Month: April 2024

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

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Searching for locations: Aratiatia Dam, Taupo, New Zealand

Aratiatia Dam water release, Taupo

The Aratiatia Dam, rapids, and hydroelectric power station are located on the Waikato River, New Zealand’s longest river.  It is about 16km from Taupo, and 6km from Huka falls, and there is a walking track, for the fit, of course, between the two water attractions.

This happens three or four times every day, depending on the season, and lasts about 15 minutes.  Water is released at the rate of about 80,000 liters a second, so it is quite a lot of water being sent through the rapids.

There are a number of viewing points, the most popular being from the bridge, where I took these photos, and 5 minutes down the walking track to the ridgeline where you can get an overview of the river.

This is looking towards the rapids, as the catchment leading to the rapids starts to fill

The pool is almost full and the excess is starting its journey towards the rapids

Now full, the rapids are at capacity as up to 80,000 liters a second are heading down a 28-meter drop heading towards the hydroelectric power station.

And once full at the bottom, there is a jet boat ride available for a closer view of the water, and a few thrills to go with it.

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

“Mistaken Identity” – The Final Editor’s Draft- Day 2

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.

…

Writing proceeds apace and the next chapter seems to have gone on a bit longer than I wanted, but that was because I was having fun. The editor’s suggestions brought a whole new light to the story, with the two main characters being together, not exactly by choice, but as the result of circumstances.

I have also been making notes at the same time, of situations that will arise from their being together, and establishing the reasons behind a lot of what happens later.

I have also re-established the timeline with actions that stretch further into the story and wrote a few little sections at the same time because the story was almost writing itself, and in moments like those, I find it best to get it down on paper, no matter how roughly it turns out.

I am also doing a quick edit of this section of writing because it will be most likely two or three chapters, not just one.

More tomorrow.

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

In a word: birth

The most common use of the word, giving birth to a child, is perhaps one of the more miraculous and inspiring events ever to be witnessed.

But it can be used similarly in giving birth to an idea. More generally it could be said that it is the coming into existence of something, animate or inanimate.

It can be used to state lineage or descent, i.e. he was Italian by birth, or he was a Duke by birth, but a politician by trade.

You could use birth pain in other expressions like trying to get a club or team together, those initial stages where everything goes wrong.

And that old favourite, wanted by every man and his dog, what is your date of birth?

…

On the other hand, a berth is a place where a ship or boat ties up after a long or short voyage.

It’s also a bed on a ship, not necessarily in a stateroom, but could be in one of those shared cabins below the waterline that do not cost a lot, and only a place to sleep, or for some, to recuperate. It doesn’t necessarily have to be on a ship, it could be on a train.

It could be the distance between two ships or the shore.

You could also use it to describe your job or position in the company.

Then, you could say you gave the enemy’s camp a wide berth, or just a group of people we don’t want to pass in the street.

Coming soon – “Strangers We’ve Become”, the sequel to “What Sets Us Apart”

Stranger’s We’ve Become, a sequel to What Sets Us Apart.

The blurb:

Is she or isn’t she, that is the question!

Susan has returned to David, but he is having difficulty dealing with the changes. Her time in captivity has changed her markedly, so much so that David decides to give her some time and space to re-adjust back into normal life.

But doubts about whether he chose the real Susan remain.

In the meantime, David has to deal with Susan’s new security chief, the discovery of her rebuilding a palace in Russia, evidence of an affair, and several attempts on his life. And, once again, David is drawn into another of Predergast’s games, one that could ultimately prove fatal.

From being reunited with the enigmatic Alisha, a strange visit to Susan’s country estate, to Russia and back, to a rescue mission in Nigeria, David soon discovers those whom he thought he could trust each has their own agenda, one that apparently doesn’t include him.

The Cover:

strangerscover9

Coming soon

 

A to Z Blog Challenge – April 2024 – G is for Ghosts of the past

It was a case of the best-laid plans of mice and men.

I was never quite sure why mice were involved, but over time, I began to think someone knew and was not telling anyone.

The problem with being in a death or glory job, all too often it ends in death and very little of the thing called glory.

Too many times, things went sideways, with either unintended consequences or consequences that were untenable.

That’s why, one day, too many years past my use-by date, I was sitting at a small table outside a Parisian Street Cafe contemplating what retirement might look like, when someone walked past and bumped into me.

My immediate thought, a Russian assassin was about to, or just had, jab me with poison.

I reached out and grabbed the hand of the would-be assassin, and dragged that person around, checking that hand then the other for a weapon, and realising in the same instant it was a woman, not a man, and definitely not Russian.

She gave me a very painful, if not angry, expression.

I let her go.  “I’m sorry.  I thought you were someone else.”

She regained her composure, and the two other customers who had taken an interest in what might have become an altercation went back to their coffee.

“Do you do that to everyone who bumps accidentally into you?” She asked, rubbing her arm where I had grabbed her.

I probably would, but I didn’t think that was a justifying answer for my actions.  Even so, I was still wary.  An assassin didn’t have to be Russian, but conversely, she could be well-versed in Western ways.

“No, but I have had a previous bad experience from someone who didn’t bump into me accidentally.” It sounded lame for an excuse, but I didn’t have a lot of time to come up with something better.

“I’m sorry to hear that, but it was accidental, I assure you.  Tell you what, buy me coffee, and you can explain what it is you have against people bumping into you.”

She sat opposite me.  I called the waiter, and she ordered.  When he went back inside, I sat but not before my suspicious mind had started analysing her.

Mid-thirties, American, or perhaps that was based more on the fact she may have spent a lot of time there.  She had the accent, but I suspect she had been born in England if not somewhere in Europe.

Dressed smartly, not summery, so there for work, and the business suit suggested one of those tertiaries educated professions, doctor, accountant, executive, or at worst, a lawyer.

It seemed then it was unlikely she was an assassin because what she was wearing would make her stand out in a crowd.  Or perhaps that was just her.  What made me notice her was the brunette hair with subtle blonde streaks.

I shook my head.  Where did that come from?

“In Paris for business?”  Not my best opening line.

“Long story short, my husband just dumped me by text.”

Perhaps the angry look wasn’t just reserved for me, and perhaps, the bumping was accidental because now I thought about it, she had been looking at her cell phone.

“That’s pretty dumb,” I said without thinking.

She looked up sharply at me, perhaps wondering if I was referring to her or to the husband, then relaxed a little.  “That’s what I thought.  And yet I also wanted to believe he asked me to come here, spend the week with him, and try to smooth things over.  A second honeymoon, so to speak.  God knows the first one wasn’t anything to write home about.”

What had I just walked into the middle of?  “And alas, it’s not to be, I’m guessing.  Is he here in Paris?”

“He was.  I arrived last night.  We had dinner, then he had to go to Brussels for an early morning meeting, and when I asked him when he would be back, he said it was over.  He said he was going to end it last night but couldn’t tell me to my face.”

Her coffee arrived.

While she took a sip, then another, the thought struck me she didn’t look too upset about it.  Nor had she protested enough about what amounted to assault and battery.

Then, before I thought about it, I asked why she was not more upset.  Sometimes, I forgot discretion was the better part of valour.

“I had my suspicions.  A friend told me she had seen him with another woman, and he simply said it was one of his clients,” she said.

I noticed that she subtly gave me a quick study, perhaps to determine if I was an axe murderer. The trouble with that was that I had been called that once after a particularly nasty assignment.  How not to look like one, I did not know.

She shrugged.  “My name is Melissa, by the way.”

“Monty.  It’s better than my real name, and I’m still suffering nightmares from kids who ragged on me over that name.”

“Monty, it will be.”  She finished her coffee.  “Enough about me and my woes.  Thanks for listening.”

She stood.

I didn’t. “Perhaps we’ll meet again,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t.

She smiled.  “Who knows.”

I watched her leave, walking all the way to the metro station and then disappearing into the bowels of the earth.

I was still undecided whether or not she was an assassin or, more likely, the assassin’s apprentice.

My hotel was a small anonymous place in Rue nnnn picked for its quaintness, and unless you knew it was there, it was a very safe place to hide.  I had a choice of five and tried not to stay in the same hotel whenever I was in Paris.

It was one of those unwritten rules written in concrete, never stay in the same place twice, along with never creating traceable patterns.

It was hard work in itself to adhere to that rule, but when your life depended on it, it was worth the effort.

I had taken the time, after she left, to have another cup of tea and ponder what just happened.  A half-hour later, after dismissing the encounter as a coincidence, I had taken the metro to Montmartre and was wandering around the small market near the station when I saw her again.

Melissa.

Once is an accident, twice is not a coincidence. Another unwritten rule is that there’s no such thing as a coincidence.

I considered simply avoiding her and going to the hotel, but she was there for a reason, and I was one of those people whose curiosity would one day get the better of them.

I kept wandering slowly from one vendor to the next until we met.

She appeared to be pleasantly surprised when I accidentally ran into her, but I could see that fractional hesitation before making the appropriate gesture.  She, too, had seen me earlier and had been watching my progress.

It meant she knew where I would be and where I was staying.  It meant the accidental bump was anything but accidental.

My first question was, who was she and what did she want with me.

The next unwritten rule was to keep your friends close but your enemies closer.

“I had no idea you lived near here,” I said.

“Monty, what a pleasant surprise.”  She left off the rest of the question, ‘Do you live near here too’, trying not to be too obvious.

I’d just completed a scan of the marketplace for anything out of the ordinary.  Melissa was the distraction. The real enemy would be lurking close by.

I’d seen a likely suspect, a male, in his mid-forties, well-covered and almost indistinguishable.  He didn’t want to be recognised, and in being so, stood out.  Clever and yet not so clever.

“By yourself,” I asked casually.

She looked at me sharply again, then smiled to cover it.  “Of course.  I thought that after the bastard dumped me, I might as well make the most of it.  Are you here with someone?”

She looked around as if she thought that I should be with a wife or girlfriend.  After all, someone had once told me, that it’s Paris, the city of love.

For some.

“No.  Quite alone.”  I put an inflection into my tone that conveyed a suggestion that if inclined, she might offer to fill that void.

“That’s a shame, but perhaps not.  It’s like serendipity. We keep bumping into each other like this.”

A nice pun.

“Perhaps the universe is trying to tell us something.  Have you been to Paris before?”

“Once or twice, but I’m not the best tourist.  I didn’t have much spare time to see the sights.”

“Then it could be a case of the blind leading the blind if you have the time.”  Then, with an apologetic look, she added, “I’m sorry.  I have no idea if you’re staying or working, and here I am, prattling along, making assumptions.”

If I were any other guy, I would be flattered at the suggestion.  “I hardly know you, and perhaps it’s not the right time after what happened to you.”

I wasn’t an expert on rebound romances, but it was an excuse to make her work harder.

“You’re right, of course.  I’m being an ass.  Maybe some other time.”  With that, she gave me a smile and continued on with her exploration of the marketplace.

Rule number seventy-two, try not to be obvious you’re trying to set up a meeting or date with a target.  Try too hard they get suspicious.  Try to make it their idea, not yours.

Now I knew I was the target.  Why, I intended to find out.  I would not be surprised if she was staying at the same hotel.  It also meant someone either knew a lot about me or knew someone else who did.

That I would have to give some serious consideration.

The following morning arrived, and I was tired.  Several phone calls home to ask questions gave me no answers.  Was everyone lying to me?

Had I become expendable?

There was a time when your worth to the organisation became less because of fatigue, too long in the field, and the cost of retraining outweighed the agents’ worth.

Although the director had said my time was coming to an end, and expressed his surprise I had not been killed when clearly there were times when it was an almost certainty, he had given me a retirement option.

Except agents only ever retired when they were dead.  It was almost the first thing we were told at the induction.  And it was true.  Six of the eight in my intake were gone.  The other ended up in a facility in a coma he was not expected to recover from. 

It gave me no pleasure to be the last man standing

Then there was that other problem, the fact I was a walking encyclopaedia of the organisation’s inner workings, information an enemy could use to destroy us.

Melissa was potentially one of the enemy agents waiting in line to extract that information.  Her, the hidden man. He had disappeared before she had left me and may have confirmed my location.

Yes, paranoia was in overdrive.

I had expected an attack overnight, hence the tiredness and it only served to underline that it was time to get out.  Sleeping with a hand on the gun under your pillow was not the way to live.

It didn’t make me feel any better to find Melissa in the breakfast room when I walked it.  It was not a shock or surprise to find her there, and if she had been by herself, I might have shot her.

She was bright and breezy with the appropriate surprised response.

“Monty.  I had no idea you were staying here.  What a coincidence.”

I held my tongue.  A coincidence, my ass.  I looked around the room, but no one matched the man I’d seen loitering the day before.

She noticed.  “Looking for someone?”

I glared at her.  “Why would you think that?”  It was time to be a bad cop.

The bright breezy expression disappeared, replaced by concern. For me, I doubt it.  But she wisely didn’t answer that question.

“Right.  I’m going to be walking out the front door in about five minutes.  If I see your friend loitering out there, you will discover who I really am.  Just to be clear, I don’t believe in coincidences.”

I left her there. Perhaps the stunned look was real, but she had her mobile phone in her hand before I reached the stairs.

Sprung.  There was no doubt she was the honey trap.  Now I needed to find out who was after me.

When I made it out onto the street, I saw him just disappearing over the road and heading down towards the metro station.

I headed back inside and towards the breakfast room.  She would be very inexperienced if she was still there or incredibly stupid if she thought she could ride this storm out.

It was almost a relief not to find her there.  The idea of having to torture information out of her made me feel ill.  It showed just how far I’d fallen off the mission.  That sort of thing was a matter of rote and should not register any repugnance.

I sighed.  My cover was blown, and my usefulness in this mission was over.  I’d called in a replacement the night before, and he was awaiting the call. I made it.  Now I was free to go home.

Except…

I saw her scuttling out the front door, a complete change of clothes; a blonde wig, large sunglasses, and a backpack.  A student on sabbatical.

Would she check to see if she was being followed or for general surveillance?  She knew her cover had also been blown, so if she was well-trained, self-preservation would be paramount.  And had she checked the area earlier for a plan b escape?  It had been my priority when I first arrived. 

Not so far.  She was heading in the opposite direction to the man, to the gardens a short distance away.  I knew a shortcut, and it would come out ahead of her.  I waited, and then as she passed, I stepped out and said, “What a surprise to see you here?”

Foolishly, she stopped and turned.  In her shoes, I would have run.  I was not going to chase her, remember, don’t bring attention to yourself.

“How…?”

“Check the whole area where you’re staying.  You never know when things will go south.”

Of course, the darting eyes told me why she had stopped, and I had been almost expecting that it was a well-rehearsed trap.  The expression on her face told the story.  It also signed her partner’s death warrant.

Just as he reached out to grab me, I drove the knife in and up, then twisted it.  He was dead before his body could sink to the ground.  I almost carried him back to a doorway a few meters from the street and gently put him down there.  He looked like a drunk sleeping it off.

The face was familiar, I had definitely seen him before, but I couldn’t put a name to it.

She then decided while my back was turned to finish the job she was sent to do, except there was a mirror above the door that showed foot traffic from the street.  I saw her coming and easily disarmed her.

She thought about running but changed her mind.  A knife in the back before she made it to the street wasn’t appealing.

“What now?” she asked.

“A simple question; why?”

“I don’t ask.  To me, it’s just a job.”

“And the fact you failed?”

“It’s not the first time.  It was clumsily conceived.  I told them you’d work out what’s happening, but Benson, the guy you killed, was adamant.”

Benson.  Now, there was a ghost from the past.  Three years before, he was on another botched mission that got his partner killed and left him with severe injuries.  I was not surprised he would hunt me down.  Yet another rule; one should never be motivated by revenge – it was a matter of learning the old saying – first, dig two graves.

“What are you going to do to me?” she asked.

I realised that at that moment, she was still there.  Again, I would have run the minute I seemed distracted.  “Nothing.  Just tell me who he worked for.”

“I don’t know.  I don’t care either.  It’s just a job, my boss tells me where to go, and they tell me what they want.”

“Who trained you?”

“You don’t need to know.  I won’t be coming after you.  Revenge is a waste of time.  And I’m not worth the effort of chasing down if that’s what you’re thinking.  But I did learn a few valuable lessons if that’s any consolation.  I bet you sleep with a gun under your pillow.  I was going to visit you last night, but the fact you look anything but what you are told me that would be very unwise.  Now, if you don’t mind, I have a train to catch.”

“Do you like what you do?  It seems that if it was anyone else, you’d be dead.  If you had become a problem, you would be.  I’m retiring as of now.  I’m over this looking over your shoulder stuff, and it’s something you’re going to have to get used to.”

“And yet I sense a but…”

“I’m not the worst person you could end up with.  And you know I can protect you.”

“You were just a job, Monty.  I like what I do.”

It was a random thought that popped into my head.  I had the funds to disappear and have a very good life if I wanted it.  And I had got a strange sensation from her the moment she bumped into me.  That eye contact had been almost electric.

I shrugged.  “Then go get your train.  If you change your mind, I’ll be at the Charles de Gaulle airport, making up my mind which plane to get on while getting some lunch and champagne.”

She just smiled and shook her head.  There was nothing to say.

I ended up in terminal 3 and hadn’t realised that I’d not given her a more precise location.

It had the Bistro Benoit, the best of the restaurants at the airport, and there I ended up with a glass of champagne and the job of looking through the upcoming departures. 

It literally was much the same as throwing a dart at the world map and going there.  It would be more fun going with someone, but my life had been dedicated to service, and there never had been anyone special.

I’d felt a spark with Melissa, and it would have been fine to explore the possibilities.  Of course, she might take the opportunity to finish the job, no doubt it would be a request from her boss, so I might yet get a surprise.

An hour passed.

That notion that the airport was very large and had several terminals to explore increased the odds exponentially.

At that time my short list of places to go included Uruguay, though I was not sure why, Kenya, because the idea of going on safari appealed, New Zealand, because no one would believe I’d go somewhere so remote, Jamaica, in search of pirate history, or New York, on the way to somewhere more obscure like Montana.

I was buried in a page on Quebec in Canada when I heard the shuffle of a chair and looked up.

Melissa.

“Don’t tell me, your boss asked you to finish the job.”

“He did.”

“And….”

“I told him it might take some time to track you down.  In the meantime, I don’t see why I can’t have a little fun.”  She reached out and took my hand in hers, and there was that spark.  “And you sure look like you need a little fun.  Where are we going?”

“Jamaica.”

“Good.  My samba is a little rusty.”

If nothing else, I was going to die happy.

…

©  Charles Heath 2024

…

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 89

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…

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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.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 38

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.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020