell.
Then, back in the car, I called the number I had for Joanne.
“Sam.”
“Memorised my number?”
“I like to know who’s calling before I answer.”
“Then this isn’t a restricted line?”
“Restricted enough.”
“I found your little toy?”
Did I hear a sigh?
“You know the world we live in Sam, trust no one not even your mother. Hard for me to trust or not trust her, she passed away when I was seven. Monica said you were good. What can I do for you?”
“A full workup on Anna Jacovich. I’m coming into the office now, and will be there in about half an hour.”
“No pressure then?”
“Not at all.”
“Try not to irritate security this time.”
I’m sure I saw a grim expression on the face of the soldier that had been there the last time I tried to run the gauntlet, and then disappointment when my card worked. I signed in and put the name of the department I was visiting down as Research.
When he asked for a name, I gave him Joanne’s. No doubt he would call her long before I got to her.
She met me at the second level of defence and then took me to a room where two folders sat at opposite ends of a table, two desk lamps shining light down on them. The rest of the room was in darkness.
When she shut the door, I said, “Please tell me there in;t a firing squad in black camouflage just waiting to shoot me.”
She smiled. “If it was more sensitive information, I’d let you read it, then have you shot. Not today.
That was a relief. Oddly, I believed that she would if the circumstances warranted it. Joanne was scary, nor scary than Jan. It’s the quiet ones you had to worry about.”
We sat.
“Read. Then I’ll answer questions.”
For the ten minutes, it took me to discover that Anna was a biochemist herself, and had worked in a not-so-secret government laboratory that had been unmasked with disastrous results, adding another dimension to the problem. I was beginning to think she might be the one who created the monster and had set her husband up to take the blame.
If that was the case, she was never going to pass it on to O’Connell or sell it to him, other than to take the money and run. If that was the case, Severin knew it was her all along, and how dangerous she was.
But and there was a big but in all of this. She needed an accomplice to get to England, which was O’Connell. Now he was no longer needed…
Yes, she would also need both Severin and Maury off her tail, and that had been taken care of.
Jan? Unless I completely misread her, it was not possible she could be the accomplice; she was doing what Dobbin requested. Or had she? Dobbin did say she was able to make executive decisions on the fly.
“The threat isn’t O’Connell. He’s just a pawn.”
“Not just a pretty face then?”
“I never regard my face as pretty.”
She shook her head. “It’s Anna. She played Severin and Maury, she played Dobbin, and she played Dobbin’s little toy soldier, O’Connell. Or Quigley I believe his real name is. I hesitate to say O’Connell played you.”
“Call a dog a dog, Joanne. If I had more experience and more information I might have seen that. You can’t keep people in the dark, and then expect miracles.”
“I’m the messenger, Sam.”
“I’ve been known to shoot messengers, just because I can.”
“Save your bullets for the bad guys.”
“How do I know you and Monica are not the bad guys?”
Another shake of the head. “OK. You’ve passed the scepticism test, Sam. Now put it away. We have to work together on this. It’s a condition for continuing to work on the case.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I don’t need to answer that. But, I get it. You’re a self-starter and will keep at it, with or without us. I can see why people like you. To me, your just another dangerous amateur.”
There were words I could say, but judging by the reek of self-aggrandisement, it would not penetrate the thick hide.
I smiled. “Not noted for your charm then.”
“No. Where is Jan?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play games, Sam. They don’t become you. You went to see Severin, but he ended up dead, and she shot him. Why?”
“You read this file?” I picked it up and dropped it on the table.
She was the sort that read the first page, the preamble, and the last page, the result or desired result.
“I did.”
“Then you know why, as for Jan, if you know I was there when Severin was shot, you’d know where Jan is.”
“She disappeared into the trees. And no doubt in the wind. You should know she’s a trained MI5 assassin on loan to Dobbin.”
Who was now in jail somewhere pending the Detective Inspectors leisure, unless she filed a report. If she did, she would be out now, and looking for O’Connell and Anna.
“Then how should I know?”
She shrugged. “I thought I’d ask. I’m not sure I like having to peel away the layers of this story one by one.”
“Be more forthcoming.” I stood. I had what I needed. “If that’s all, I’ll go on with the job.”
“O’Connell?”
“He’s probably dead by now, but I have to find him, one way or another.”
This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.
…
So, here’s a question.
If your mother and her twin sister are identical twins, how will Jack know that he has rescued the right woman?
We all know how some identical twins like to play tricks on their friends, by substituting each other. It’s a wicked game on the unsuspecting, but for a criminal, it’s a ploy that just might work.
But there’s that other issue we have between the son and the mother, quite a few years of lying and half-truths to get past, and a great deal of explanation.
Perhaps their reuniting is not going to go the way the mother or the son thinks.
Meanwhile, Jack is working on the idea of visiting his real father and trying to get some explanations out of him.
And, where is Maryanne?
Is it a bit late in the day to say that I’m not quite sure how this is going to end because one is not coming to me that will satisfy tying up the loose ends.
I suspect tomorrow will be the day when the last planning will be done. It may cost a day of words, but it will get the story done.
It’s the pointy end of the project and it has to come together.
When I started the story, it was the day after Agatha was found dead. From there it was a story of how her ex-husband charted a path through the tangled web of her life and business.
It was going to be one told through the various people in her life and the effect they had, good and bad. It was also meant to be a story of taking something good and twisting it, which is not what always happens but can.
I had always believed that being rich is a curse rather than a blessing, because you eventually start worrying about those around you who want to take it away, the fact, in the end, you can’t trust anyone.
I guess that it doesn’t happen a lot in real life.
Or maybe it does.
Is this why we believe rich people are eccentric?
These are only a few questions that are going to get a much bigger airing in the first edit, because at the moment, there are arts I’m not happy with.
I know who is responsible for her death. Now. For almost the whole of the story, I was like the reader, waiting to find out, and speculating along the way. It’s not who you think.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 