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.
…
The writing proceeds at a steady rate because the ideas are there. There’s planning, but not too far into the future because, like any relationship, the one between the current two main characters must develop, or die.
I was waiting to see where their interaction takes us.
But then, our main character now must confront the notion he had a doppelganger, and not only that but he is also a criminal who just murdered someone, and his face is all over the television.
And this is an exact double as if he had a twin brother.
The thing is, as far as he’s aware, he’s an only child.
But, there’s a knock on the door, and things are about to get very hectic…
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
In the current times, the word needle is very polarising.
Will you have the vaccine, or not. Is one of the reasons simply because you hate needles?
I know I do and have a fear factor of 100%. Fortunately, I got very sick a few years ago and spent 10 days in the hospital, and was forced to have multiple needles every day.
Now it’s not so hard
But, I digress.
A needle is one of those things used in the medical profession mainly to deliver vaccines and medicine. It is a very small cylinder.
A needle can be used to sew up a garment or make repairs. This is a smallish piece of metal with an eyelet.
A needle can also be used to stitch up wounds, though it’s best you have a local anesthetic first.
Another way of using needles is to describe tiny icicles which hurt when they hit your face or your eyes. It is called a needle effect.
Then, another use of the word, is to needle someone, that is to say, bombard them with questions, or annoy them.
It’s a pointer on a dial, like that of a fuel gauge, which for me, always seems to hover just above empty. It can also be on a compass, where heading north is not always clear especially where magnets are nearby.
A fir tree’s leaves are more like needles.
You need one to play a record on a gramophone, not that they exist anymore.
Paradoxically it can also be used to describe a pointy rock or an obelisk-like “Cleopatra’s Needle”
Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.
That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.
At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.
The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.
Routine was the word she used.
Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.
Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.
After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.
But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.
The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.
For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.
They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.
No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.
She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.
It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.
What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.
And it had.
Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.
We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.
She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.
I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.
I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.
Childhood romances are often seen as incredibly romantic when others look back on how you met and how the relationship evolved, and then when that final leap into the unknown is taken.
It also makes a great conversational piece when talking to others particularly if it is for the first time or on your typical holiday when talking to the person next to you on a plane, or you are on a two-week cruise with nowhere to hide and nothing else to talk about.
The only downside is that you have to listen to their story, and it’s never as exciting as yours.
But as the years go by, it’s where you begin to finish each other’s sentences, then start bringing up everything bad about the relationship, followed by talk of divorce when things start to go downhill.
People say it’s healthy for a marriage to argue, but really, it isn’t. What you do learn after twenty years is that compromise is the only way to survive.
Janine and I had a rocky start. I’d known her forever, but she had always been my second choice. It had always been a competition between her and Margaret Bennet, and Margaret would have one if she had not dumped me at the last moment.
Even then, it took a few years before I could get my head above water, Margaret had broken me so badly. I had often wondered why Janine cared that much because others had treated her much better.
It was one of those mornings. The last child had finally finished school and was university-backed, the other two having already left and worked on becoming captains of industry, or perhaps something less lofty. Both bots, they were more interested in girls to set themselves up with a good education.
Alive, the youngest, was going to take after her mother and become a doctor or lawyer, having finished at the top of her class. She was taking a gap year first and going to see the world.
It meant that in less than a week, we would be on our own for the first time in nearly twenty-five years. We both were planning to take a step back from our jobs to spend some time together.
I could, but I had the feeling Janine would not. She was one of those micro-managers, and since the business was hers, she was always reluctant to leave, and our holidays tended to see her on the end of the phone, unable to relax.
I’d just run through the overnight work emails and jumped to my personal one. Usually, there was nothing there, except if the boys needed money which was pretty much invested a week. This morning there was one from someone rear I never expected to hear from again.
Margaret Bennet.
Only it was Margaret O’Hara now.
I had taken an interest in what had happened to her after she left me, the luckier man being William Barkerfield, the son of a Lord, and the heir to a fortune. Wealth won, and love lost. It showed me what her true character was, and at the time, it surprised me.
William Barkerfield was a snotty self-entitled fool who was popular only because of his heritage. Those who pandered to him got to stay at the castle. I never pandered to him, but Margaret had several times.
And like the fool I was, I never wanted to believe she cheated, but after she left, I had to suspect that the rumours were true. It only made the parting so much more painful.
That first marriage to the Son of a Lord only lasted five years, William had not changed his younger days behaviour and was often seen with a bevy of beautiful women.
I think for a short time I felt sorry for her, but she went on to commit an even bigger folly by marrying one of his friends, equally as seldom entitled, who, if the divorce papers were true, beat her.
There were three more attempts to get it right and as O’Hara, I’d just read that her fifth husband had died of a heart attack k and left her comfortable lying off, but I was guessing not comfortable enough.
I had expected a call after each of the disasters ended, but there wasn’t. Janine was as interested in Margaret’s trajectory, and I knew for Janine’s part it would eventually land her in a cesspool, but there was no love lost between them.
I was in two minds whether I could read it, and in the end, curiosity got me.
It was long and rambling, the sort of missive written by someone very drunk. It was an apology, but she knew it was too late, and too much water had gone under that bridge. She wanted to meet and would be in London next week. It was up to me if I wanted to see her.
I was not sure I did. Just reading it made me feel a variety of emotions.
Janine saw straight away something was wrong.
“What’s happened?”
“I got an email from Margaret.”
“It’s a little late for an apology.” Ever practical, or was that pragmatic. “What does she want?”
“Meet up. She’s in town next week.”
“You going? She has no right to expect anything from you.”
“Don’t know. I don’t really want to drag up all those old memories again. I hope it’s not to tell me about all the bad luck she’s had.”
“She’ll want something, Harry. You can be sure of it. You can also bet she knows the success you have in your life. If you go, be careful.”
It surprised me she was so blase about it, given how much she hated her.
“You know me better than that.”
“You know what I mean.” It was accompanied by that look of hers, the warning that wasn’t meant to look like a warning. The fact I’d never done anything wrong the whole time I’d been married to her obviously counted for nothing.
I went, if only out of curiosity.
We were dining at the poshest restaurant in the city, and I knew I would be paying for it. Margaret was that sort of woman. She had been before when I knew her, and nothing would have changed.
She looked elegant, a woman of substance. She didn’t get up when I arrived and earned her first black mark. I’d set the bar at three.
She smiled when I sat, but it was a fake smile. Was meeting me so beneath her?
“It’s been a long time, Harry.”
“So Janine tells me.”
A wrinkle of her nose at the name. I mentioned it to annoy her. Now I knew it would I would do it again.
“How are you?” She asked.
“I got over you, and as you can see, I didn’t die of a broken heart.” It wasn’t said with malice, but malice was what I felt.
“I’m so sorry about what happened. William had just assumed l would marry him, and it was an impossible situation to get out of.”
“Was it worth it?”
It was clear she was not here to rake over the coals. The fact that she was tolerating my questions told me Janine was right. She wanted something badly enough to swallow her pride.
“With the benefit of hindsight, no. I was young and naive back then. I saw you married Janine, so there was no point calling you when it all fell apart.”
“Still married, too,” I said, rubbing a little salt into the wound.
The look she gave me would have killed a lesser mortal stone dead, but it was interesting to realise I felt nothing for her anymore. It was her loss, not mine.
The waiter delivered the menus, and there were no cheap options. One course was about the same it cost to feed our family of five. Both Janine and I would agree was an unnecessary extravagance.
She picked the dearest items on the menu. I did, too, just to see what it was I was missing. The champagne was almost an average worker’s weekly paycheck. Even broke, she knew nothing about being humble.
A silence set in for a few minutes after the waiter left, and another arrived with the champagne and poured it. Wine was one of those subjective things. Some reckoned expensive wine was no better than cheap plonk. I tended to agree, but individual taste made the bad sometimes good and good often bad. I doubt Margaret would understand that personal taste trumps expense.
I had a sip, then put the glass down. Served properly, and at the right temperature, it was exquisite. I could tell the difference, and I liked it. But, although I could easily afford it, I chose not to.
“I saw your last husband died of a heart attack.” I did wonder if she had something to do with it, but then I remembered she never really wanted to participate. It was no surprise she had no children. And possibly no wonder her husbands went elsewhere to pursue women who would willingly give them what they wanted.
“Too lazy. I told him to go out and exercise to lose some weight. Then he did. Died the first day in the gym.”
“Did you inherit the castle?”
“No. The bastard left me a small annuity and left everything to his kids. It’s like I never existed.”
“You didn’t think the aristocracy would protect itself from someone like you?” OK, I’d had enough of this wretched woman. I would have given her the benefit of the doubt, but after picking this place and those items off the menu, she wasn’t worth the effort. “You really never knew me, Margaret. And if you think this is what I am,” I waved a hand to take in the whole restaurant, “You’ve greatly miscalculated. I’m done here. You can finish your lunch, I’ll tell the maitre’d I’ll pay for it, but don’t call me again.”
I stood, took a last look at the bullet I dodged, and walked out.
What I would never tell either Margaret or Janine was how heartbroken I was, seeing her again, of even thinking that there might be something there, even if I didn’t act on it, or the fact the hurt really hadn’t gone away.
The trouble was, I knew it was not going to be the last time I would see her.
As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some years ago.
Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.
For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1
These are the memories of our time together…
This is Chester. We have been discussing the possibility of being stuck in the house for anything from 14 days to 10 months.
Yes, the Coronavirus is finally arriving in Australia, and though it is slow to catch on, we are being warned that it could get a lot worse, very quickly.
Chester has suggested we barricade the doors and windows.
Alas, I tell him, this is not the same as the American cowboys fending off an Indian attack. No circling the wagons, and definitely no John Wayne to ride in and save the day.
Too many westerns on Fox. I keep forgetting Chester has mastered the art of turning the TV on and changing channels on the Foxtel remote.
I also tell him that the virus is not only airborne, spread by those who cough or sneeze, but also by touch, like shaking hands, and hugging.
At that, Chester takes a good three, four steps back away from me. So, he challenges me, what are the options.
Well, firstly cats may not get the virus. Only one dog, as far as I know, had got it. You, I tell him, do not need to worry.
As for the humans, well, we are in trouble if it comes.
We will be staying in, in some sort of forced quarantine, trying to avoid the rest of the world until it goes away,
So, he says, that means you have enough cat food and litter, the proper one?
I shake my head like he does when he’s annoyed.
Well, if it happens, I’m sure we’ll find out. Besides, I add, you need to lose a kilo or two.
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’d expected more questions from her, but the ride in the train to Wimbledon, and then to the car, she had very little to say. There was no doubt she was intrigued by the offer, but there was some trepidation too.
But it didn’t auger well for her longevity if she trusted people this easily. I had expected a lot more questions if only to find out what the job was.
Then, by the time we reached my car, it seemed she had time enough to think about everything.
“How do I know you’re not going to kill me too?”
She was standing on the other side of the car, yet to open the door. I was about to get in.
I looked at her across the roof.
“I could have done that ages Ago if that was my intention.”
“Not in a public space unless absolutely necessary.”
She was quoting the manual.
“So, I’m about to take you to a quiet spot in the country and shoot you?”
“Unlikely. You don’t have a gun with you.”
“A knife then?”
“I’m sure you don’t have one of those either. Besides, there’s a few other ways that don’t require weapons.”
I was astonished this was the conversation.
“I asked for your help, and that wasn’t to practice my killing skills. But, where we’re going that might happen to either of us.”
“Where are we going?”
“To a residence in Peaslake. Do you know of it? It’s about an hour away, southwest, I think. I’m not expecting to find anyone, but I am looking for a USB drive.”
“This O’Connell character’s?”
“Yes.”
A few seconds passed as she took that in, then, “If you are not expecting anyone to be there, why do you need me?”
“Rule whatever number it was, expect the unexpected. And get back up if it’s available. And there are other people looking for these documents, and the USB. Not friendly people I might add. I have no idea if they have the same information I have, so I’m expecting the unexpected. We have worked together and you know me.”
We had performed several assignments together for training purposes, as each of us had with the other four. She hadn’t been the best, but she hadn’t been the worst.
I saw her shrug. Acceptance?
She opened the door and got in.
It took me 15 minutes to get to the A3 and head towards Guildford.
A few minutes later she asked, “What the hell did we sign up for?”
“What do you mean? I thought it was pretty straight forward. Something other than a dull as ditchwater 9 to 5 job behind a desk.”
“I mean, don’t you think it’s odd we do all of this stuff for 6 months, almost to the day, then get an assignment, and it all goes wrong.”
“That our instructors were frauds?”
“We didn’t know that, and apparently they didn’t either. Do you know if any of it was real?”
“Seemed to me it was. And we only have this Monica’s word that Severin and Maury are frauds. I mean, I was surprised to learn they allegedly didn’t exist, but you and I both know that in organizations like the security services have wheels within wheels, departments unknown to other departments, event MI5 or the police, so who’s to say what really happened.”
“And you say you now work for this character Dobbin, whose another department head. As is this Monica.”
Put like that, it seemed very confusing.
“There are others that I’ve run into, working for both Dobbin and for Severin.”
“You mean Severin is still out there?”
“Yes. He tracked me down.”
And when I said it out loud, it crossed my mind why he hadn’t come after her, but the answer to that was he might have thought I was the only one that O’Connell hadn’t killed.
“And he thinks you are still working for him?”
“It’s complicated. I’m kind of doing a soft shoe shuffle around all of them and trying to find out what the hell is going on while keeping them at arm’s length. That might go horribly wrong which is also a good reason why I need help. We really should find out what we got into.”
“I’d prefer not to. He hasn’t come after me.”
“He will. It’s only a matter of time. You’re in the system, and I have no doubt he has access to that system. You’ve just been lucky so far. And you equally know as I do, there’s no such thing as luck in our line of work.”
Another minute or so passed.
Then she said, “If you’re trying to scare the hell out of me, it’s working.”
We were in London in Summer, it was a fine afternoon, going into the evening and we decided to get on the London Eye. As you can see from the clock it was near 7:00 pm.
This photo was taken as we were coming down.
Those long evenings were quite remarkable, not in the least going to a pub and sinking a few pints! There was one such pub not far from Charing Cross Station
Howard is Agatha’s lawyer, but more than that, he is a friend and has been ever since they started university together.
He was fully aware of who she was, the title, the heritage, the expectations, and her need to rebel in her own way.
He watched her destroy a marriage that would have worked if she had let it, with a man who was, in the end, too good for her.
And, along the way, Howard always thought one day she would wake up and see what was in front of her, the man who loved her.
The pity of it was she had sent him to the friend zone and did not think of him in that way, having discovered the truth one night when charged with a lot of alcohol, he told her how he felt.
She was not reviled, just amused.
It was then he realised there was only one man for her, the one she could never have, even though he knew she harboured a secret desire for them to get back together. Only recently did he discover that man was the father of her children.
But despite his unrequited love, he still did anything and everything she asked, and more.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 