Month: July 2024

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It didn’t work.

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

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

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

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

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Zoe.”

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

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

“I might throw myself overboard?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I saw it coming.”

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

OK, that was unexpected.

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

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

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

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

newdevilcvr6

In a word: Nobody

This is sometimes how we must feel when overlooked or ignored, like a nobody.

And some people will treat you like a nobody, i.e. someone who is just not important.

That’s just one use of the word.

Another might be…

Who did that to your room?

‘Nobody’ is the plaintiff’s reply.  The infamous Mr Nobody.  We’ve never met him, but he’s always there.  And, what’s more, he seems to be able to be in more than one place at a time.

Then there’s that time when there’s nobody in the room, nobody agreed with me, hell, that happens all the time, and when I rang your phone nobody answered.

Nobody?  Was I expecting Mr Nobody to answer?  Surely the response should have been, ‘and you didn’t answer’.

Of course, let’s not delve too deep here, lest we might find out something we didn’t want to know.

I went to your house last night, but nobody was home.

How is it we refer to the people whom we know live in that house as ‘nobody’.  Shouldn’t we be saying, ‘none of you was at home’?

It seems nobody is one of those words we often use in vain.

“What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.

Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.

They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?

When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.

When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.

Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.

Find the kindle version on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

The cinema of my dreams – It continued in London – Episode 36

Juliet has a secret identity

…

It bothered me that Juliet was not quite as fazed about being shot at as she should be.  Ordinarily, being shot at would bring on a bout of hysterics at the very least, but she was unmoved.

Was that because, after being coerced into criminal activity by the likes of Larry, and possibly others, she had been expecting something to happen, just not when.  Or did she know that it was quite possibly her mother that was gunning for her?

To me, I would take a less active approach and try to come to some arrangement with the possible heir to a very large estate.  There was no possible way her mother could get it, other than to marry and then kill, Alessandro, after taking care of the countess.  Or gain favour with her daughter and split the proceeds, after killing the other parties.

It seemed a lot of work, to me, and with no guarantees she could remain anonymous.  After all, we knew about her, how many others did?  I was still thinking about how quickly she had recovered from the attack.  I know my heart was still beating quite fast.

“After what happened back at the conference centre, do you think it’s possible we might be gunned down in the street?”

I had been thinking that exact same thought, not moments before, and it would be so easy, without the possibility of being caught.  I had been looking around to make sure there was no one, or anything, suspicious.

We had almost reached the underground station to take us to Russell Square, near where her apartment was.  I was hoping there would be a nearby restaurant where we could get dinner.

“Do you want to be a victim of a possible drive-by shooting?”

“No, but it is possible.  It’s the sort of thing that happens to other people, isn’t it, like real criminals.”

“That only happens to people who double cross or snitch on their bosses or fellow gang members.  Unless you are part of a gang, or thinking of ratting someone out, I’d say that was a result of reading too many crime novels.  I doubt you could classify yourself as a real criminal.”

“Perhaps not anymore, but you know that I was caught up in something I had no control over, at least not the last time.  I can promise you I don’t do stuff like that anymore.  I have a legitimate job, and a lot of respect from my fellow coroners.”

“Then why are you sounding concerned?  What is more concerning is why this isn’t bothering you?”

“Perhaps it’s because as much as I don’t want it to be, it seems that stuff like this happens to me.”

OK, what did she mean by that?  “Has it happened before?”

“Three times in the last month, if I let my imagination run wild.  Two weeks ago, a car came up on the footpath and I thought it was because the driver was trying to avoid a dog.  Very nearly ran me over.  Last week, another car didn’t stop at a pedestrian crossing, an old man, I thought it might be a medical incident.  Today just put those incidents into another perspective.  I’m sure you’ll tell me why eventually.”

I chose not to speak any more about the subject and got her to tell me about the presentation at the conference if only to take her mind off working on a barrage of difficult questions.

That consumed the train trip and the walk to an Italian Restaurant a block from her apartment.  It was reasonably empty before the later dinner rush which suited me; we could sit where I could keep an eye on everything.  I didn’t expect trouble in the restaurant, but maybe later when we left.

If they, whoever they were, knew where she lived.  I still hadn’t seen anyone following us, but it was London, and there were a lot of people about.  And I was still a little rusty.

After we ordered I could see she had been patient enough.  “So, tell me, why are you here?”

I shrugged.  There was no simple way around asking.  “What can you tell me about your mother?”

“My birth mother or my adoptive mother?”

If she was trying to surprise me, it didn’t work.  That she decided to be truthful did.  Given that I had seen the photo of her with Vittoria when she was about thirteen at Sorrento, how did that fit into the two-mother thing?  I guess it was just another question among many.

“Birth mother to begin with.”

“Not as much as I would like.”

“As in you’ve never known, no one told you, or you didn’t want to know?”

“As in I was never told her name, just that she lived in a large house in Italy, and that my father had been someone very important.  It was a condition that I should not be told because she didn’t want me to know.”

“A condition imposed on your adoptive mother?”

“Yes.  She was an Englishwoman who had been a servant in that large house in Italy, a friend of my mother.  My adoptive mother had found me in her room one morning, with a letter, telling her that I would be better off in her care.”

“Did you see your real mother again?”

“Yes.  Once.  When I was a teenager, we were holidaying in Italy.  We went to the large castle or chateau near Sorrento, and I met her and no one else, though my adoptive mother didn’t tell me it was her until after we left.  I have a photograph, the only thing I have of her.”

“Have you ever wanted to find out who she is?”

“Of course, I’ve been to Italy many times, even staked out the house, but I never saw her again.  You said it was possible I could inherit a lot of money.  It is from those people in that house?”

“Do you know who they are?”

“A family called Burkehardt I think.  Are you telling me I’m one of them?”

© Charles Heath 2023

Motive, means, and opportunity – Episode 4

…

Bryson goes to Bergman’s workplace

…

The address for Avondale Traders Inc, the Bergman company was in 47th Street, Brooklyn, near the old docks, certainly not far from the water.  A quick check on the internet showed that the company was in Imports and Exports though it didn’t specifically say what, or where from or where to.

And when he saw the block, it looked reasonably new and perhaps not the most expensive piece of real estate there.  Bergman’s office was on the third floor, a trip up in the elevator and along a narrow passageway.

The door had a ‘Please Enter’ sign on it, so Bryson did just that.  Inside was a desk, but no one sitting at it.  The office was open plan with several desks and a partitioned area at the end where he suspected Bergman sat.  There was another area, smaller, next to it, with a woman standing in front of the desk, delivering papers.

When the door closed, she turned to see who it was.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” she said, finished putting the papers on the desk, then came back.

“What can I do for you?”

“Detective Bryson, New York Police Department.  I’m here about James Bergman.”

“He’s not in at the moment, in fact, I think he’s away for a few days.  I can check, if you like?”

“I’m not here to see him.  I regret to inform you that he was found deceased this morning, and I am investigating what could be a suspicious death.”

He let that sink in, and noted that it didn’t seem to affect her as it possibly should have.  It was not every day you were told your boss died in suspicious circumstances.

“To be honest,” she said, “I’m not surprised.”

Her response and lack of emotion surprised him.  “How so?”

“The people he dealt with, well, some of them.  Very interesting for want of a better word, people coming and going.  I didn’t ask, and he didn’t enlighten me which was just fine.  If you’ve seen his wife, she would be happy he’s gone.”

“I have.  Is there a reason for the bad feelings?”

“I’m not one to spread rumours, but he had affairs.  Wanted me to arrange his liaison and I refused.  I don’t approve of cheating.  Probably one of the husbands done him in.  They sometimes turned up here looking for him.”

Interesting point, he noted.

“If you’ve got names, it would be helpful.  Is there anyone else who would want to hurt him?”

“A dozen or so business rivals.  Fellow importers he stripped of their suppliers, and/or their customers.  Other than the jilted husbands.  Ruthless, and without scruples.”

She sat down at the desk and started her computer, found a document, and then printed it.  When it finished printing, she gave it to Bryson.

It had at least thirty names on it.  “After the first few turned up at the door spitting blood, I took down their names just in case.”

“Out of curiosity, if he’s so bad, why are you still here?”

“Great pay, great hours, I don’t live far away, and he’s rarely here,”

“Anyone else work here?”

“His business partner, James Anderson.  He’s not here, he’s currently in Manila negotiating a new supplier contract, won’t be back until the end of the week.  I should tell him about the boss.  I’m sure you’ll want to speak to him.”

“If you give me his number, I can talk to him first.”

“OK.  I’m not quite sure how I was going to do it.  Better from you anyway.”  She gave him a post it note with the name and cell number on it.

“What exactly do you import or export here?”

“Anything and everything.  From anywhere except China.  He didn’t like doing business with the Chinese.”

Bryson had been making notes through the interview and checked his list of items to ask.  The cell phone.

“Is Bergman’s cell phone here?”

“Why would it.  He takes it with him.  In fact, I know he has two.  I can check.” 

Bryson nodded and watched her go to his office and search.  Neither were there.  But having two was interesting.  Why?

When she came back, the next item, “Do you know where he was going yesterday?”

He watched her pull up his diary on the computer.  “Nothing.  I’m sure there was an entry there, but he must have erased it, or it was cancelled.  It may have been a meeting with his lawyer over the divorce settlement.  It was getting very acrimonious.  She might have killed him, she came here and threatened him several times.”

Not a surprising action for a woman being cheated on, Bryson thought.

“Does the name Phillip Megarry mean anything to you?”

A change in expression.  “That’s the name he once asked me to book his hotel rooms.  I suspect it’s the name he uses when he meets other woman.  I don’t think he’s used it lately, but then, he doesn’t tell me everything he does these days.  I suppose this means I’m out of a job now.”

“That would be up to his beneficiaries, if he made a will. The lawyer handling his divorce, you know who it is?”

Another post it note and a name and number, and, “The only person who would kill him for his money is his wife.  Other than that, like I said, some angry husband.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2023

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 22

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 prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

An unlikely ally?

When we were far enough away, not far from the bridge that crossed the Thames towards the Houses of Parliament, and with the London Eye in the foreground, I slackened my pace.  There were enough people around to afford us cover if Maury and his team realised quickly enough what we had done to escape.

“What now?” she asked.

“Go back to your people, tell them you’ve been compromised, but only on the basis that your flat was tossed, don’t mention Nobbin or Severin unless you feel compelled you have to, and make sure you don’t go back to the flat.  Both of them will have it staked out by now.”

“And what are you doing to do?”

“Try and play them off against each other, which probably won’t work.  I’m not nearly good enough at this caper yet.  Unfortunately, I’m going to have to talk to both of them and tell them I’m onto McConnell, though that will hardly be a surprise to either of them.  After that, find somewhere safe to figure out what to do next.”

“Who was that back at the station?”

“A chap called Maury, and I think he’s one of Severin’s hatchet men.  He was one of those who trained me and several others.”

“You do realise what you’re saying?”

“That my situation is so screwed up, yes, I know.”

It was when I stopped to think about it.  Trained by a rogue group no one knew about, or so they said, and transferred to another group, but not told about it, well, not officially, anyway.

“Maybe we should keep each other’s back.  I mean, if what you say is true, if I go back to my people and tell them about this, it’s likely I’ll be putting a target on my back too.”

True.  I had considered that, but not that we might team up.  It would introduce a third group to the game, and it might be one too many, or act as a catalyst leading to catastrophic consequences.

“What are you saying?”  I asked her, just in case I was misinterpreting what she was saying.

“I’m not safe, you’re not safe, together we might be.  I might have something useful about O’Connell, but I wouldn’t know if it was useful of not.  You at least know what to look for, and basically who to avoid.  Who knows, we might make a great team.”

We might.  But it would have to be predicated on trust, and, right now, I was not sure if I could trust her.  That pen thing, she might have precipitated it, and was working with Severin.  It seemed logical in the circumstances.

But what was that saying, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer?  I’d soon find out.

“Ok.  What do you think we should do first?”

“Find a hotel, an obscure one, nearby, and you call your so-called friends, and see what happens, as you said.”

I nodded.  “Sounds like a plan.”

And, I thought to myself, ideal for her if she was insinuating herself into my world, much the same as she had in O’Connell’s case.  In was now in my nature to suspect everyone and everything, because a few words of one lesson came back to haunt me.  We trust people because we instinctively want to believe them, and in this line of work, the people we come across are good and sincere storytellers.

It was a question of how much truth they weaved into their story, that made it believable.  I wanted to believe her, but the facts, circumstantial or otherwise, pointed me in the other direction.

I would have to wait and see and make sure I was prepared for the worst.

It was Jan’s idea t stay near the Charing Cross station in a hotel that I would not normally stay in because of the cost.  I let Jan do the check-in and when we arrived at the room, I discovered she hadn’t booked two rooms, but a Studio Suite with two single beds and a sofa bed.

Apparently, we were brother and sister, which made sense after I had overheard some of the conversation with the check-in clerk.  I didn’t hear what her excuse was for lack of luggage.  Perhaps the airline had lost it, but I had to admit the girl could think on her feet.

Once inside the room, it felt cramped, but the beds looked comfortable, and it had a minibar.

“Before you make any calls, you need to disable the GPS in your phone.”

“They’ll still be able to track it.”

“Not if you are on it for a short period, and we are outside the hotel.”

Well, before that I need a drink.”

“So, do I.  Give me a minute to freshen up and we’ll go down to the bar.  It’ll be a lot cheaper than the minibar.  Then I think we both need to get some supplies.”

I wondered if this is what it was like to be married.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

“The Document” – the editor’s final draft – Day 18

This book has been sitting in the ‘to-be-done’ tray, so this month it is going to get the final revision.

And so it begins…

…

Still No Internet

…

More time to stretch out on the newly cleared sofa in my writing room to consider the direction the work in progress is taking.

We’ve reached a point where the guilty now have to make a move. I’m not quite sure how I want to do this, but the questioning of suspects has made it quite clear, the person in charge has covered their tracks carefully.

Will it be the case that like all people who think they have all the bases covered, make one tiny mistake that will lead to their undoing.

Fortunately, I’m not up to that part of the story but it is occupying a large part of my thoughts.

Searching for locations: Just how hard can it be to see some snow?

You would think it is a relatively simple thing to get to the snow.

Of course, there are a few necessities like skis, boots, poles, and warm dry clothing, but that can all be bought or rented when you get there, or if you are an enthusiast, you already have the gear.

So, you get in the car, set the navigator, and off you go.  Till you get within 20 k of the ski field, it’s all plain sailing, everyone is excited, and mentally preparing.

Then it all starts to go sideways.

Those last few kilometers to the top are going to be arduous particularly if it’s been snowing and the roads are icy, but the weather is fine with blue skies and no recent snow falls.  Were expecting a slow drive and a parking spot.

The road is open.

But…

So late in the morning, a sign at the bottom of the mountain warns all the car parks at the ski field are full, but we venture on anyway.

As you can see, the cars are parked so far away from the ski fields, the prospective skiers have to almost run a marathon before they get there!

And for some odd reason, we picked the very day everyone in New Zealand also wanted to go up to the ski fields so parking, even near the Chateau Tongariro was gone and there were endless cars looking for parking spots and traffic wardens had their hands full trying to keep traffic moving
So, for us and everyone else, everything stops at Chateau Tongariro, and from there the only vehicles allowed up are buses.

It’s about 10:30 and we are advised the only way we were getting to see snow was to take a bus

Now, there are two types of busses.  You can go up on a local bus, from Whakapapa Village that costs $20 a person which in the context of the cost of skiing not very much, but if you’re not, it’s quite expensive.

The second, one we were advised to use, operates from a place called National Park, about 9 km away, a snow shuttle that costs $6 each.  The trouble is by the time we were ready to go there, to catch a shuttle, there were no more shuttles.

We did not know what to expect when we got to ‘National Park’, but being a railway station makes sense.  It’s the only place with a very large carpark!

Oh, well, there’s always tomorrow.

A fortnight in the life of …

It sounds like the title of a book and maybe I should write it.  Along with the twenty other story ideas that are currently running around in my head.

Is it any wonder I can’t sleep at night.

I’m working on the latest book and it is not going well.  I don’t have writer’s block, I think it is more a case of self-doubt.

This leads me to be over critical of what I have written and much pressing of the delete key.  Only to realize that an action taken in haste can be regrettable, and makes me feel even more depressed.

I think I’d be happier in a garret somewhere channeling van Gogh’s rage.

Lesson learned – don’t delete, save it to a text file so it can be retrieved when sanity returns.

I was not happy with the previous start.  Funny about that, because until a few weeks ago I thought the start was perfect.

What a difference a week makes or is that politics?

Perhaps I should consider adding some political satire.

But I digress…

It seems it’s been like that for a few weeks now, not being able to stick to the job in hand, doing anything but what I’m supposed to be doing.  I recognize the restlessness, I’m not happy with the story as it is, so rather than getting on with it, I find myself writing words just for the sake of writing words.

Any words are better than none, right?

So I rewrote the start, added about a hundred pages and now I have to do a mass of rewriting of what was basically the whole book.

But here’s the thing.

This morning I woke up and looked at the new start, and it has inspired me.

Perhaps all I needed was several weeks of teeth gnashing, and self-doubt to get myself back on track.

Who would want to be a writer?

Me!  First in line, every time!

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 in her mid-twenties, slim, with 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 of 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’d 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?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how 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 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 conceivable way she could know that 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 quite varied reasons.

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

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 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, and 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, 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 humour.

“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 humour 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 wore 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, 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 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 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 2015-2024

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