Month: May 2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 112

Day 112

Writing exercise

…

The Smithsons had always lived in a house at the middle of the cul-de-sac on the nice side of the neighbourhood, where they never quite made the grade.

That’s not to say they didn’t belong there, and they might well have fitted in if it had not been for the rather gregarious behaviour of Mrs Smithson.

Or so my mother said, many times in hushed tones, when stealing a glance out the front window, and Mrs Smithson would be standing in the front yard in attire that, as my mother so bluntly described it, a decent woman would not wear inside the house, let alone out.

My father, being the polite man he was, would also glance out the window, but I always thought his look was one of appreciation. I know my older brother had the same look, but with a different set of feelings. I was too young, at the time, to understand such things.

Where had they come from?

Why had the realtor sold them the house, especially when he knew that only a certain type of person would be welcomed into the neighbourhood, or was it for some other reason?

Years later, when my home for many years was finally handed down to the last family member, me, I got to discover the truth.

…

The Smithsons had a daughter, well, that’s another story, but a girl about my age turned up one morning outside the front of their house, in a rather strange manner.

Or given how the neighbourhood perceived the Smithsons, perhaps it was in character for them.

A rather posh car stopped out front, and my mother, not to miss anything that happened there, happened to be peering through the blinds.

“Come and look at this,” she said, excited, to my father, who was about to leave for work.

“Jenny, don’t you have better things to do?”

Like take us to school, of course, but for the gossip session later…

He didn’t join her but continued on his way out. I went over instead.

Just in time to see a man get out of the driver’s side and come around to open the door for a lady who was dressed differently from us. The man had a hat and a suit on.

Then a girl got out of the car, about eight or nine, with a small suitcase. The woman who I assumed was her mother grabbed her hand and literally dragged her to the front door of the Smithsons’ residence, then started pounding on the door.

When there was no answer, but I did see movement of one of the curtains indicating someone from within was watching, she yelled out, “Daniel, you’d better get out there and collect your little brat, because I’m leaving her here. You hear me, Daniel? You’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”

She waited a minute, said something to the girl that made her start crying, then stomped back to the car. The man opened the door for her, she got in, and then they left.

Only then did the front door open, and the girl and the suitcase dragged her in and slammed the door.

And from that point, there were nothing but heated arguments that often spilled out into the cul-de-sac, until one morning, it all ended. Mrs Smithson left with her own suitcase.

…

I used to play by myself because most of the children in the cul-de-sac were much older, in a field behind the Smithsons’ house, and gained access to it by a narrow walkway between the Smithson house and their neighbour.

Sometimes Smithson was waiting for anyone who dared to use that walkway, or his two eldest boys, who were bullies. It became a game in itself to get past them, and one I succeeded in doing more often than not.

Once, I ran into ‘the little brat’, named Eloise. That much I knew from the shouting matches. She was hiding down in the makeshift hut I’d built out of builders’ waste, a summer holiday project.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“The owner of this hut.”

“It doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“It’s not yours.”

“I’m here.”

“So am I. Who are you?”

“Eloise. What’s your name?”

“Jack.”

“You live over the road. Does your mother always peer out from behind the curtains? My mother says she should mind her own business.”

“That’s what my dad says. What do your parents argue about all the time?”

“Me.”

“Why?”

“I’m supposed to be the result of my Daddy’s sordid affair with my mother. Now my mother no longer wants me, and neither does Daddy.”

“You could come and live with us,” I said without thinking and without knowing the ways of the world. To me, it seemed an easy thing to do.

“That would be nice, but I’m being sent to a relative in New York. That will be better than staying here where I’m not wanted. I’d better go before they send those two horrible boys to find me.”

When I came home from school about a week after Mrs Smithson left, my mother told me that ‘obnoxious little brat over the road’ had been taken away. I didn’t bother telling her just how wrong she was about Eloise.

…

By a quirk of fate and a very bad year, I found myself the new owner of the house I grew up in.

How it happened was another of those stories that fitted into that category, ‘you wouldn’t believe if I told you’.

I was surprised when the lawyer called me, and even more surprised to learn of both my parents and brothers’ passing.  We had a falling out, some years before, over something quite trivial, but pride and stupidity on both sides created and perpetuated a stand-off that was never bridged.

The pity of it was that I did not feel the loss as keenly as I should have, and for a month or so, I dithered about returning.  In the end, I decided the happy memories outweighed the despair, and I decided to move back home.

Now, standing in the lounge, I stole a glance towards the window that my mother had spent so much time at, stickybeaking at the neighbours.  For a moment, I was tempted.

But, the moving boxes weren’t going to move themselves, the movers running out of time, and had dumped the last twenty in the foyer.

Until there was a knock on the door.

Was this the neighbourhood welcoming committee?  There had been one when we first moved in. I went over and opened the door.

“Hello, Jack”

A woman about my age but very familiar stood on the front porch, looking back towards the Smithsons’ house.

“I know you, don’t I?”

“Yes, you do.”

“Then give me a minute… Oh, yes.  Eloise?”

She smiled.  “Very good.  I see you have just moved in.  I’m loath to say I was watching through the front window.”

“A regular pastime in this neighbourhood.  God, the number of hours my mother wasted.  I apologise for her behaviour.”

“It doesn’t matter.  Never did, for me anyway.  I wasn’t there long enough for it to matter.  Are you staying or passing through?”

“Staying.”

“Your family?”

“Passed.  A car accident a while back.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.  When did you return?”

“About a week ago.  A quirk of fate, really.  Last relative standing.  Parents divorced and passed, both to cancer, and those two beastly boys died in Afghanistan.  I guess being the result of an affair sometimes has its advantages.  So, here I am, and so are you.  I never forgot that moment of kindness.  I thought, if it were you, I would invite you over for dinner.  Unless you have other plans.”

I looked around at the mess.  “It can wait.  What time?”

“Now.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Searching for locations: Port Macquarie – Day 1 – Part 2

The resort had all the bungalows nestled in a tropical garden setting

And a number of the bungalows border on the lagoon, which looks great first thing in the morning.

There is also a clubhouse and indoor swimming pool.

And surprise, surprise, there are fish in the lagoon

Of course, a resort wouldn’t be the same without some friendly birds

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 8

Here’s the thing.

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and back on the treasure hunt.

…

I lasted the week in the warehouse, and, surprising myself, I actually liked it.

And, had I been like all the other workers employed there, keeping their heads down and getting on with the job, everything would have remained the same.

My problem, it seemed, was Alex Benderby.  He had been a bully at school, and he was a bully in the workplace, hiding behind his father’s name and reputation, not that his father was much better, just a little more discreet.

On day 2, Alex discovered I was working in the warehouse, his domain.  For some reason it amused him that I should be there, working for the Benderby’s, something I’d been very vocal about it not working for them, even if, he reminded me, they were the last people on earth.

He confronted me with two of his bully friends.  Alex was not someone to walk around alone.  He knew what would happen if he did.

“What changed, Smidge.”

The nickname he gave me, though I never quite understood why.  English and language had never been his strong point.

“The poverty line.  Sometimes people have to swallow their pride.  It’s not a big deal, Alex.”

“Is to me, to see how the mighty have fallen.  I’ve got my eye on you Smidge.  One wrong foot, and, well, we shall see.”

The salacious grin, as he walked away, was the key.  He could and no doubt would hold my job over me as he did with countless others.  At that moment I think I made a promise to myself, to help Boggs find the treasure, and bury Alex in a hoe so deep not even his or his father’s money and influence could save him.

 

Hours later, still rankling over the confrontation, I nearly ran into Alex again, just managing to avoid him by slipping behind the shelving to wait until he passed by.

When he didn’t, I decided to wait till he walked past, and then head in the other direction.  But, after a few minutes and he hadn’t appeared, I peered around the corner of the shelving and saw him sitting on a half-emptied pallet of boxes.

Waiting.

Waiting for what, or more to the point, whom?

Five minutes later I found out.  A long, cool woman in a tall black dress, a woman I’d seen before but couldn’t quite place.

“Nadia.”

“Alex.  What do you want?”  Her tone was far from conciliatory, and if she was not happy about being there, why was she?

“A favour.”

“You’ve run out of favours Alex.”

“Then how about I tell your father exactly what you were doing when you were doing something else?”

A moment’s silence before the fury.  “We had an agreement.”

“I need a favour.  You’re the only one I can trust.  After this, I promise, we’re done.”

Another quick look around the corner of the shelves.  One person looking smug, the other looking very, very angry.

But, it appeared, that Alex had the leverage.

“What is it?”

“Rico has a map.  I want it.  You bring it to me, you’re off the hook.”

She gave him a long hard stare.  “I deliver the map, and I see you again, you’re a dead man.  Your father might think he runs this part of town, but I can assure you there are far scarier people than him and his henchmen.  Remember that Alex.”

If she had a gun I think she might have shot him, but instead left him with a latent threat.  It was good to see that he was, for once, the one with the worried look.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2023

An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness.  I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there.  I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either.  Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots and all were empty.  Someone had removed the weapons.  That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch.  One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage.  It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief.  It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely.  It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground.  I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side.  After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks.  It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that.  I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch.  I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end.  I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door.  It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting.  There wasn’t.  It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was.  Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan.  The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental.  But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness.  My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void.  Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly.  A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job.  I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door.  If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in.  One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door.  There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting.  It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it.  The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea.  I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part.  The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives.  Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian.  I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up.  Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down.  The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally.  He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile.  “Not today my friend.  You have made a very bad enemy.”  He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth.  “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave.  Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess.  I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally.  I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved.  Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm.  I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation.  Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria.  I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table.  I thought you might be looking for it.”  She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth?  It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity.  “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible.  I went with the truth.  “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss.  It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it.  You need to leave.  It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened.  She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in.  It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences.  Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge.  She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream.  She didn’t.

She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous.  Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about.  She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me.  I used to work for the Government, but no longer.  I suspect these men were here to repay a debt.  I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded.  “Upstairs.”  I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs.  Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back.  I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound.  Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet.  It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you.  She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  Will you call her?”

“Yes.  I can’t stay here now.  You should go now.  Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled.  “As you say, I was never here.”

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2022

strangerscover9

Searching for locations: Port Macquarie – Day 1 – Part 1

In keeping with the new travel plan, we are picking places in Australia, where we can exchange our timeshare week.

Some people consider timeshares as a waste of time and money, and the process of getting one is very painful, which it can be. 

Certainly, in some of the places we have gone, they tried hard to sell you another which can be a downside to staying, but the fact we get to stay in a three-bedroom fully kitted apartment of bungalow for $200 for the week far outweighs the small inconveniences.

Previously, we stayed at Coffs Harbour, but this time, we decided to stay at Port Macquarie.

Our bungalow, as they are called, is on the edge of the lagoon, which has an island and has been stocked with fish, though I doubt we would be allowed to go fishing in it.

For the more adventurous, there are canoes.  I think I would prefer the BBQ, and watch the planes taking off and landing at the airport just on the other side of the tree line on the other side of the lagoon.

At least they are only smaller planes like the De Havilland Dash 8.

And, knowing the airport was only minutes away, we dropped in for a quick photo op and got the following

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend, that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just a number of small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, points to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints of impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovered piece by piece damning evidence she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence is about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

Purchase:

http://tinyurl.com/Amazon-SundayInNewYork

Writing a book in 365 days – 112

Day 112

Writing exercise

…

The Smithsons had always lived in a house at the middle of the cul-de-sac on the nice side of the neighbourhood, where they never quite made the grade.

That’s not to say they didn’t belong there, and they might well have fitted in if it had not been for the rather gregarious behaviour of Mrs Smithson.

Or so my mother said, many times in hushed tones, when stealing a glance out the front window, and Mrs Smithson would be standing in the front yard in attire that, as my mother so bluntly described it, a decent woman would not wear inside the house, let alone out.

My father, being the polite man he was, would also glance out the window, but I always thought his look was one of appreciation. I know my older brother had the same look, but with a different set of feelings. I was too young, at the time, to understand such things.

Where had they come from?

Why had the realtor sold them the house, especially when he knew that only a certain type of person would be welcomed into the neighbourhood, or was it for some other reason?

Years later, when my home for many years was finally handed down to the last family member, me, I got to discover the truth.

…

The Smithsons had a daughter, well, that’s another story, but a girl about my age turned up one morning outside the front of their house, in a rather strange manner.

Or given how the neighbourhood perceived the Smithsons, perhaps it was in character for them.

A rather posh car stopped out front, and my mother, not to miss anything that happened there, happened to be peering through the blinds.

“Come and look at this,” she said, excited, to my father, who was about to leave for work.

“Jenny, don’t you have better things to do?”

Like take us to school, of course, but for the gossip session later…

He didn’t join her but continued on his way out. I went over instead.

Just in time to see a man get out of the driver’s side and come around to open the door for a lady who was dressed differently from us. The man had a hat and a suit on.

Then a girl got out of the car, about eight or nine, with a small suitcase. The woman who I assumed was her mother grabbed her hand and literally dragged her to the front door of the Smithsons’ residence, then started pounding on the door.

When there was no answer, but I did see movement of one of the curtains indicating someone from within was watching, she yelled out, “Daniel, you’d better get out there and collect your little brat, because I’m leaving her here. You hear me, Daniel? You’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”

She waited a minute, said something to the girl that made her start crying, then stomped back to the car. The man opened the door for her, she got in, and then they left.

Only then did the front door open, and the girl and the suitcase dragged her in and slammed the door.

And from that point, there were nothing but heated arguments that often spilled out into the cul-de-sac, until one morning, it all ended. Mrs Smithson left with her own suitcase.

…

I used to play by myself because most of the children in the cul-de-sac were much older, in a field behind the Smithsons’ house, and gained access to it by a narrow walkway between the Smithson house and their neighbour.

Sometimes Smithson was waiting for anyone who dared to use that walkway, or his two eldest boys, who were bullies. It became a game in itself to get past them, and one I succeeded in doing more often than not.

Once, I ran into ‘the little brat’, named Eloise. That much I knew from the shouting matches. She was hiding down in the makeshift hut I’d built out of builders’ waste, a summer holiday project.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“The owner of this hut.”

“It doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“It’s not yours.”

“I’m here.”

“So am I. Who are you?”

“Eloise. What’s your name?”

“Jack.”

“You live over the road. Does your mother always peer out from behind the curtains? My mother says she should mind her own business.”

“That’s what my dad says. What do your parents argue about all the time?”

“Me.”

“Why?”

“I’m supposed to be the result of my Daddy’s sordid affair with my mother. Now my mother no longer wants me, and neither does Daddy.”

“You could come and live with us,” I said without thinking and without knowing the ways of the world. To me, it seemed an easy thing to do.

“That would be nice, but I’m being sent to a relative in New York. That will be better than staying here where I’m not wanted. I’d better go before they send those two horrible boys to find me.”

When I came home from school about a week after Mrs Smithson left, my mother told me that ‘obnoxious little brat over the road’ had been taken away. I didn’t bother telling her just how wrong she was about Eloise.

…

By a quirk of fate and a very bad year, I found myself the new owner of the house I grew up in.

How it happened was another of those stories that fitted into that category, ‘you wouldn’t believe if I told you’.

I was surprised when the lawyer called me, and even more surprised to learn of both my parents and brothers’ passing.  We had a falling out, some years before, over something quite trivial, but pride and stupidity on both sides created and perpetuated a stand-off that was never bridged.

The pity of it was that I did not feel the loss as keenly as I should have, and for a month or so, I dithered about returning.  In the end, I decided the happy memories outweighed the despair, and I decided to move back home.

Now, standing in the lounge, I stole a glance towards the window that my mother had spent so much time at, stickybeaking at the neighbours.  For a moment, I was tempted.

But, the moving boxes weren’t going to move themselves, the movers running out of time, and had dumped the last twenty in the foyer.

Until there was a knock on the door.

Was this the neighbourhood welcoming committee?  There had been one when we first moved in. I went over and opened the door.

“Hello, Jack”

A woman about my age but very familiar stood on the front porch, looking back towards the Smithsons’ house.

“I know you, don’t I?”

“Yes, you do.”

“Then give me a minute… Oh, yes.  Eloise?”

She smiled.  “Very good.  I see you have just moved in.  I’m loath to say I was watching through the front window.”

“A regular pastime in this neighbourhood.  God, the number of hours my mother wasted.  I apologise for her behaviour.”

“It doesn’t matter.  Never did, for me anyway.  I wasn’t there long enough for it to matter.  Are you staying or passing through?”

“Staying.”

“Your family?”

“Passed.  A car accident a while back.”

“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.  When did you return?”

“About a week ago.  A quirk of fate, really.  Last relative standing.  Parents divorced and passed, both to cancer, and those two beastly boys died in Afghanistan.  I guess being the result of an affair sometimes has its advantages.  So, here I am, and so are you.  I never forgot that moment of kindness.  I thought, if it were you, I would invite you over for dinner.  Unless you have other plans.”

I looked around at the mess.  “It can wait.  What time?”

“Now.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

“Echoes From The Past”, the past doesn’t necessarily stay there


What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

…

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment Will’s life slowly starts to unravel and it’s obvious to him it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule, don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

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In a word: Top

Spinning like a …  yes, had a few of those dizzy spells, especially after too much to drink.  IT’s where you say, ‘stop the world, I want to get off’.

And, ages ago, I think it was a musical production.

But…

Top, well there’s sides, a bottom, and a top.  Have you been to the top of the world, I think I’ve been to the bottom, and it’s not the poles I’m talking about.

But then the top of something is the highest point, such as a mountain.  For some odd reason, I’ve never had the inclination to climb to the top of a mountain, but I’m guessing the view from the top of Mt Everest would be interesting.

Are you at the top of your game?

We say this when a player, or athlete, is winning or playing at their best.  I just keep hoping this year will be when the Maple Leafs will be playing at the top of their game.

Especially when I personally attend at Scotiabank Arena in Toronto.

If you read thrillers then you’ll know the assassin is always about to top someone, that is to say, kill them.

Will you top up my drink?  It’s where someone asks you how many glasses of wine you’ve had, and the correct answer is one, it just never got empty!

Can you put the top back on the bottle?

I’m headed straight to the top of the company.  The roof maybe, certainly not as CEO.

Top gear, aside from being a motoring show on TV, it could also be third, fourth, of fifth gear, depending on the type of gearbox.

And, of course, there are about another hundred ways it could be used.

Confusing?  to say the least.

Have you another?  Let me know…

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

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whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020