Category: Author

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 108/109

Days 108 and 109 – Writing Exercise

…

Characters – Plot – Short Story

…

Alexander Bartholemew Winston Jr was my real name, the one I hated with a passion.

My mother and father called me Alexander in that horrible way that you couldn’t tell if they were pleased or angry, mostly the latter.

My paternal grandmother and grandfather called me Bartholomew in public and Bart in private because Bartholomew was a paternal family name of reverence.

Half my friends called me Marty, after Marty McFly of Back To The Future fame, though they never said why, and the rest called me Alex, my preferred name.

So, today it was Alex.

“Alex?”

Samantha Davies had a far more elegant name, Samantha Elizabeth Davies Ramsborough, but had adopted her mother’s pre-marriage surname for anonymity.

We somehow, by a quirk of fate, finished up sharing a four-bedroom apartment in a city where accommodation for one cost a priverbial arm and a leg, and since we all got along so well at University, that camaraderie continued into post-university, and onto the various jobs we were now found ourselves with.

Sam, as she preferred to be called, was coming out into the kitchen where I had coffee, black, strong, no sugar, waiting for her.

“He’s not here.  Today it’s Bart.”

“Simpson?”

“If I had a skateboard, maybe.”

“There’s enough room in this place if you did.”

She was right.  The apartment was half a floor, the possession of an Aunt of one of the other two housemates, with so much room you could get lost. There were even rooms for servants.

Sam had a way of changing subjects, from trivial to serious to trivial again, without time to take a breath.  Half the time, I didn’t know whether I should take her seriously or not.

Which was why we were still just friends, even though she knew how much I liked her; it was just every time we got near the subject, she’d change it.

Maybe she didn’t like me as much.

“Thomas didn’t come home last night.”

If there was a rival for her affections, it was Thomas Aloysius Vanderbloot, an overly self-confident, sometimes smartass, mostly a person whom trouble followed close behind.

I had rescued him from countless scrapes, without thanks or acknowledgement, and, as far as I was concerned, he was now starting to wear out his welcome mat. 

Only it was his grandmother’s apartment.  We didn’t get the privilege rates, which I expected.  I was not one of those entitled sons of wealthy parents, even though they had tried to spoil me, and therefore had only the money I earned to spend.  My brother and sister let them fund their education and pet projects, and were the favourites.

It didn’t bother me.  I was, at least, living my own life.

“We shouldn’t have left him.”

It had been late.  Sam, a budding journalist, had a deadline for a story, and I had a deposition, first thing the next morning.

It was the day after the day after, and we’d all been too busy with different schedules to notice until now.  Philomena, our fourth flatmate, was a nurse, and we rarely saw her

She suddenly appeared, a trait of hers that we firmly believed she travelled through portals because she had a habit of just appearing out of nowhere.

“Whose missing?” she asked.

Sam jumped; the suddenness of her voice from behind her scared her.

“Tom.”

The thing is, Philomena adored Thomas, but he was oblivious to her affection.  It was a little different with Sam; they had a fling in University until he got caught cheating on her, though I knew I didn’t say anything, or ever would, but was there to help pick up the pieces after that first and most intense love.

“Weren’t you two with him the other night?”

Sam, like me, knew what was coming.  Blame.

“We were until he brushed us off.  He had recognised one of his childhood friends, now an investment banker, buying shots, getting drunk and chatting up a few girls.  You know what he’s like.”

“You should have dragged him out.”

Yes, and the last time I did that, I was still carrying the aches and pains from a robust bar fight and a night in jail, drunk and disorderly, and an acid tongue from Sam the next day.

It was always my fault when he couldn’t save himself from himself.

“He’s probably sleeping it off in some seedy hotel,” Sam said, and collected her coffee and flopped into a lounge chair.

She had a new story assignment from the editor and wasn’t happy.

Aside from that, she was well aware of Thomas and seedy hotels.  That was where she found him with another girl, one that Sam had despised because of her open invitation to a male who could be so easily led.

Philomena would not believe either of us, so I let it slide.  It was a day off from lawyering and I was going to make the most of it.

…

Here’s the thing…

Thomas had that way of imposing on your thoughts, even when he was not there.

Uppermost in my mind, and the message my parents, and the parents of the other three, was that we had to be careful, not look for trouble, don’t go to places where trouble could be found, do not be alone in a potential hot spot, and above all, know everything and everyone around you.

In other words, each of us, if anyone knew who we really were, was a potential kidnap victim, or worse.

Each of us, bar Thomas, heeded those words to the letter.  In my application to the law firm, I used my proper name, because I had to, knowing it might open doors because of the family name, and got an interview.  When they asked about the surname, I said it was a distant relative who likely had never heard of me, and the relationship was a coincidence.

I had no interest in trading on my family name.  I was going to succeed or fail on my own merits.  I felt like, at this point, I was failing.

I dropped into a chair near Sam and sipped the coffee, one that Tom had introduced us to, a very expensive taste to acquire.

“How’s your day looking?” I asked, not sure of where this conversation would go.

Her expression was contemplative, so I had to wonder if she was thinking of Tom.  I could feel the green monster sitting on my shoulder.

She looked at me in a way she hadn’t looked at me in a year.  The last time was after the pieces had been reassembled, and I mistook the signs.  I had a long time to try and work out what I did wrong.

Perhaps I was about to find out now.

“It was going to be terrible.  Not just the Tom thing, but I hate my editor.  I hate my job.  I hate my life.  Perhaps it’s time to go home and get married to Mr Dull as ditchwater, and try to be content.”

That said it all.  If she left, so would I.  Home wasn’t the ideal place to go, but I could hide there.  Or if someone hadn’t snapped up Mary Ann Kopeknie, I would.  She was my first love, and truth be told, if Sam wouldn’t have me, maybe Mary Ann would forgive me.

“Like to go for a stroll through Central Park and talk about anything but our woes?”

“Right now, a bar, getting totally obliterated, and ending up in a seedy hotel, seems more appropriate.”

“You don’t mean that.”  I hoped she didn’t.

“I do.  And if you’re offering, take me now, before I change my mind.”

…

When I woke, it wasn’t quite dark, the light from a digital clock casting enough light for me to see if it wasn’t in my room at the apartment.

A brief glance with the range of vision I had showed a curtained window with no light seeping in through the sides, which meant it was night.  There was a painting on the wall, a desk and two chairs.

A hotel room.

Instantly, my mind went back to earlier that morning, if it was the same day, when Sam expressed the desire to have a few drinks.

I thought nine was a bit early, but she had expressed the desire to go with me, so I didn’t.

She wasn’t joking about getting obliterated.  When she could no longer stand or string three words together, the bartender asked us to leave.

I called Tom’s ‘special helpline’ one he included us in on, and we were chauffeured to a hotel Sam just managed to tell us about, making sure we safely made it to the room.

That much I remember.

The rest was a dream I woke up too early from, that part where, in my imagination, we had found that magical connection, where no words were needed, and the love I felt for her was expressed.

It would only happen in my imagination, and not the first time I dreamed it.

I rolled over and discovered I was not alone on the bed.  It must be the rest of the dream, waking up next to the current love of my life.

My imagination would tell me, she would smile, kiss me once, gently, and ask the rhetorical question, how had this not happened before?’

It foundered ridiculous on mt head, and I suspect the large amount of alcohol had damaged part of my brain, and that part where reality lived.  She would never be with me in such a manner.

I think the more appropriate answer to my internal question would be that I put her on the bed and tucked her in to sleep it off.  I did not undress her or do anything without her being fully awake and aware of her surroundings and who she was with

There were no excuses for taking advantage of someone who was incapacitated.

I heard her groan and then felt her move.

Closer to me. 

That was when I realised we were both naked.

My heart rate nearly went through the roof. 

She put her hand on my shoulder and put her arm over me.  Then, a whisper, “You took me out of myself, thank you.”

Then drifted back to sleep.

So close, it was freaking me out.  What if she woke up and started screaming?  What if this wasn’t where she expected to be?  What if she wasn’t expecting it to be me?  There were so many scenarios that filled me with terror.

It is said that the moment you sleep with the girl, no matter how much rapport or respect you had for one another, that goes up in a puff of smoke, and everything changes.

She might no longer be my friend.

She may no longer want to stay at the apartment.

She might decide to go home, and that would be the end of everything.

This was the end of everything.

So, i started counting the seconds that this relationship had left.

A half out passed, and I hadn’t moved.  There were too many parts of her I could unintentionally touch.  And there were other thoughts that I would like to have and express.

She stirred again, but instead of jumping back in fright, discovering she was not alone, I felt her hand moving, and ended up taking my hand in hers and squeezing it.

“Bet you didn’t think you would be here today.”

It was a sultry, low, almost hoarse stone that sent a shiver through me.  It also may have had something to do with her slight movement.

“I didn’t.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Perhaps more elated than I should be.”

I turned my head and saw she had her eyes open, and she had a smile, one that extended to her eyes.

“Until I sat down in the lounge chair, with my coffee, and you sat opposite me, I didn’t realise how you felt about me.  That look you gave me after I said I was thinking about going home.  You were devastated.”

I thought I’d kept the emotion out of my expression, but with her, I could never quite keep the proverbial poker face.

She knew me far better than I realised.

“It has nothing to do with me what you do or don’t do.  I would be upset if you left, but you have your own life to lead.”

“It’s not much of a life.  The guy I thought I loved laughed outright when I told him I wanted more.  It hurt, not as much as the last time, and you know all about that, but what I didn’t realise until that moment, was that what I wanted was right there in front of me.”

I wasn’t going to assume that was me.

She had spent a fair part of that drinking session going on about some other reporter and how much she respected him, and how things had become so red hot between them, they reached the moment where he suggested they get a room.

Until right in the middle of a game where losing meant shedding a piece of clothing, his wife called.  She had seen his cell screen.  The bastard was married.  And in situations like that, she came out the worse off, being transferred and demoted.

I was going to offer her free legal advice.

That was the moment the bartender banished us.

When I didn’t say anything, she just sighed.  “You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves, Alex.  You didn’t for the last six hours, and you surprised me.”

Something clicked in my brain, clearing the fog.  It was one of those moments with the sudden sucking in of breath, and the whole event returns as clear as it was just moments ago.

There had been something tacit in the look she gave me, not long after we got to the hotel, and we were sitting at either end of the bed.  She was still drunk, but sober enough to know who was there and where she was. 

There was one simple question.  “Why do you hesitate?”

That was easy, because I had made a mistake, misinterpreted the signals, and ruined everything.  I did not want to do that again.

“You know why?  I want to be with you, even if it is only as a friend.”

“You can ask me one question, Alex.  One.  Anything.”

And there it was, the abyss that I wanted to cross, and knowing I didn”t have the power in my legs to jump over it.

But I could try.

“Do you feel the same about me as I feel for you? That is how I have felt about you since the first day I met you.”

She made one of those contemplative faces that made my heart sink.  If she had to think about it…

“Had you asked me that question a week ago, my answer would be very different.  As for asking me now, right this very minute, my answer would be the same as it would have been when we walked out the door of that apartment, before landing us here.  Yes.  I think I’ve known that for a while, but it never really occurred to me.  I don’t know why.”

I had to wonder why we went to the bar.  She was not the sort of girl who needed Dutch courage.

“So…” she whispered.

So, now I knew, and it was one of those defining moments, where suddenly everything clicked into place.

“You remember.”

“As i will till the day I die.  If you will have me?”

“Proposals, Alex, have to be done properly, not immediately after wild drunken sex, though I’m not ruling out having more before we leave this room, or if or when we decide to leave.  I’m not interested in going back to work, and I know you’re tired of being a gopher lawyer.  There’s champagne in the fridge, let’s toast our desire to get married, watch a little TV, get a little drunk and see what happens.”

Sam got the champagne and I turned the TV on.

She popped the cork, poured liberal quantities into the glasses, and we sipped.  I turned on the TV, and we sat on the bed.

I flipped through the channels until a local news station displayed the upcoming weather.  It was going to get colder, and she shivered.

Then the word ‘Missing Person’ appeared at the bottom of the screen, and seconds later a photo of Thomas Aloysius Vanderbloot was displayed, not a recent photo, but one from our graduation from University, three or four years old, not a recent photo and very different to how he looked now. 

If we had been holding the drinks, we might have dropped them.  Certainly, for me, I was sure my heart stopped.

“What the…”  Sam was as shocked as I was. 

For just a minute, then I could see a transformation.  Not from the surprise, but the fact that something was not right.

I think we came to the same conclusion at the same time.

“Tom.”

We said it together.

Back in university, a group of us created elaborate pranks on the others.  Some left people in almost dangerous situations. I had found myself in a rock ledge about five hundred feet up with only a rope to scale the remaining hundred feet or so, and Sam, well, she still had nightmares.

Tom’s pranks were the most elaborate and usually the most terrifying.

“This is because we left him at that bar,” she said.

“Because we let our guard down.”

She slipped out of bed and put her shirt on, then went over to the door.  She opened it a fraction, and light from the corridor showed in the crack.  A little wider showed that at least we were in the same hotel we were delivered to.

She closed and locked it.

She walked across to the other side and pulled back the curtains.  A door and what looked to be a patio.  She opened the door, and cold air swept in.  She shivered violently.

I haven’t moved, but I could see lights in the distance.  She found the light switch and flicked it.

The patio area was flooded with light.  In the next instant, she screamed.

I saw it just after she did.  The body of a man, quite dead, is lying in a pool of blood.  Beside the body, a bottle of champagne, bloodied.

She turned and looked at me.  “We’re in a great deal of trouble, aren’t we?”

….

©  Charles Heath  2026

Searching for locations: Sydney to Beijing, China – Every flight is different

Sydney to Beijing – Qantas A330-200
Boarding 11:45, everyone on board by 12:02, for a 12:10 departure. Pushing back 12:12 Take off 12:27

Lunch
Airline food is getting better but the fact they serve it up to you in a metal tray with a thick aluminum lid does nothing for the quality of the food inside.  I get what the chef is trying to do but often there is too little of one thing and too much of another and what you finish up with is slop in a tray.  Sometimes it’s edible sometimes it’s not.  Sometimes the meat is tender and other times it’s like boot leather.  As it is today. I think it’s pork, I should have had the chicken.  Or perhaps it was chicken.  I hate it when you can’t tell what it is that you’re eating. But, the drinks were good.

Rest or Sleep, maybe
It’s going to take 11 hours and 20 minutes from Sydney to Beijing, a long time to sit in a plane with nothing much to do other than crosswords, read a book or newspaper or magazine, listen to music on your own device, or the in-flight entertainment, watch a movie again by the in-flight entertainment – if it works – or try to get some sleep. I started with the crosswords but got bored quickly. I fiddled with the in-flight entertainment, looked at the movies and tv shows but none really interested me, not then at least, so I set it to the flight path. Not exactly stellar entertainment, but it’s always interesting to know where the plane is. Or is it? If we crash, what good would it do me to know it’s somewhere over the ocean, not far from Manila, or somewhere else.  It’s not as if I could phone someone up, on the way down, to let them know where we are. But, just after dinner, we still haven’t left Australia

However, by the time I’ve finished fiddling with and dismissing all of the entertainment alternatives, it’s back to the flight path and now we are…

Somewhere approaching the Sulu Sea, which I’ve never heard of before, so it looks like I’ll have to study up on my geography when I get home.

OK, Manila looks like somewhere I’ve heard of, so we have to be flying over the Philippines.  Not far left of that is Vietnam.  Neither of those places is on my travel bucket list, so I’ll just look from up here and be satisfied with that.

Working, or not
Chronic boredom is setting in by the time we are just past halfway to our destination. We are over 6 hours into the flight and there no possible way I’m going to get any sleep. I brought my Galaxy Tab loaded with a few of my novel outlines, and planning for missing chapters, thinking I might get a little thinking time in.  Plane rides, I find, are excellent for getting an opportunity to write virtually unhindered by outside interruptions, if, of course, you discount the number of times people brush past, knocking your seat, the person in front lowering the seat into your face, or people around you continually asking you to turn off your light because they’re trying to sleep. Sorry, I say, but you can suffer my pain with me.  It’s one of the joys of flying with over two hundred others in a claustrophobic environment.  Besides, aren’t the lights supposed to be slanted so only I get the rays of light?  Except, I guess when the fixed light doesn’t line up with where the airline has fixed the seat (usually so they can squash more people in). So, sorry, not sorry, take it up with the airline.

Back to work, and I put in some quality time on a part of the story that had been eluding me for a while.  I knew what I wanted to write, but not how I was going to approach it, so that blissfully quiet and intense time worked in my favour, something that would not have happened back home. I won’t bore you with the synopsis, just suffice to say it’s finally down on paper, digitally that is, and it’s a huge step forward towards finishing it. There is, of course, the end play, the reading of the will but not before there are a few thrusts and parry’s by some of the players, but all in all the objective was to showcase a group of people with their strengths and weaknesses pushing their characters in various directions, some at odds with what is expected of them. But enough of that.   A quick check of our position shows we’re still over water but closer to our destination, so much so, we might start the pre-landing rituals, starting with food.

Dinner
7:00 – Dinner is served, well, the lights go on and a lot of tired people try to shake the sleep, and sleeplessness, out of their systems. Then flight attendants that are far too cheerful, and must have beamed in from somewhere else, serve another interesting concoction that says what’s in it but you can’t really be sure of the ingredients.  It comes and it goes.

9:10 – We begin our descent into Beijing, you know, that moment when the engines almost stop and there’s a sickening lurch and the plane heads downward. 9:56 – We touch down on the runway, in the dark and apparently it has been raining though from inside the plane you’d never know. 10:10 – the plane arrives at the gate,  the usual few minutes to open the door, and, being closer to the front of the plane this time, it doesn’t take that long before the queue is moving.

Early or late, it doesn’t matter.  After clearing customs and immigration, we have to go in search of our tour guide, waiting for us somewhere outside the arrivals terminal.

In a word: Scene

This is an easy one.

It’s a part of a book or film that covers a single event, predominantly with a set group of characters.

It could also mean it might relate to a particular genre that you like, as in,

I’m part of the jazz scene or the symphonic scene, though I think it had a more sinister context back in the late 60s, early 70s.

A scene could also be a landscape (especially in art)

Then, of course, the last thing you want is a child to make a scene in front of others, in a display of temper, or bad manners

This is not to be confused with seen, as in, you should be seen and not heard, an oft-used expression by a parent.

You could be seen, especially in places where you were not meant to be, or, conversely, make sure you are seen by the ‘right’ people in the ‘right’ places

Have you seen my dictionary? It’s quite large and heavy

I have seen his bad qualities

I have seen better days, though at the moment I can’t remember when

I have seen them all, sometimes seemingly impossible, but it is generated by exasperation, and generally more like I’ve seen everything now!

Another excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – A sequel to ‘What Sets Us Apart’

…

It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone.  It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air.  In summer, it was the best time of the day.  When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.

On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’.  This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.

She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable.  The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day.  So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.

It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her.  It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

I sat in my usual corner.  Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner.  There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around.  I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria.  All she did was serve coffee and cake.

When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?”  She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.

“I am this morning.  I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating.  I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise.  I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”

“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me.  I have had a lot worse.  I think she is simply jealous.”

It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be.  “Why?”

“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”

It made sense, even if it was not true.  “Perhaps if I explained…”

Maria shook her head.  “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole.  My grandfather had many expressions, David.  If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her.  Before she goes home.”

Interesting advice.  Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma.  What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?

“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.

“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much.  Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone.  It was an intense conversation.  I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell.  It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”

“It is indeed.  And you’re right.  She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one.  She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office.  Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”

And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful.  She had liked Maria the moment she saw her.  We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived.  I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.

She sighed.  “I am glad I am just a waitress.  Your usual coffee and cake?”

“Yes, please.”

Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.

I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one.  What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.

There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it.  We were still married, just not living together.

This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her.  She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.

It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.

There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd.  She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right.  It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.

But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings.  But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.

Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart.  I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit.  The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.

I knew I was not a priority.  Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.

And finally, there was Alisha.  Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around.  It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties. 

At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata.  Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.

Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.

When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan.  She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores.  We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated.  It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.

It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard.  I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.

She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top.  She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.

Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak.  I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.

Neither spoke nor looked at each other.  I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”

Maria nodded and left.

“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests.  I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence?  All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”

My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.

“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us.  There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”

“Why come at all.  A phone call would have sufficed.”

“I had to see you, talk to you.  At least we have had a chance to do that.  I’m sorry about yesterday.  I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her.  I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”

An apology was the last thing I expected.

“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington.  I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction.  We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”

“You’re not coming with me?”  She sounded disappointed.

“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress.  You are so much better doing your job without me.  I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband.  Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less.  You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it.  I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”

It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement.  Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points.  I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever.  The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.

Then, her expression changed.  “Is that what you want?”

“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways.  But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”

“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”

That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud.  “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan.  You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy.  While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”

“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance.  I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother.  She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right.  Why do you think I gave you such a hard time?  You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously.  But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”

“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”

“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”

“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”

I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead.  Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers.  Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen.  Gianna didn’t like Susan either.

Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her.  She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.

She stood.  “Last chance.”

“Forever?”

She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face.  “Of course not.  I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship.  I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”

I had been trying.  “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan.  I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”

She frowned at me.  “As you wish.”  She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table.  “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home.  Please make it sooner rather than later.  Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”

That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car.  I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.

No kiss, no touch, no looking back. 

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2025

strangerscover9

Searching for locations: Somewhere in Tuscany, Italy, a hilltop town

It’s a town we visited in Italy when on a private tour.  Of course, I wrote it down on a notepad app on my phone at the time, and, yes, not long after that, an accidental reset lost all the data.

Now, I have no idea with the name of the town is, just that it was a picturesque stopover in the middle of a delightful private tour of Tuscany.

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There are narrow laneways that I suspect no one 300 hundred years ago planned for cars

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Narrower walkways that lead to very dark places

 

Walkways on the side of the hills that look down on the picturesque valleys

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And rather interesting hillsides, some of which provided inspiration for Leonardo da Vinci

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Or maybe it was this landscape, though it is difficult to see what could be found as inspiration in such a bland hillside

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A lot of houses, some of them quite large, nestled in amongst the trees

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Gardens, of sorts, balcony’s, not so big, and hidden doorways

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Even not so secret passageways between houses.

All in all, it was an interesting visit, and it made me wonder what it would be like to live here, all crowded together, rather than living on our relatively isolated quarter-acre blocks.

“The Things We Do For Love”

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

But can love conquer all?

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

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

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

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

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

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

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

But can love conquer all?

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

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 108/109

Days 108 and 109 – Writing Exercise

…

Characters – Plot – Short Story

…

Alexander Bartholemew Winston Jr was my real name, the one I hated with a passion.

My mother and father called me Alexander in that horrible way that you couldn’t tell if they were pleased or angry, mostly the latter.

My paternal grandmother and grandfather called me Bartholomew in public and Bart in private because Bartholomew was a paternal family name of reverence.

Half my friends called me Marty, after Marty McFly of Back To The Future fame, though they never said why, and the rest called me Alex, my preferred name.

So, today it was Alex.

“Alex?”

Samantha Davies had a far more elegant name, Samantha Elizabeth Davies Ramsborough, but had adopted her mother’s pre-marriage surname for anonymity.

We somehow, by a quirk of fate, finished up sharing a four-bedroom apartment in a city where accommodation for one cost a priverbial arm and a leg, and since we all got along so well at University, that camaraderie continued into post-university, and onto the various jobs we were now found ourselves with.

Sam, as she preferred to be called, was coming out into the kitchen where I had coffee, black, strong, no sugar, waiting for her.

“He’s not here.  Today it’s Bart.”

“Simpson?”

“If I had a skateboard, maybe.”

“There’s enough room in this place if you did.”

She was right.  The apartment was half a floor, the possession of an Aunt of one of the other two housemates, with so much room you could get lost. There were even rooms for servants.

Sam had a way of changing subjects, from trivial to serious to trivial again, without time to take a breath.  Half the time, I didn’t know whether I should take her seriously or not.

Which was why we were still just friends, even though she knew how much I liked her; it was just every time we got near the subject, she’d change it.

Maybe she didn’t like me as much.

“Thomas didn’t come home last night.”

If there was a rival for her affections, it was Thomas Aloysius Vanderbloot, an overly self-confident, sometimes smartass, mostly a person whom trouble followed close behind.

I had rescued him from countless scrapes, without thanks or acknowledgement, and, as far as I was concerned, he was now starting to wear out his welcome mat. 

Only it was his grandmother’s apartment.  We didn’t get the privilege rates, which I expected.  I was not one of those entitled sons of wealthy parents, even though they had tried to spoil me, and therefore had only the money I earned to spend.  My brother and sister let them fund their education and pet projects, and were the favourites.

It didn’t bother me.  I was, at least, living my own life.

“We shouldn’t have left him.”

It had been late.  Sam, a budding journalist, had a deadline for a story, and I had a deposition, first thing the next morning.

It was the day after the day after, and we’d all been too busy with different schedules to notice until now.  Philomena, our fourth flatmate, was a nurse, and we rarely saw her

She suddenly appeared, a trait of hers that we firmly believed she travelled through portals because she had a habit of just appearing out of nowhere.

“Whose missing?” she asked.

Sam jumped; the suddenness of her voice from behind her scared her.

“Tom.”

The thing is, Philomena adored Thomas, but he was oblivious to her affection.  It was a little different with Sam; they had a fling in University until he got caught cheating on her, though I knew I didn’t say anything, or ever would, but was there to help pick up the pieces after that first and most intense love.

“Weren’t you two with him the other night?”

Sam, like me, knew what was coming.  Blame.

“We were until he brushed us off.  He had recognised one of his childhood friends, now an investment banker, buying shots, getting drunk and chatting up a few girls.  You know what he’s like.”

“You should have dragged him out.”

Yes, and the last time I did that, I was still carrying the aches and pains from a robust bar fight and a night in jail, drunk and disorderly, and an acid tongue from Sam the next day.

It was always my fault when he couldn’t save himself from himself.

“He’s probably sleeping it off in some seedy hotel,” Sam said, and collected her coffee and flopped into a lounge chair.

She had a new story assignment from the editor and wasn’t happy.

Aside from that, she was well aware of Thomas and seedy hotels.  That was where she found him with another girl, one that Sam had despised because of her open invitation to a male who could be so easily led.

Philomena would not believe either of us, so I let it slide.  It was a day off from lawyering and I was going to make the most of it.

…

Here’s the thing…

Thomas had that way of imposing on your thoughts, even when he was not there.

Uppermost in my mind, and the message my parents, and the parents of the other three, was that we had to be careful, not look for trouble, don’t go to places where trouble could be found, do not be alone in a potential hot spot, and above all, know everything and everyone around you.

In other words, each of us, if anyone knew who we really were, was a potential kidnap victim, or worse.

Each of us, bar Thomas, heeded those words to the letter.  In my application to the law firm, I used my proper name, because I had to, knowing it might open doors because of the family name, and got an interview.  When they asked about the surname, I said it was a distant relative who likely had never heard of me, and the relationship was a coincidence.

I had no interest in trading on my family name.  I was going to succeed or fail on my own merits.  I felt like, at this point, I was failing.

I dropped into a chair near Sam and sipped the coffee, one that Tom had introduced us to, a very expensive taste to acquire.

“How’s your day looking?” I asked, not sure of where this conversation would go.

Her expression was contemplative, so I had to wonder if she was thinking of Tom.  I could feel the green monster sitting on my shoulder.

She looked at me in a way she hadn’t looked at me in a year.  The last time was after the pieces had been reassembled, and I mistook the signs.  I had a long time to try and work out what I did wrong.

Perhaps I was about to find out now.

“It was going to be terrible.  Not just the Tom thing, but I hate my editor.  I hate my job.  I hate my life.  Perhaps it’s time to go home and get married to Mr Dull as ditchwater, and try to be content.”

That said it all.  If she left, so would I.  Home wasn’t the ideal place to go, but I could hide there.  Or if someone hadn’t snapped up Mary Ann Kopeknie, I would.  She was my first love, and truth be told, if Sam wouldn’t have me, maybe Mary Ann would forgive me.

“Like to go for a stroll through Central Park and talk about anything but our woes?”

“Right now, a bar, getting totally obliterated, and ending up in a seedy hotel, seems more appropriate.”

“You don’t mean that.”  I hoped she didn’t.

“I do.  And if you’re offering, take me now, before I change my mind.”

…

When I woke, it wasn’t quite dark, the light from a digital clock casting enough light for me to see if it wasn’t in my room at the apartment.

A brief glance with the range of vision I had showed a curtained window with no light seeping in through the sides, which meant it was night.  There was a painting on the wall, a desk and two chairs.

A hotel room.

Instantly, my mind went back to earlier that morning, if it was the same day, when Sam expressed the desire to have a few drinks.

I thought nine was a bit early, but she had expressed the desire to go with me, so I didn’t.

She wasn’t joking about getting obliterated.  When she could no longer stand or string three words together, the bartender asked us to leave.

I called Tom’s ‘special helpline’ one he included us in on, and we were chauffeured to a hotel Sam just managed to tell us about, making sure we safely made it to the room.

That much I remember.

The rest was a dream I woke up too early from, that part where, in my imagination, we had found that magical connection, where no words were needed, and the love I felt for her was expressed.

It would only happen in my imagination, and not the first time I dreamed it.

I rolled over and discovered I was not alone on the bed.  It must be the rest of the dream, waking up next to the current love of my life.

My imagination would tell me, she would smile, kiss me once, gently, and ask the rhetorical question, how had this not happened before?’

It foundered ridiculous on mt head, and I suspect the large amount of alcohol had damaged part of my brain, and that part where reality lived.  She would never be with me in such a manner.

I think the more appropriate answer to my internal question would be that I put her on the bed and tucked her in to sleep it off.  I did not undress her or do anything without her being fully awake and aware of her surroundings and who she was with

There were no excuses for taking advantage of someone who was incapacitated.

I heard her groan and then felt her move.

Closer to me. 

That was when I realised we were both naked.

My heart rate nearly went through the roof. 

She put her hand on my shoulder and put her arm over me.  Then, a whisper, “You took me out of myself, thank you.”

Then drifted back to sleep.

So close, it was freaking me out.  What if she woke up and started screaming?  What if this wasn’t where she expected to be?  What if she wasn’t expecting it to be me?  There were so many scenarios that filled me with terror.

It is said that the moment you sleep with the girl, no matter how much rapport or respect you had for one another, that goes up in a puff of smoke, and everything changes.

She might no longer be my friend.

She may no longer want to stay at the apartment.

She might decide to go home, and that would be the end of everything.

This was the end of everything.

So, i started counting the seconds that this relationship had left.

A half out passed, and I hadn’t moved.  There were too many parts of her I could unintentionally touch.  And there were other thoughts that I would like to have and express.

She stirred again, but instead of jumping back in fright, discovering she was not alone, I felt her hand moving, and ended up taking my hand in hers and squeezing it.

“Bet you didn’t think you would be here today.”

It was a sultry, low, almost hoarse stone that sent a shiver through me.  It also may have had something to do with her slight movement.

“I didn’t.”

“Are you surprised?”

“Perhaps more elated than I should be.”

I turned my head and saw she had her eyes open, and she had a smile, one that extended to her eyes.

“Until I sat down in the lounge chair, with my coffee, and you sat opposite me, I didn’t realise how you felt about me.  That look you gave me after I said I was thinking about going home.  You were devastated.”

I thought I’d kept the emotion out of my expression, but with her, I could never quite keep the proverbial poker face.

She knew me far better than I realised.

“It has nothing to do with me what you do or don’t do.  I would be upset if you left, but you have your own life to lead.”

“It’s not much of a life.  The guy I thought I loved laughed outright when I told him I wanted more.  It hurt, not as much as the last time, and you know all about that, but what I didn’t realise until that moment, was that what I wanted was right there in front of me.”

I wasn’t going to assume that was me.

She had spent a fair part of that drinking session going on about some other reporter and how much she respected him, and how things had become so red hot between them, they reached the moment where he suggested they get a room.

Until right in the middle of a game where losing meant shedding a piece of clothing, his wife called.  She had seen his cell screen.  The bastard was married.  And in situations like that, she came out the worse off, being transferred and demoted.

I was going to offer her free legal advice.

That was the moment the bartender banished us.

When I didn’t say anything, she just sighed.  “You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves, Alex.  You didn’t for the last six hours, and you surprised me.”

Something clicked in my brain, clearing the fog.  It was one of those moments with the sudden sucking in of breath, and the whole event returns as clear as it was just moments ago.

There had been something tacit in the look she gave me, not long after we got to the hotel, and we were sitting at either end of the bed.  She was still drunk, but sober enough to know who was there and where she was. 

There was one simple question.  “Why do you hesitate?”

That was easy, because I had made a mistake, misinterpreted the signals, and ruined everything.  I did not want to do that again.

“You know why?  I want to be with you, even if it is only as a friend.”

“You can ask me one question, Alex.  One.  Anything.”

And there it was, the abyss that I wanted to cross, and knowing I didn”t have the power in my legs to jump over it.

But I could try.

“Do you feel the same about me as I feel for you? That is how I have felt about you since the first day I met you.”

She made one of those contemplative faces that made my heart sink.  If she had to think about it…

“Had you asked me that question a week ago, my answer would be very different.  As for asking me now, right this very minute, my answer would be the same as it would have been when we walked out the door of that apartment, before landing us here.  Yes.  I think I’ve known that for a while, but it never really occurred to me.  I don’t know why.”

I had to wonder why we went to the bar.  She was not the sort of girl who needed Dutch courage.

“So…” she whispered.

So, now I knew, and it was one of those defining moments, where suddenly everything clicked into place.

“You remember.”

“As i will till the day I die.  If you will have me?”

“Proposals, Alex, have to be done properly, not immediately after wild drunken sex, though I’m not ruling out having more before we leave this room, or if or when we decide to leave.  I’m not interested in going back to work, and I know you’re tired of being a gopher lawyer.  There’s champagne in the fridge, let’s toast our desire to get married, watch a little TV, get a little drunk and see what happens.”

Sam got the champagne and I turned the TV on.

She popped the cork, poured liberal quantities into the glasses, and we sipped.  I turned on the TV, and we sat on the bed.

I flipped through the channels until a local news station displayed the upcoming weather.  It was going to get colder, and she shivered.

Then the word ‘Missing Person’ appeared at the bottom of the screen, and seconds later a photo of Thomas Aloysius Vanderbloot was displayed, not a recent photo, but one from our graduation from University, three or four years old, not a recent photo and very different to how he looked now. 

If we had been holding the drinks, we might have dropped them.  Certainly, for me, I was sure my heart stopped.

“What the…”  Sam was as shocked as I was. 

For just a minute, then I could see a transformation.  Not from the surprise, but the fact that something was not right.

I think we came to the same conclusion at the same time.

“Tom.”

We said it together.

Back in university, a group of us created elaborate pranks on the others.  Some left people in almost dangerous situations. I had found myself in a rock ledge about five hundred feet up with only a rope to scale the remaining hundred feet or so, and Sam, well, she still had nightmares.

Tom’s pranks were the most elaborate and usually the most terrifying.

“This is because we left him at that bar,” she said.

“Because we let our guard down.”

She slipped out of bed and put her shirt on, then went over to the door.  She opened it a fraction, and light from the corridor showed in the crack.  A little wider showed that at least we were in the same hotel we were delivered to.

She closed and locked it.

She walked across to the other side and pulled back the curtains.  A door and what looked to be a patio.  She opened the door, and cold air swept in.  She shivered violently.

I haven’t moved, but I could see lights in the distance.  She found the light switch and flicked it.

The patio area was flooded with light.  In the next instant, she screamed.

I saw it just after she did.  The body of a man, quite dead, is lying in a pool of blood.  Beside the body, a bottle of champagne, bloodied.

She turned and looked at me.  “We’re in a great deal of trouble, aren’t we?”

….

©  Charles Heath  2026

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage, the police thought I had murdered my own wife, though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbours reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months, the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last time I saw Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact that she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months, I was barely functioning, to the extent that I had all but lost my job and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy.  Her story varied only in that she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened became our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each other about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realise that all she had was her work; personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police, and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone, then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 36

There is something bittersweet about writing those fateful last two words on your manuscript, ‘The End’.

That’s because it’s not.  Oh, no.  It’s just the beginning.

However daunting the next phase of the writing process is, it’s a huge sigh of relief to finally finish the NaNoWriMo project for this year.

The ending only changed a dozen times, the most recent version yesterday, when, finally in possession of all the facts, we make discoveries that we really wished we hadn’t.

Certainly, the story lives up to the tentative book title ‘Betrayed’ though I’m not sure if I might use ‘Betrayal’ instead.  But a decision on that is a long way off.

Now it’s time to finish editing the manuscript, at the moment running to over 80,000 words, and stop tinkering. The line has been drawn in the sand.

Having parked two or three other projects so I could concentrate on this, now I can go back and continue with my episodic stories, and, at last, find myself able to progress at least one.

But let me say this, it’s a hell of a way to write a novel in a short space of time.

Now it’s off to the editor for the last round of changes, if any, and hopefully, it can be published this year.

Hopefully.

An excerpt from “One Last Look”: Charlotte is no ordinary girl

This is currently available at Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

…

I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense.  Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.

I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.

It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.

The boy was Alan.  He was about six or seven.  The girl was Louise, and she was five years old.  She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.

I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.

We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds.  I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.

We were so happy then.

Before the tragedy.

When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell.  Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.

It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children.  They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.

Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.

Until one day she couldn’t.

Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand.  She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it.  The damage done to her was too severe.

The doctors were wrong.

She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants.  It was enough to have them arrested.  It was not enough to have them convicted.

Justice would have to be served by other means.

I was outside the Bannister’s home.

I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die.  It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing.  I had murder in mind.  It was why I was holding an iron bar.

Skulking in the shadows.  It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.

I waited till Archie came out.  I knew he eventually would.  The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go.  I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.

I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.

“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me.  He knew what it was, and what it was for.

It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes.  He was alone.

“Justice.”

“For that slut of a sister of yours.  I had nuffing to do with it.”

“She said otherwise, Archie.”

“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.”  An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.

I held up the pipe.  It had blood on it.  Willy’s blood.  “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up.  He sang like a bird.  That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”

“He dunnit, not me.  Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.”  Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.

“No, Archie.  He didn’t.  I’m coming for you.  All of you Bannisters.  And everyone who touched my sister.”

It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.

I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries.  Those were the very worst few hours of my life.

She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late.  If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.

If only I’d not been late…

When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood.  The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.

At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told.  He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.

I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy.  There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.

He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone.  It was a half mile walk, through a park.  The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness.  He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.

He didn’t.

It took an hour and a half to get the names.  At first, when he saw me, he laughed.  He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.

When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list.  I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.

When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi.  The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me.  I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.

At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality.  The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.

Archie could help but rub it in my face.  He was invincible.

Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out.  He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged.  I didn’t care.

Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me.  I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.

I revisited Willy in the hospital.  He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come.  Suffocation was too good for him.

David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters.  His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful.  Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered.  A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.

He and I met in the pub.  We got along like old friends.  He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges.  We shook hands and parted as friends.

Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared.  I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me.  He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.

When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes.  I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it.  He told me he was just a spectator.

I’d read the coroner’s report.  They all had a turn.  He was a liar.

He took nineteen bullets to die.

Then came Archie.

The same factory only this time there were four seats.  Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities.  She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.

Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.

A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.

Archie’s mother cursed me.  I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.

Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily.  The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family.  I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.

He was a little more worried about his sister.

I told him it was confession time.

He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.

I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony.  I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes.  This time he did, it all poured out of him.

I went over to Emily.  He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm.  Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.

“Louise was my friend, Archie.  My friend.”

Then she shot him.  Six times.

To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this.  May God have mercy on your soul.”

Now I was in jail.  I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession.  Without my sister, my life was nothing.  I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.

They were not allowed to.

For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors.  I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.

Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.

Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”

When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone.  They ignored me.  I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.

I was beginning to think I was going mad.

I ignored him.

“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that.  You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”

Death sounded good.  I told him to go away.

He didn’t.  Persistent bugger.

I was handcuffed to the table.  The prison officers thought I was dangerous.  Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that.  McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.

“Why’d you do it?”

“You know why.”  Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.

“Your sister.  By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”

“It was murder just the same.  No difference between scum and proper people.”

“You like killing?”

“No-one does.”

“No, I dare say you’re right.  But you’re different, Alan.  As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen.  We can use a man like you.”

“We?”

“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”

I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him.  It looked like I didn’t have a choice.

Trained, cleared, and ready to go.

I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible.  People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.

People like me.

In a mall, I became a shopper.

In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.

On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.

At the airport, I became a pilot.  I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.

I had a passkey.

I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.

That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life.  Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.

Two pilots and a steward.  A team.  On the plane early before the rest of the crew.  A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.

Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.

Me.

Quick, clean, merciless.  Done.

I was now an operational field agent.

I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides.  It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.

I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.

It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.

Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.

Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.

I was Barry Gamble.

I was Lenny Buckman.

I was Jimmy Hosen.

I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.

That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision.  If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.

Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.

God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness.  Not that day.  Not any day.

New York, New Years Eve.

I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag.  They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.

This time I failed.

A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…

Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her.  It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.

I was done.

I’d had enough.

I gave her the gun.

I begged her to kill me.

She didn’t.

Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.

How could she?  No one could know what I’d been through.

I remembered her name after she had gone.

Amanda.

I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.

Someone else had the same imperfection.

I couldn’t remember who that was.

Not then.

I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it.  After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.

The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.

It was late.

People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks.  Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.

A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.

He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”

Two of his friends dragged him away.  He shrugged them off, squared up.

I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground.  I looked at his two friends.  “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”

They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk.  She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.

I looked around to see where her friends were.  The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.

She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.

I sat beside her.  “Where are your friends?”

“Dunno.”

“You need help?”

She looked up, and sideways at me.  She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state.  Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nobody.”  I was exactly how I felt.

“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care.  Just leave me here to rot.”

She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.

Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.

“Where are your friends?” I asked again.

“Got none.”

“Perhaps I should take you home.”

“I have no home.”

“You don’t look like a homeless person.  If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.”  I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.

She lifted her head and looked at me again.  “You a smart fucking arse are you?”

“I have my moments.”

“Have them somewhere else.”

She rested her head against my shoulder.  We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.

“Take me home,” she said suddenly.

“Where is your place?”

“Don’t have one.  Take me to your place.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m drunk.  What’s not to like until tomorrow.”

I helped her to her feet.  “You have a name?”

“Charlotte.”

The wedding was in a small church.  We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot.  Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.

On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.

I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.

Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.

And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age.  She arrived late and left early.

Aunt Agatha.

She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look.  “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.

“Likewise I’m sure,” I said.  It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte.  It was clear she feared this woman.

“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.

“You know why.”

Agatha looked at me.  “I like you.  Take care of my granddaughter.  You do not want me for an enemy.”

OK, now she officially scared me.

She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.

“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.

“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”

Charlotte never mentioned her again.

Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.

Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us.  Her husband was not with her this time.

Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother.  She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.

We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends.  For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.

I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother.  It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.

Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.

Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close.  I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness.  We were never close.

But…

This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head.  It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.

And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction.  “You seem distracted,” she said.

“I was just remembering my mother.  Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”

“Why now?”  I think she had a look of concern on her face.

“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.

Another look and I was wrong.  She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.

I was crying, tears streaming down my face.

I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.

It was like coming up for air.

It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life.  I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.

And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”

I could not speak, but I think I smiled.  It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye.  Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.

“Welcome back.”

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

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