Month: April 2025

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 29

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

 

They reached a point a few kilometers from what was known as Brenner Pass at four in the morning, having navigated their way through patchy snow, icy roads, and bitter cold.

Progress at times was slow and the roads were difficult, the driver, at times, nearly losing control of the car.

The checkpoint appeared almost when they were on top of it, one that hadn’t been marked on the map, so they had not been prepared for it. Too late to turn back, they had to stop.

Once again the soldier that came out of the hut beside the boom was an army Unteroffizier who was more concerned about the cold than those in the car.

The Standartenfuhrer once again explained the nature of their business, and again the sentry went back to his hut and made a call.

While he was there the driver was checking the number of other soldiers were in attendance and had pulled his weapon out from under the seat and had it ready to use.

The Standartenfuhrer had done the same, also having checked the extent of the staffing of the post.

Then the driver said, “This looks like one of several. I think we may have walked into a hornet’s nest. The Brenner Pass is very important to the Germans for supplies from Germany to its soldiers in Italy.”

“You think our luck has finally run out?”

They had both seen the guard change expression, from the languid guard worrying more about the cold than a lone car at night, to a soldier who looked like he was about to attend a Nazi rally.

“I think they’ve finally discovered that our friend Mayer is missing.”

“Which means we’re about to get a small platoon of soldiers down on us. OK. You keep them off as long as you can so Mayer and I can get into the woods.”

The Standartenfuhrer turned to Mayer. “This is it, then end of the line for driving. We’re about to get a lot of unwanted visitors.”

He thrust the folder of plans into Mayer’s hands along with a coat.

“Let’s go.”

“Where?” Mayer was almost panic-stricken. The situation was deteriorating with each passing second. He, like the others, could see six men jogging towards them.

Their only advantage was the lack of illumination.

The driver said, “See you on the other side.”

The Standartenfuhrer leaned over, opened the door, and said, forcefully, “Get out, now.”

Mayer tumbled out almost slipping on the icy surface, and the sudden cold hitting him hard.

The Standartenfuher was right behind him, closing the door, and then literally dragging him off the side of the road and towards the tree line about 50 meters away, just barely visible again the dark sky. Thankfully there was no moon peeking through the clouds.
But light snow just began to fall, and it would hide them behind an artificial white wall.

They made it to the edge of the forest just as the soldiers reached the car.

Mayer turned to look and could see the sentry now with a torch, probably checking the car which was now barely visible to them. He had seen three people before, now there was only one.

No time to see the inevitable, the Standartenfuhrer dragged him away with, “We have to go before they bring out the dogs.”

Further into the trees, and moving as quickly as they could through the trees and undergrowth, and at times slipping and sliding on both snow and ice, it was five minutes before they heard six shots in rapid succession, followed by the sound of a machine gun.

“Let’s hope he killed at least six of them before he died.”

The problem was, Mayer thought, there was probably another hundred others waiting to take their place.

 

Mayer had come totally unprepared for the snow, and the cold. At least he had a coat.

Another problem was that he was hungry and that only added to his discomfort. And now they had no means of transport, it was going to take a lot longer to get to Florence, or anywhere for that matter.

An hour passed as they worked their way steadily through the trees, and cover. The dreaded dogs had not been unleashed on them, but they had to assume that someone at the border checkpoint would raise the alarm that there were fugitives in the area, and probably wait until morning before looking for them,

They could calculate how far they had walked and sent in search teams from there.

Or not.

Four hours after they’d left the car, they stumbled upon a cabin. It was not much, having been abandoned quite some time ago and left for the forest to reclaim, but it was shelter and a place to rest. It was not long before first light, and then they could assess their situation.

It was also time for the Standartenfuhrer to give Mayer all the information he needed once he got to Gaiole because at some point they were going to have to split up and Mayer would have to go alone.

Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse.

 

© Charles Heath 2020

A to Z Blog Challenge – April 2025 – F

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F is for — Fishing for information.  Without sounding like you are fishing

…

What does it feel like when you answer all of their questions, and they don’t believe you?

Like I felt now.

In a very bad place, because no matter what I said, it didn’t fit their narrative.

The main interrogator, Jake, no surnames provided, had a story.  He told me that story, over the last three days, a story that painted me guilty of a crime that I didn’t commit, couldn’t commit, wouldn’t commit.

My problem?

I could not prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was where I was at the time with someone who could never be named.

Ever.

So my guilt was circumstantial, and it would not be the first or the last person to spend a lifetime in jail for a crime they did not commit.

I guess that was the penalty for a stolen night with the woman I could never be with, never be seen with, and never spend the rest of my life with.

I was glad that this country did not partake in torturing confessions out of their suspects, but then, even if they did, I would die long before I said one word.  I’d been there before and had only just survived that interrogation.

I wondered if Jake knew that.

He had been pacing around the small room like a caged tiger.  We’d been at it for six hours.  While he looked thoroughly exhausted, I had remained cool and collected despite the exaggeratedly warm room.

It was their version of sweating answers out of you.

I was denied cold water, and water to a thirsty man was like gold to a fossicker.  He knew I needed a drink.

He stopped pacing, turned, and glared at me.

“Let’s go over this again.”

Of course, keep repeating the same story over and over until it becomes fact, until you give a nuance that gives that story credibility, that first chink in the armour that can be exploited.

When you’re tired, when you try not to give in, to waver, to give an expression that can be construed as a confession or agreement.

“The timeline tells us you were at your office until 3 pm.  We have CCTV footage of your departure by the front foyer.  You take an Uber to the Cyber Cafe, getting there at 3:54 pm.  There you stay until 6:17 pm where you take another Uber to the Hotel Jackson, arriving at 7:24 pm.  Your cell phone confirms these times, along with CCTV evidence.  Why did you go to the hotel?”

Here’s the tricky part.  Firstly, the hotel is a special hotel in that there is no CCTV surveillance anywhere inside or out.  They could only confirm my presence there by my phone’s GPS.  Secondly, they could not get confirmation of any guest within that hotel because the government used it to house ‘special’ guests.  Thirdly, by using the hotel, I was bound to an NDA to never divulge why I was there.

It didn’t stop Jake from fishing.

“You know I can’t tell you that.  And you are fully aware of the reasons.”

“It’s not helping your alibi.”

“Keep going.  So far, you have my movements.”

“You claim you stayed the night at the hotel, going to your room and staying there until 8:03 am the next morning.”

“That is correct.”

Except it wasn’t, technically.  I was in the hotel, on the same floor, but in an adjoining room from 8:00 pm to 7:00 am.  It didn’t matter, I didn’t leave the hotel.

However…

Jake contends that it was ten minutes if I hurried down a back alley under cover and out of sight of any CCTV coverage to another hotel where someone that looked like me was caught on tape going in the back entrance of a seedy hotel, carefully avoiding looking at any camera, both inside and outside, up to a room on the fourth floor by the rear stairs, murdered a man named Joseph Flines and then returned just as expeditiously being caught on CCTV on the way out not ten minutes later.

That was inconclusive, but there was a kicker…

I had an argument with an unnamed man outside my work building several hours before I left, at times heated, and where Flines had a swing and a miss, after screaming he was going to kill me, adding that the world needed to know what kind of heinous criminal I was.  He said quite loudly and openly that my reputation and livelihood would be over once everyone knew the truth.

I had no idea who he was, and I was even more mystified at why he believed I was a heinous criminal.  It was the last time I saw him until the police arrested me.  All I could think of was that he had mistaken me for someone else.

“How do you explain the confrontation outside your workplace earlier?”

“He has confused me with someone else.  I had never seen him before.”

“And yet he knows you by name.”

“I’m not exactly anonymous in this city. A lot of people who know who I am, and can recognise me.  It’s not the first time some stranger had walked up to me to have words, sometimes disparaging.  I’m sure you have found these instances and realised that I have nothing to do with them either.  My job is not exactly one people see eye to eye with, so there’s bound to be some dissenters.”

A lot, perhaps, because it was left to me to make the hard decisions because those who were supposed to didn’t and hid behind me and blamed me when the media was looking for a scapegoat.

I was not sure how Flines was affected by any decision I’d made, but it was a possible link.  Jake hadn’t made that connection yet.  Neither had I.

“So you admit…”

“Nothing, and it would serve you well not to start jumping to conclusions without a shred of evidence.”

“We’re close, very close.  People like you have the ability to hide in plain sight, but not this time.”

Smug, the first time he let any emotion into his tone.  That told me a great deal.  There was a connection.  It would have to be obscure, very obscure, one that I’d never guess existed.

He took a drink from his water bottle and glared at me, daring me to ask for a sip so he could deny it.  Yes, he looked like the man who held all the cards.

“How long has it been since your fiance died?”

What did that have to do with anything?  I said as much.

“Just answer the question.”

If this was court, my lawyer would be asking for relevance.

“Three years.”

“Her killer was never found.”

“I was in Hong Kong at the time if that’s what you are implying.”

Yes, they did try to pin that on me as well, but there was sufficient evidence to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt I didn’t do it or have anything to do with it.

“I was not.  But, can you explain why your wife met with the victim, Joseph Flines, several times, about weeks before she died.”

Could I? No.  Did I know?  I did not.  Did I know exactly what she did? Other than that, she was a corporate lawyer charged with keeping high flying executives out of jail when they committed so-called human errors in their business transactions.

Smoothing the waters, she said.  She never passed moral judgments, just found loopholes.  Did she care about those who were unjustly wronged? No.  Not her problem.  If they hired good lawyers, her job would be so much harder.

I loved her, not her job.  I wanted to investigate her death.  I was not allowed to.  Orders from above.

But as for Flines…

“If you say so.  I know nothing about her business or anyone she dealt with.”

“Three years you were together.  Very close.  And you claim…”

Fishing again.  Pushing buttons.  Get a reaction, and then run with it.

“It’s a situation you would have no understanding of.  After all, you haven’t had a relationship last longer than nine months, and one that had you suspended for three months.  There are lines that you do not cross, and both Margret and I knew where those lines were.  Clearly, you don’t.”

There was a pounding on the door, not unexpected.  It was only a matter of time before Jake crossed a line.  The door opened a fraction, a whispered conversation, heated, then, “This isn’t over.”

He then left, closing the door loudly behind him.

I had time to think about what sort of relationship Margaret may have had with Flines.  From what I knew of him, he had more enemies than friends, the result of a background check after he confronted me.

A seedy private investigator that swam down in the sewer of nasty divorce cases, there were upwards of fifty disgruntled husbands he had outed, and yet Jake and his team could not find one eligible perpetrator from that list.

I’d found ten, and that was just at first glance.

What would Margaret want with the likes of him when she had one of the best teams of investigators in the country at her disposal?

I didn’t have time to come to any sort of conclusion before the door opened, and an elderly woman came in and, after closing the door, leaned against it

She reminded me of the librarian at high school, the same severe expression, severe hairdo, and severe suit.

“You are going to be a proper pain in the proverbial backside, Mr Jones.  I know who you are, I know what you do, and I know that damnfool head of department you work for.  I apologise for Jake.  The man doesn’t understand discretion or when to keep information to himself.”

“Flines association with Margaret.  I didn’t kill the man, no matter how you try to stitch a timeline together.”

“Sadly, I have to agree.  I so wanted to wrap this up, but you don’t always get what you want.  You tell Jimmy hello from Betsy.  He’ll know who it is.  Oh, and by the way.  Anything you hear in this room stays in the room.  Is that understood?”

“Perfectly.”

“Very good.  You may go.”

Jake had overstepped his brief.  It would not be the first time someone in his position made a mistake in disclosing information that could queer a case.

But that was always a risk when you had to go on a fishing expedition.  What staggered me was the connection between Flines and Margaret, which on the surface could have circumstantially sealed my fate.

It still didn’t tell me why Flines had come after me, unless he thought I was working in concert with Margaret, and at a guess, she had caused him grief over a case.  Maybe he was not working for her, but for someone opposed to her, and she had to discredit him.

I hadn’t been able to investigate and still couldn’t, so perhaps I’d never find out.  And there was that one other small problem.  I was not supposed to know about my wife and Flines’s connection.

Why?

Maybe when I saw ‘Jimmy’, I’d find out.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story 10

More about my story

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Back to the knock on the door…

His partner, sent over by the boss as a surprise, arrives at his door, and he is shocked.  He works alone, this was not discussed and leads to a call back.

Threats are delivered; she stays.  In her own room of course.

As I’m writing these information pieces I note over the days the story repeats or changes a little.  This is because as I’m writing it, the story changes the characters, the situations, the places as I fill in the gaps, and flesh out the story, little pieces that change from my original thoughts.

I will think of something new as a question is asked, and one will be that our journalist is a feature writer and has been published in reputable newspapers.  This, of course, sets his bona fides as cover, but I added another detail: he can actually write.  If not mentioned before, he has a history with the keynote speaker.  They are inevitably going to meet, though in his role as protector, which is not supposed to happen.

What plan ever goes by the book?

In the early stages of the story, he will meet with the girl in white, the policeman, maybe he’ll run into the head of the secret police, and maybe the keynote speaker.

Then there is the leader of the rebels.

In between all of this, he had to get used to the fact he now has a shadow, and she cannot be cut out.  It’s no coincidence that she will do very nicely as a distraction, but who is it she will be distracting if not our protagonist?

Searching for locations: Shaolin Kung Fu, near Zhengzhou City, Henan Province, China

After leaving the hotel in Zhengzhou, which was once one of the eight ancient capitals of China, we are going to Dengfeng city, the home of China’s most famous martial art – Shaolin Kung Fu.

The Shaolin Temple nearby is the origin of Chinese Zen Buddhism, and the Songyang Academy, called “the Centre of Heaven and Earth” is located 87 Km from Zhengzhou, or, as we were advised, a 2-hour drive.  It will be scenic because we are heading towards the mountains.

As one of the four ancient Song Dynasty Academies, Songyang Academy is one of many schools in the province.  It is both on a large scale, is quite spectacular, and is a comprehensive Wushu training base where students are trained to spread the Shaolin Wushu Kung fu style at home and abroad.

There is a 500-seat demonstration hall where you are able to observe 30 minutes of various martial arts in shows starting on the hour.

Outside there is a specific area that generally has about 600 trainees learning kung fu elements during the day but can hold 5,000 people when outdoor performances are required.

The kung fu school

The thing you notice most about the kung fu school is its size and then the number of buses which tells you that it is a popular tourist stop.

And with that size comes long distances between the car park and the venues we need to go to, the first of which is about half a km, and that’s just to get to the ticket plaza.

But, it is pleasantly set out and is quite a large number of shops for both souvenirs and food

We pass by some of the students going through their paces

From there it’s another long, long walk to the show arena, where we’re supposed to see various kung fu elements on display.  We watched this for a few minutes, then headed off towards the hall for a more intense demonstration of kung fu, and because there is limited seating we have to start lining up at the head of the queue to get a seat.

But…

Everyone else has the same idea and we join the throng which then becomes a ride, and true to the Chinese they start finding ways to push in, even using the imaginary friend somewhere ahead in the queue.

The doors open and then it’s open slather, with the hoards pushing from behind and sliding up the side to get in first.  We go with the tide, and manage to get in and find a seat though we were separated from three of our group.

It was an interesting show even though not one word of English was spoken, which from our point of view was a disappointment because we had no idea what was going on.

However…

It wasn’t hard to follow

What the performers were doing was relatively self-explanatory, and quite fascinating, especially the guy who broke a sword over his head, and the guy who stopped two spears penetrating the neck, both examples of very disciplined men.

Boys gave a demonstration of kung fu moves, and intensity and age increased as this progressed to the end.

Next, we were taken in hand by an instructor in Tai chi or an equivalent, I was not quite sure what it was called, and went through the twelve or maybe more moves that constituted a morning or afternoon exercise session or it could be just for relaxation.  I lasted the first session but it was a little difficult to do with my sore limbs and a bad back.

Not that I could remember any of it now other than hands overhead, hands in front, bent knees, and a few gentle kung fu hand moves.

Perhaps when I get home I might seek out someone to show me the moves.

Whilst the others were following their training instructor, I wandered about, finding a large statue

 
And some smaller statues

Lunch in the Zen Restaurant

After all that exercise it was time to have lunch purportedly the same food as the king fu masters.
It’s in the Zen restaurant, aptly named, and the food when it came, came thick and fast, but some of it wasn’t very nice, meat with bones, tofu, a tasteless soup, but some good dishes like the vegetables and noodles with meat, without bones.

The only problem was nothing to drink except a pot of hot water.  No tea, no cold water, and if you wanted a cold drink you had to pay for it.  After paying 550 yuan why should we have to pay more for a drink when we have not had to so far.

But no cold water?  That was just not on, and when we brought this to the attention of the tour guide she just simply ignored us.  We just didn’t get anything.

That basically tainted the whole experience.

After lunch, there was the Shaolin Temple and the Pogoda Forest to visit.

NANOWRIMO – April 2025 – Day 7

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The Fourth Son

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You have to love the way things can go from bad to worse to utterly impossible.

I’m not one of those people who can write the typical fairy tale “I found a prince to marry, the dream of every young girl.”

No, there has to be a conspiracy theory involving a whole bunch of conspirators that might not be conspirators but an over-active imagination and reading too many thriller books in his spare time.

Why can’t it just be an avalanche and a few missing people?

Perhaps the problems are who the missing people are.  No, not the ordinary people who are not really missing but just thought briefly to be; it’s those other people.

The ones that make the story more compelling, not just an hour and a half of Hallmark movie fun.

So the inevitable happens: the king dies earlier than expected, actually while the prince is on his way home in the “corporate” jet, and a few other problems present themselves and things get intense.

Don’t they always?

Hang on, what happened to Ruth?

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

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Searching for locations: From X’ian to Zhengzhou dong by bullet train, China

Lunch and then off on another high-speed train

We walked another umpteen miles from the exhibition to a Chinese restaurant that is going to serve us Chinese food again with a beer and a rather potent pomegranate wine that had a real kick.  It was definitely value for money at 60 yuan per person.

But perhaps the biggest thrill, if it could be called that, was discovering downstairs, the man who discovered the original pieces of a terracotta soldier when digging a well.  He was signing books bought in the souvenir store, but not those purchased elsewhere.

Some of us even got photographed with him.  Fifteen minutes of fame moment?  Maybe.

After lunch, it was off to the station for another high-speed train ride, this time for about two and a half hours, from X’ian to Zhangzhou dong.

It’s the standard high-speed train ride and the usual seat switching because of weird allocation issues, so a little confusion reigns until the train departs at 5:59.

Once we were underway it didn’t take long before we hit the maximum speed

Twenty minutes before arrival, and knowing we only have three minutes to get off everyone is heading for the exit clogging up the passageway.  It wasn’t panic but with the three-minute limit, perhaps organized panic would be a better description.

As it turned out, with all the cases near the door, the moment to door opened one of our group got off, and the other just started putting cases on the platform, and in doing so we were all off in 42 seconds with time to spare.

And this was despite the fact there were about twenty passengers just about up against the door trying to get in.  I don’t think they expected to have cases flying off the train in their direction.

We find our way to the exit and our tour guide Dannie.  It was another long walk to the bus, somewhat shabbier from the previous day, with no leg room, no pocket, and no USB charging point like the day before.  Disappointing.

On the way from the station to the hotel, the tour guide usually gives us a short spiel on the next day’s activities, but instead, I think we got her life history and a song, delivered in high-pitched and rapid Chinglish that was hard to understand.

Not at this hour of the night to an almost exhausted busload of people who’d had enough from the train.  Oh, did I forget the singing, no, it was an interesting rendition of ‘You Are My Sunshine’.

The drive was interesting in that it was mostly in the dark.  There was no street lighting and in comparison to X’ian which was very bright and cheerful, this was dark and gloomy.

Then close to the hotel, our guide said that if we had any problems with the room, she would be in the lobby for half an hour.

That spoke volumes about the hotel they put us in.

“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

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Writing a book in 365 days – My Story 10

More about my story

…

Back to the knock on the door…

His partner, sent over by the boss as a surprise, arrives at his door, and he is shocked.  He works alone, this was not discussed and leads to a call back.

Threats are delivered; she stays.  In her own room of course.

As I’m writing these information pieces I note over the days the story repeats or changes a little.  This is because as I’m writing it, the story changes the characters, the situations, the places as I fill in the gaps, and flesh out the story, little pieces that change from my original thoughts.

I will think of something new as a question is asked, and one will be that our journalist is a feature writer and has been published in reputable newspapers.  This, of course, sets his bona fides as cover, but I added another detail: he can actually write.  If not mentioned before, he has a history with the keynote speaker.  They are inevitably going to meet, though in his role as protector, which is not supposed to happen.

What plan ever goes by the book?

In the early stages of the story, he will meet with the girl in white, the policeman, maybe he’ll run into the head of the secret police, and maybe the keynote speaker.

Then there is the leader of the rebels.

In between all of this, he had to get used to the fact he now has a shadow, and she cannot be cut out.  It’s no coincidence that she will do very nicely as a distraction, but who is it she will be distracting if not our protagonist?

“The Things We Do For Love”

Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?

…

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1