Author: aloysius5

Over the years, I have traveled extensively and kept journals, with the idea that one day all of those places would become locations in books. Notebooks filled with odd characters, people and incidents observed, and whole tracts of stories written when the on the spot inspiration has been a driving force. All of this is the basis of the first three novels, Sunday In New York, set, of course, in New York, probably my favorite city in the world, “Echoes From The Past’ equally set in New York, Brooklyn Heights and Philadelphia. The third, The Devil You Don’t, travels through Europe, starting in Geneva, moving to Rome, then Sorrento, and then to Venice. Now, my passion to write is fuelled by travel and fine dining. When I take a break from these, I get to torment my three wonderful grandchildren whom I actively encourage to read as much as they can, and more recently to also write. As for almost every other writer, I would not be able to do any of this without my wife who has put up with my moodiness, the times when I'm locked away in a room trying to push out another 2,000 words, and yet despite everything still puts up with me. I wish I could say the same for our cat. Alas, I am still trying to work out how to be his friend!

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction.  He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down.  He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup.  I stepped to the other side and so did he.  It was one of those situations.  Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic.  I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone.  I shrugged and looked at my watch.  It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk?  I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station.  What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’.  I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light.  As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini.  I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car.  It was that sort of car.  I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him.  I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on.  The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter.   Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure.  I was no longer in a hurry.

At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot.  A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring.  I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road.  I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar.   It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did.  There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me.  It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me.  As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man.  He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter.  I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in.  I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.

Just in case.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

newechocover5rs

Writing a book in 365 days – 265

Day 265

That subtle relationship between author and reader

…

When you open a book and begin reading, it’s more than just you reading words; it’s about a subtle relationship you have with the author, and that what he or she writes resonates with you…

…

That’s a profound and very accurate observation. You’re highlighting the fundamental difference between simply processing information and engaging with literature.

This “subtle relationship” you describe can be broken down into a few key concepts in literary theory and reader response:

1. The Author-Reader Pact (Resonance)

When a reader connects with a text, it often feels like the author is speaking directly to them. This resonance occurs because the author has successfully:

  • Anticipated the Reader’s World: The author uses language, references, and emotional contexts that they expect the reader to understand and relate to.
  • Established a Voice: The author’s unique style, tone, and perspective shine through, creating an implied personality that the reader either trusts or finds intriguing. If the reader finds this voice authentic or compelling, they are more willing to follow the narrative and accept the author’s vision.
  • Invited Collaboration: The author intentionally leaves gaps, ambiguities, and “blanks” in the text. The reader fills these in using their own experiences, imagination, and knowledge, effectively becoming a co-creator of the story. This active participation strengthens the personal bond.

2. Empathy and Shared Human Experience

At its core, the relationship is built on empathy. Reading is an exercise in experiencing the world through another’s perspective. Even if the author is long dead or writes about fantastical events, the underlying emotions—joy, fear, loss, curiosity—are universal and allow the reader to connect on a human level.

3. The Power of Intent

The act of writing for publication implies an intent to communicate, to be understood, or to persuade. The subtle relationship is the reader’s reception of that intent, even if they later disagree with the message. The author is saying, “Here is something I value and wish to share,” and the reader’s choice to engage is their acceptance of that invitation.

In short, it’s not just about what the author writes, but how their words make you feel, think, and ultimately understand yourself and the world a little differently.

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

And the story:

It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.

The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.

He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent.  We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on.  Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.

Where was he going?

“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter.  He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing.  Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain.  He’s just sped up.”

“How far away?”

“A half-mile.  We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”

It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”

“Step on it.  Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do.  The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.

Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster.  We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.

Or so we thought.

Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility.  The car was empty, and no indication where he went.

Certainly not up the road.  It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit.  Up the mountainside from here, or down.

I looked up.  Nothing.

Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”

Then where did he go?

Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.

“Sorry,” he said quite calmly.  “Had to go if you know what I mean.”

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.

I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.

It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him.  It’s just a matter of time.”

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe”  available soon.

InspirationMaybe1v1

In a word: Minor

It’s, on the one hand, the opposite of major, and not the military rank, but the lesser of two evils.

It was a minor misdemeanor, so you won’t be going to jail for life, just 20 years, maybe.

Or perhaps you’re referring to a child who is also known as a minor.

And, once upon a time, there was a car called a Morris Minor. I know, my father owned one.

And one of my uncles owned a Morris Major, yea, the Morris car company didn’t have much imagination.

Music-wise it is having intervals of a semitone between the second and third degrees, and others.

It is also qualifying in a subsidiary subject in college in America.

And while we’re still in America, there are the minors, a rather interesting description for the minor baseball league.

Something I remember when reading books about children in British private schools, was where there were two boys in different grades, one would have minor attached to his name, e.g. Smith minor.

The Billy Bunter books spring to mind, but the discrimination police would have them banned these days.

Of course, there’s another word that sounds somewhat similar, miner.

We all know that a miner digs ore out of the ground, a name given to a single man, or a huge corporation.

A computer program could be called a data miner.

A miner is a South American bird, and it’s also an Australian bird.

It also describes a person who obtains units of cryptocurrency using a specific computer program.

There is another variation, mynah, but that used to describe a bird.

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right

Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence, after being so indifferent for so long.

They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable, calls on an old friend for help in finding her.

After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.

But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.

What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.

“Trouble in Store” – Short Stories my way: Annalisa’s story

 It’s time to look at what’s been written for the unfortunate Annalisa, who had been caught up in a situation that is rapidly getting out of her control, not that she had it under control in the first place.  Perhaps it’s time to start reassessing her bad boy phase and think about a new lifestyle. 

Drugs, for her, were fun to begin with, but she kept doing them and now it had got her into this predicament…

…

Annalisa looked at the two men facing her.

Simmo, the boy on the floor, had told her that the shopkeeper would be a pushover, he was an old man who’d just hand over the drugs, rather than cause trouble for himself.

Where Simmo had discovered the shopkeeper’s true vocation, dispensing drugs to the neighbourhood addicts, she didn’t know, but it was not the first place like this they had visited.

She had always known Simmo had a problem, but he had assured her he had it under control.  Until a month ago, when he tried something new.

It had changed him.

The breaking point came earlier that day when seeing how sick he was, she threatened to leave.  It brought out the monster within him, and he threatened to kill her.  Not long after he had changed into a whimpering child pleading with her to stay, that he hadn’t meant anything he’d said before.

All he needed was one more ‘score’ to get his ‘shit’ together, and he would do as she asked, and find help.

She believed him.

He said he knew a place not far from the apartment, a small shop where what he needed was available, and said he had the money.

That should have been the first sign he was not telling the truth because she had been funding his habit until her parents cut off the money supply.  She suspected her father had put a private detective on to find her, had, and reported back, and rather than make a scene, just cut her off so she would have to come home or starve.  Her father was no better than Simmo.

And, as soon as they stepped into the shop, Simmo pulled out the gun,

Instead of the shopkeeper cowering like Simmo said he would, he had laughed at them and told them to get out.  Simmo started ranting and waving the gun around, then all of a sudden collapsed. 

There was a race for the gun which spilled out of Simmo’s hand, and she won. 

That was just before the customer burst into the shop.

It had been shortly before closing time.  Simmo had said there would be no one else around.

Wrong again.

Now she had another problem to deal with, a man who was clearly as scared shitless as she was.

This was worse than any bad hair day, or getting out of the wrong side of bed day, this was, she was convinced, the last day of her life.

She heard a strange sound come from beside her and looked down.  There was a trickle of blood coming out of his mouth and Simmo was making strange sounds like he was choking.

Any other time she might have been concerned, but the hard reality of it was, Simmo was never going to change.  She was only surprised at the fact it took so long for her to realize it.

As for the man standing in front of her, she was safe from the shopkeeper with him around, so he would have to stay.

“No.  Stay.”

Another glance at the shopkeeper told her she had made the right decision, his expression said it all.  Gun or no gun, the moment she was alone with him, he would kill her.

© Charles Heath 2018-2022

Writing about writing a book – a novel twist

I have decided to write about the process for me to write a book, working on the book at the same time.  The character writing the book is fictional and bears no relation to me, well, mostly not.

You will join me on the rollercoaster.

It will be appearing a bit at a time over the coming months, with the first instalment below.

Day One

I woke to a day where the sun was shining through the crack in the curtains.  It was not so much the brightness, but the fact it was moving, the gentle breeze moving the curtains and creating a strobing effect.

It was the first day of the rest of my life.

I was about to start the next Pulitzer Prize for literature.  Or something like that.

For so many years now my life had been weighed down by the monotony of a job I hated, a life that was going nowhere, and the pursuit of that no existent fortune that I believed was the answer to all my problems.

Those prayers to the great God Money were never heeded.

So, contrary to the well-meaning advice everyone gave me, I ignored them all, sold off the albatross around my neck, a house with a gigantic mortgage attached, and moved into a small but comfortable garret in a picturesque part of town.

It was called a ‘renovators’ delight.  What did it matter the wallpaper was peeling the paint fading and the carpet had seen better days.

It was mine.

Whether or not in the coming days, weeks, or months, I was a ‘renovator’ would be interesting.

My wife, Anne, had often said I wouldn’t know which end of the hammer to use.

Oh, and did I tell you, I moved on from her, or probably it was the other way around.  I’d let her down one too many times, she said, and found someone else more ‘reliable’.

Good for her, my brother had always said she deserved someone better, and it surprised me the marriage lasted as long as it did.  I still loved her, I always would.

I sprung out of bed and opened the curtains.  Spread out in front of me was a blue sky, bright sunshine casting its glow over the park and gardens opposite.

On my darkest days, I used to sit on a bench and watch the ducks swimming in the pond.  I wanted a carefree life like they had, and that was my dream.

Now I was living the dream.

Or would be till the money ran out.

I had enough for a year.

The second bedroom was the writing room.  The walls were lined with shelves, books by my favourite authors, books on writing, all dog-eared and well-read.

The typewriter was sitting on the desk waiting for the first words to be written.

I had a computer, but I was not going to use it for the second draft.

I had a supply of writing pads.  Like the great authors, I was going to write the first draft by hand, revise, and then type it.

I was going to be old school.

I sat down, picked up a pen, and scratched my head.

I began writing, ‘It was a dark and stormy night’.

That was as far as I got.

Maybe this was going to be harder than I thought.

Perhaps after coffee and toast …

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2024

The Cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 67

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

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

Things are about to get complicated…

Was it all simply a dream?

…

If I thought the death of O’Connell and the detention of Dobbin and Jennifer was the end of it, I was wrong.  Both Monica and Joanne Arrived with several agents and took us back to the sandstone building, separated us, and then subjected us to endless questions.

I sat in the room with a guard outside in case I decided to leave, which I considered after an hour, but just as I was standing up, Monica walked in.  If I was to guess at the tactics, she had interviewed Yolanda, and possibly Jan as well before she came to me.

It was a technique we were taught, to know the answers before you ask the questions.  But, you had to assume the other people knew what the answers were, and I knew they were not in possession of all the facts.

I was not sure I was in possession of all the facts.

Monica had a file with her, quite large, put it on the desk unopened and then sat down opposite me.  I pretended not to watch.  I pretended not to care.  More lessons from agents who were now dead.  I’m not sure what sort of a recommendation that was as to how good they were.

“You seem to have a particular knack for picking up people to help you, Sam.  Annoying, and loyal.  I need more people like you, Sam.  You’ll be pleased to know they had not one bad word to say about you.”

“Hardly a recommendation if you’re going to throw me into a bottomless pit.”

“Interesting idea.  I suspect though you would know how to get out of it, or if you didn’t, had some experts hiding somewhere who would come and get you out.”

“Good to know.  So, why am I here?”

“Anna.”

“Anna is dead, she was killed in the café explosion.”

“I’d agree with you, only the body we pulled out of the café was male, what is believed to be a homeless man who was sheltering in there.  The café hadn’t been used for a year, and there were no locks on the back entrances.”

“No Anna?”

“No.”

“Yolanda said she saw Anna in the café.”

“Yolanda is no longer sure what she saw.  She admits to impersonating her, contacting O’Connell, and selling him the bogus USBs.  We recovered the money, less a hundred thousand pounds.  She claims she didn’t take any money for herself.  There were another 8 USBs all with the same files on them.  We recovered the two from Dobbin.  The same.  He was not very pleased.”

“Was he responsible for killing Severin and Maury, and O’Connell?”

“He says no.”

“Jan?”

“She wishes she stayed at MI6 and never got dragged into Dobbin’s fantasy.”

“The notion there are the formulas to create super viruses on the loose?”

“We only had Severin and Maury’s word that was the case.  The laboratory where the scientist worked and supposedly created the viruses, refute that any such data had escaped their premises, and better still, had destroyed it when they realised what was happening.  I would not put it past them to have arranged for the death of the inventor.  If the truth is known, Severin was trying to worm his way back into the fold with a whole end of days scenarios which he manages to save the day.  In other words, it’s quite possible the whole exercise was a hoax.”

“With endless dead people.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.  Dead people add credence to a scenario, it helps to sell the notion what they’re saying is true.”

So, the whole affair was simply a situation created by Severin for his own benefit.  “Dobbin thinks he was had, like us?”

“Exactly.  The trouble is we must take all threats seriously until proven otherwise.  So, the upshot of all this is, if you, Jennifer, or Yolanda want a job with the department, let Joanne know and we’ll put you into the program.  There’s one coming up next month.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

”O’Connell?  Where did he fit into all this?  I mean we were following him, he killed three of our surveillance team, and he was obviously spooked about something.  And someone was trying to kill him.  Dobbin?”

“Dobbin believes he set the whole thing up himself.”

“He had turned the seed of a hox into five million pounds.  Why didn’t he abscond with it?”

“He thought he was, with Yolanda.  We believe he let her take the money with the intention of killing her and taking it back when he got to London.  It’s convoluted but in a way, it makes sense.  Yolanda is very lucky to be alive.  So are you and Jennifer.”

I shrugged.  “Do all your operations end up like this?”

“Mostly.  If you decided to join the fold you’ll discover what we do is little more than smoke and mirrors.  Sometimes we have a win.  Sometimes.”  She stood.  “I hope you decided to join us.”

With that she left the room, leaving the door open.  No threats about spilling secrets, no signing of papers, nothing.  Perhaps she believed I wouldn’t tell anyone, but probably more to the point, who would believe me.

Maybe when I woke up tomorrow morning, I will realize it was all just a dream.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2023

Writing a book in 365 days – 263/264

Days 263 and 264

Writing exercise

…

I made a mistake. 

And for that mistake, I was probably going to pay for it for the rest of my life.

The mere fact that I was set up by someone I trusted implicitly made not one jot.

There were no such things as friends, simply marks who were there to be exploited by people who didn’t care whose lives they ruined.

And it was our fault, I finally realised.  I had sought to blame everyone else, but in the end, I had the power to not go along with the plan.

But, human nature being what it was, and having someone flatter you and feed that ego, and that element of bravado that dwelt in us all, I fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

I was sitting opposite that person right now.  The call was not a request.  If I didn’t show, I would suffer the consequences.  If I did not comply, I would suffer the consequences.

And those consequences?  People who didn’t deserve to die would.  People I cared about.  And what was worse, some other schmuck would take my place.

My tormentor had gleefully told me the world was full of schmucks just like me, lining up to be used.  Everyone had secrets, secrets they didn’t want exposed.

The thing was, he wanted me to become one of those scmucks and blackmail my best friend, probably one of only three.

Because he had an idea, and they wanted that idea, and they didn’t want to pay for it.  That was how the rich got richer and the poor, the ones who had all the good ideas, stayed poor.

Now, having got through college and about to take a step onto the world stage, Jeremy, my friend, was going to take his idea and change the world.

It was an idea that my tormentor had told me was utterly brilliant and worth a gold mine.

Just not for Jeremy.  People like him didn’t understand that giving away life-changing technology was not the right thing, that people had to pay, and keep paying.

Like the man he worked for, who already had so much wealth he could not spend it in a dozen lifetimes.  He wanted it because he could.

He was going to take it because he could.

And I was going to help him.

“So, what is your report?”  My tormentor had just lit a large cigar and was all but blowing the smoke in my face.

If I had a fire extinguisher, I would put it out, and him with it.

He was lucky I didn’t.

“They want to set up a flat and invited me to stay with them.”

“He hadn’t told you about them?”

“Mo.  Maybe you got it wrong.”

He snorted.  I’d said that the first time he told me they had become lovers, and the reason why Allison had sort of left me to think we might have a future, except she was as distant today as she was when she first suggested it.

For some reason, he didn’t want me to know, or anyone else.  They certainly played their parts well, and I would not have guessed.  Not until my tormentor gleefully played the tapes of them together, in several small out-of-the-mainstream hotels.

I was neither surprised nor shocked.  Allison had told me she was interested in him and was happy I had found what I believed to be the one. 

My tormentor had been particularly pleased when he told me Jeremy had set me up, smoothing his way to take Allison, and then strategically arranged to have the girl dump me, having rendered any chance with Allison gone.

I let him have his moment.  Allison and I were never going to be an item, then or now or ever.  Nor was Jeremy, no matter what he thought.  And my tormentor, with everything in his bag of tricks, would never find out.

So…

“Well, that’s interesting, isn’t it?  But, why would they want me to stay with them?”

“The rent.  It’s more than they can afford.  With you, it’s more affordable.”

“He just has to get a better job.  After all, he graduated top of his class.”

“He doesn’t want a better job; he wants to work on his pet project.”

“Until you take it off him.”

He shook his head.  “You’re oversimplifying things again, Stephen.  He will never get the backing he needs to make it work.  No one will do it for pennies on the dollar.  My boss made him an offer, just about everything he wants.  All he has to do is show proof of concept.  We need you to stay, make him feel safe, not having to trust an outsider, for just a little bit longer.”

“You’re going to steal it, aren’t you?”

“No.  I’m not.  I wouldn’t know anything about it.  I just have one job.  You’re keeping him safe.  Then you’re off the hook.”

I doubted it.  My tormentor was not one to let me go that easily. 

I glared at him.  “Seeing is believing.”  I stood.  “Until next week.”

‘Don’t lose the faith.”

Out on the street, I had to try very hard not to throw up.  Being in the presence of that creature was sickening.  The problem was, if it was not time, there would be someone else.

His expensive suits, the grandest suites in hotels, the car that cost an eyewatering sum, he was a creature of a particular sort.  They fed off the weak and manipulable, people like me.

When three blocks away from the hotel and out of line of sight and outside listening range, I checked for and found a listening device planted in my coat.  I had wondered why he insisted I take it off and leave it inside the door.

An app on my phone found it.  Another app on my phone rendered it useless.  But not in a way that he would immediately find out.  Jeremy was clever like that.

Jeremy had worked out that someone was leading him down a particular path, and his first thought it was me.  I simply shook my head and told him to put his cards on the table.

He said I’d been compromised by a huge multinational company run by a criminal dressed up as a businessman.

I told him he was nuts.

He said he followed me.  He gave me my movements for every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday for the last year.

At least, I said, I didn’t try to hide where I was going.  Since each time I was going to an expensive hotel, he would also have seen an expensive girl go in too.  What did he think was going on?

Allison wouldn’t be pleased.

Allison didn’t like me in that way.  Maybe Allison was leading him down the garden path.

He gave me a look that told me he didn’t know who to trust.  I simply said keep your friends close but your enemies closer.  I thought I was a friend, he thought I was the enemy.  Win-win.

It was then that I told him that he was never going to achieve his objective, that, like the inventor of a car that ran on water, they would find a way to stop him.  He said he’d never heard of anyone who had, and simply said that proved my point.

We’d had this conversation before.

“I thought you were going to have a heart attack.  You OK?”

That voice in my head, the one that could scare the daylights out of me.  It wasn’t through an earpiece and a detectable transmitter.  Another of Jeremy’s inventions.

“You don’t know what he’s going to do to me and my family if or when I screw up.”  It felt weird talking to myself.

“You did that when you let him take over your life.”

“Easy for you to take that high moral ground.”

We’d had that conversation before, and anyone not in my position, at the time, didn’t understand why I didn’t just spit in his face.

Five years down the track, why hadn’t I grown a spine?  There was one reason.  A demonstration of what he could do if I strayed.  That I never told Jeremy.  His concept of evil was far different from mine, and would be until he suffered loss.

“We agreed to disagree,” he said.  “So it’s status quo.  Good to know they think they have me right where I want them.”

“They won’t be so easily fooled, Jeremy.  His boss doesn’t lose.”

“David versus Goliath, Stephen.  David versus Goliath.”

I was 13 and had the father from hell.  When he attacked my sister one night after he had been drinking heavily, not for the first time, I did the only thing a 13-year-old could think of to stop him.

I picked up the hammer under my bed, went into her room and hit him as hard as I could on the back of the head.

He was dead before I could yank the hammer head out.  Sylvie didn’t stop screaming for five solid minutes.

Our mother didn’t hesitate.  She got Sylvie un hysterical and my older brother and she wrapped the body in a tarpaulin and disappeared into the night.

I was the secret we kept until a man came visiting about a month later and said he knew what I had done.  He said that my father got what he deserved, but there was always a price to pay.

One day, he would return, and that day, he would have a job for me to do.  I would do it, or there would be consequences.  To prove a point, he made Sylvie very, very sick, and asked me a week or so later if I understood.  When I said yes, he made her better.

I had lived in dread of his return.

That came about a year ago when he summoned Mr to a hotel room and told me what he wanted.  It was not as bad as I thought.  All I had to do was tell him what Jeremy was up to.

And be his friend, the one he told me what he was doing.  Jeremy always had his head in the clouds, and I’d never believed him.  The man did.  He seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

That was when I told him, the first time, that secrets like those he had in his head, others would want them, that they would not understand his ideals.

He was naive back then.

Until one of his family members got sick.  When he described it, I knew.  The man was sending a message.  Jeremy didn’t understand or believe me.  That was when I told him.

And that it was too big for him to go up against them.  They were the ones who held all the cards.

Instead of going back to the apartment where Jeremy and Allison would be waiting, I went to the park.  For the first time, I didn’t want to participate in a game no one was going to win.

I think I also realised in that moment that my life and that of my family were over.  People like my tormentor kept people like me alive only when it suited them.  Win or lose, we would become collateral damage.  Loose ends to be tidied up.

I heard a door slam in my head and the sound of a scream.  Allison.  The sounds could only be coming from Jeremy’s.

What sounded like a gun fired once, followed by a very loud and extended “Noooooo…”

“You were not as clever as you think, Jeremy.”

The voice of my tormentor.

“You didn’t have to shoot Allison.”

“I did.  You failed to understand the basics.  I was not asking for the proof of concept.  You had to deliver it.  An hour ago.”

“I’m not giving it up.  To you or to anyone.”

Another shot.  I think I knew where that ended.  A sob told me he had just killed Allison.

“Was it worth losing her?”

“She was already dead.  As I am, once I hand over the plans.  I’m sure Stephen will be next.”

“The plans are in my head.  Not on paper.”

“Not what Blaikie said.  He saw the proof of concept, and it was everything you said.  So the plans have to be somewhere.”

Blaikie had been his science teacher in high school, a mentor.  He had died in an accident several years before.  Seems it was not an accident.  It explained how the man knew about Jeremy’s idea.

Another shot, and I heard a body slumped to the ground.  “I have eleven more bullets.  You are going to wish you were dead.”

“I already do.  Kill me, and it goes to the grave with me.”

Another shot, and a grunt.  “Get your boss to come.  I’ll give it to him and him alone.”

A startling change of tactics.

I could hear the man calling his boss.

Then, “Come now, Stephen.  Gun in the hall cleaners’ cupboard.  Shoot them.  You’re about ten minutes away.  You have time.”

I ran.

I guess Jeremy’s insistence that we join a gun club was just one of his weird ideas.  Until he explained what might happen one day.  Well, that day had arrived.

I was at the elevator lobby when I saw an expensive car stop our the front and as the doors opened, and man got out of the rear, joined by two barely disguised thugs.

I stepped in, the doors closed as the men came in the front entrance, and I was whisked up to the eighteenth floor.

I went to the closing, and there was the gun, just visible under the towels.  It had a suppressor and a full clip.  I chambered the first round.

I had to go around the corner to get to our apartment.  The man outside the door saw me and died.

I waited.  The men downstairs arrived and, without fear, strode towards the door, saw the body on the ground and turned.  All three died right there.

The man inside must have heard the yelp one of the men made when I shot him, and I saw the gun before he came out.

He saw me, fired, and I fired back.

He hit me in the arm.  I hit him in the head.  I was in a great deal of pain.  He was dead.

I went into the apartment.  Jeremy had been shot in both knees.  He would recover.  Allison had body armour, that much I could see, and was in a great deal of pain but unharmed.

“We won,” Jeremy said.

“No.  Look around you.  The guy out on the passage owns everything and everyone.  And has a clone waiting to take over, and they will come after us.  We need to go.”

He looked up at me through teary eyes.  “It’s not as if I can get up and walk away.  How?”

A man in EMT clothing came tentatively in and announced himself before walking in on us.

“Larry?”

He put his head around the corner.  “Steve.  You said it would be messy.  Elevators are on manual control; we have three minutes.”

He motioned for help, and two more came on with a guernsey, hoisted Jeremy on it it and were out the door in under a minute.  Larry and I got Allison, still half out of it and half carried, half dragged her to the elevator.  The doors closed and we went down to the car park.

“No one will know.  They think the elevators have stopped on various levels.

The doors opened.  An ambulance was waiting.  We all jumped in, Jeremy was loaded and sedated, and we were gone.

Three minutes and counting.  Outside the building, they lit up the siren and lights.

Larry was sitting in the back.

“What was plan B?” he asked.

“We were all dead.  Bad guys win.”

“You’ve only taken one off the board.  You know the drill.”

“Three actually.”

“Your father, yes, and the others?”

“His sons, the ones we didn’t know about, to his mistress.  The men I just shot.”

“They didn’t recognise you?”

“Never met them, formally.  But the boss did visit us once, not long after my father disappeared.  His younger brother came later with the threats.  Ignorance sometimes is bliss.”

“Now?”

“We clean up.”

Allison sucked in a deep breath and looked at me.

“Steven.  What just happened?”

“The worst case scenario.”

“Jeremy?”

“Banged up a little, but safe.”

“It worked?”

“Miraculously, yes.  Now we clean up and then disappear for a while.  Job well done.”

I hadn’t known when I was 13 that I had killed a high-ranking crime boss who was living a double life.  We only know him as Louie the factory worker, not James McDougal, crime boss with two other families.

The sheriff had told me the truth when I told him what had happened, and instead of arresting me, he introduced me the the State investigation officers who said that I would one day be approached by a man who would tell me what I would have to do.

That day came and went. 

Then they told me a story about another boy who was going to invent a miracle product, and along with a girl, we would become a team that would lay a foundation of bread crumbs to expose the rest of that crime family.  Who could resist an invention with a gold mine and easy enough to steal from gullible children?

Undercover for seven years.  The whole of my childhood, thermirs too I guessed, two hot-headed about to become criminals given a second chance.

The ambulance travelled for an hour, north, I guessed, until we hit a dirt road, and then it stopped.  The doors opened, and the man who had been in charge of the operation was there.

“Well done.  We’ll get you cleaned up and then somewhere to recover.  Then, a few months’ vacation, you’ve earned it.”

So, no going our separate ways, as promised.  I should have known it was too good to be true.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Searching for locations: New York, USA, to Vancouver, Canada

The flight from Newark via Air Canada to Vancouver is about 5:30pm so we are slated to be picked up by the limousine at about 2:30.

We have to be out of our room by 11am so we decided the day before that on our last day in New York we’d go to the Times Square red lobster. It gives us about three hours to get there, eat, and get back.

It’s always fun packing bags the day you leave, so most of the hard work was done earlier. This time it’s particularly a trial because we have so much stuff to fit into a small space, and weight considerations are always paramount because of the 23kg limit.

Outside is has gone from minus four to minus two in the two hours before we leave the hotel at 11:30, but that’s not so much of a problem because we have a long walk from 56th street to 41st street to warm us up.

At least today it’s not as cold, as it has been previously.

At Red Lobster it’s not difficult to make a decision on what to have, the mix-and-match special, with Lobster alfredo, filet mignon, and parrot island coconut shrimp, with Walt’s special, though what that will remain a surprise until it is served.

To drink, it was the Blue moon beer, wheat type.

For appetizers, we had scones that are supposedly bread but to me are dipped in garlic butter and baked like a scone. Australian style. They are absolutely delicious.

There is an expression a one-drink screamer and we’ve got one, but the truth is the drinks are very lethal. Pure alcohol and ice with a touch of soda.

The meals at this Red Lobster are definitely better than those we had in Vancouver, except for the pasta with lobster I had which was little more than a tasteless congealed mess after it reached the table. This did not detract from the deliciously cooked and served seafood that accompanied it.

All in all, after such a great lunch and the thought of having to walk ten blocks the decision was unanimous to get a cab which took us back to the hotel by a rather interesting, if not exactly the most direct, route. I think the driver guessed we were tourists.

We are picked up at the hotel by a driver in a large Toyota which had enough space for 3 passengers and all our bags. The driver was chatty and being foreign, preferred soccer to the other traditional American sport. Don’t ask me how the conversation turned to sports, but we may have mentioned we went to the ice hockey.

At Newark airport, all I have room for is a glass of burned beer, whatever that means, though it has an odd taste, and a Samuel Adams 76 special which was rather tasty.

Today we are flying in a Boeing 787-9 Dreamliner with a maximum of 298 passengers in three classes.

It looks very new even though it is about 6 months old. It has seating of 3 x 3 x 3, and we are in row 19, just behind the premium economy cabin, and the closest to the front of the plane of all the Air Canada flights.

Engine startup is loud at the lower revolutions with the vibration going through the airframe. Like all planes, the flaps being extended, it is very noisy. All of the vibrations go away when the engines are up to speed. On take off the engines at max are not as noisy as other planes and are relatively quiet. It will be interesting to see what the landing is like.

In-flight when not experiencing turbulence the ride is very smooth and reasonably quiet which is better than the other planes with seeming continuous engine whining and the flow of air past the fuselage.

The seats are comfortable but still just a little small and the middle passenger can be tightly squeezed in if the two on either side are larger than normal. The seats fully recline but the seatback is not completely in your face, and bearable when you recline your own seat.

There are several seats by the toilets that would be terrible on a long-distance flight because the passenger inevitably comes very close to the seat when entering and leaving. As for the toilets, they are larger than any of the other aeroplanes, and so too, coincidentally, are the windows.

The plane also makes the same amount of noise when it lands so I’m failing to see what’s so good about it. I’ve also been in an Airbus A350 and those planes are nothing to write home about either.

I suspect the only advantage of having planes is for airlines. Fewer costs and more sardined passengers.

It’s something else I can write off my bucket list.

When we arrive back in Vancouver it’s the same reasonably simple process to get through immigration.

Outside our driver is waiting and this time we have an Escalade picking us up. A very large SUV that fits us all and our luggage.

But…

We were lucky because we were supposed to be picked up in a sedan and the baggage would not have fitted which would have involved one of us taking a cab with the extra luggage.

He was in the neighbourhood and picked up the call. His advice, called the service and request a bigger car and pay the difference. We did. It was going to cost another 20 dollars.

As for the hotel, what is it with hotels and late-night arrivals? We get in, the check-in was smooth, we get to the room. Very large with a separate bedroom. But only a sofa bed.

It was not a desirable option, not before 24 hours in relatively squashed plane seats, so it necessitated a change of rooms to one a bit smaller, but a corner room with a reasonable view, and two proper beds.

Late night, need rest, but we have free breakfast so there will be no tarrying the next morning. We have to be down by 9am being Sunday.

Besides, we have a mission. There is a toys-are-us nearby and it does have the toy we want. All we need to find is a cab.