Category: Author

“Possibilities” – a short story

How many choices could one person have?

Usually, from a very early age, you have some idea of what you intend to do with your life.

Those early choices of fireman, policeman, doctor, fighter pilot, slowly disappear from the list as the education requirements become clearer, and their degree of impossibility.

Then you have to factor in academic achievement or failure, hone situation, what blows life has dealt you, and your financial ability to fund any it all of your hopes and dreams, especially for that all-important university education, and even then, it has to be the right one.

Then there are the family aspirations where parents really want you to follow in their footsteps, as a doctor or a lawyer or in the military.

And if you get past all that, and everything has fallen into place, and you’re ready to head out on that highway of life, you should be fully imbibed with the knowledge and the drive to make everything happen.

…

Now I was lying in a hospital bed staring at the ceiling wondering at what point it all went wrong.

Right on the starting line where everything I had worked for was about to come to fruition, it had all come to an abrupt halt.

My memory got as far as driving home from a work party where we had been celebrating the company’s most recent success, and my progression to the next level of management, when a car failed to stop at a stop sign and T-boned me.

The car was a write-off. I was still not sure what happened to me, but I had heard someone say, in that murky twilight of pain medication, that if I was a horse, they would have to shoot me. It was the only thing I remembered between the car hitting mine and waking up in the hospital bed.

But that was not all the story, and I had plenty of time to mull over everything that had happened in that last week. There was a certain symmetry to it all, as if one event led to the next, and then the next, and it was the last straw, on the last day, that broke the proverbial camel’s back.

…

And here’s the thing.

I would not have been in that accident had I not taken the car. I wasn’t going to, I had intended to take the train to a friend’s place and stay there for a few days, what the boss had told me would be a well-earned rest.

Even then, I might have not taken the car, except for a cryptic text message I received from my sister, about needing to be ‘rescued’ from a bad date.

Nothing unusual for her, she was currently on a dating site binge, and after half a dozen bad experiences, I thought she had given up.

That was the thought that ran through my head as I watched her curled up in the chair next to the bed, half asleep.

Her first words, on arrival, and when she was allowed to see me, was to apologize, believing it had been her fault. She knew I hated driving in the city, so coming to get her, as I always did, had been preying on her mind, and I could see the tangible effects of it in the worried expression, and unkempt manner which was so totally unlike her.

“It was simply an accident, and could have happened to anyone,” I told her.

“You were going to Jeremy’s, I should have sorted my own problem out for once. It’s not as if I couldn’t just call up an Uber, and now look what’s happened. I’m so sorry.”

She wouldn’t accept that it was not her fault, nor would she leave until she knew I would be OK. I didn’t understand what she meant by that because, in the three discussions I had with the head doctor, I was going to make a full recovery.

He had used the word lucky more than once, and seemingly the sequence of events, and other factors like the car safety features, the angle the car had struck, and where, the fact the other driver had to dodge a pedestrian, all of it played a part.

Had they not, quite simply I would be dead.

My sister and her dating were only one aspect of how my life was being driven.

Another memory returned, from that week, that of another text message, from a girl I used to know back at university.

Erica.

She was what some might have called a free soul. She didn’t conform to what I would have called normal. Her clothes sense was somewhat odd, she always looked as though her hair needed combing, and she never had any money.

And, for a while, she lived with me, in a small, cramped room ideal for single University students on a budget, but not for two. Yet, for some strange reason, she never seemed to get in the way or mind the closeness of our existence.

In that short period, she became my first real love, but she had said that while we were together, it was fine, but she was not seeking anything permanent. Nor, she said, did she believe in monogamy. Until she left, studies completed, I wanted to believe she would stay, but a last lingering kiss goodbye and she was gone.

Now, the message said, she wondered if I was still free, and like to meet. Of course, ten years of water had passed under that bridge, so I was not sure where it would go. I hadn’t replied, and the message was still sitting on my phone.

That invitation, however, had been on my mind moments before the crash, and I had to wonder, thinking of her, contributed to it.

Then, on top of all that, there were my parents. Married for 40 years, and the epitome of the perfect marriage.

Or so I thought.

That morning, before I went to work, I had called in to see them after my mother had called the day before saying she wanted to talk to me about something.

Before I knocked on the door, I could hear yelling, and it seemed the perfect marriage had hit a rocky stretch.

Or simply that my father had chosen to have an affair and had been caught out by the simplest of means, my mother answered his phone when he was out of the room thinking it was important work matters, only to discover it was his ‘floozie’.

No guessing then why my mother had called me. After hearing all I wanted to, and not wanting to face an angry couple I just headed on to work.

My mother had yet to come to the hospital to see me. My father had been, but he made no mention of her, or anything else, except to tell me if there was anything I wanted, all I had to do was ask. Then he left and didn’t come back.

Then, last but not least, were the rumours.

The owner of the company I worked for was getting older and didn’t have an heir. One thing or another had managed to foil his succession plans, and in the end, he did not have a son or a daughter to pass the reins to.

With the latest success, the company was about to have a bigger profile which meant more work and plans to open branches in other cities. It was too much for one man, now in his 70s, and looking to wind down.

A rumour had started about a week before the accident that he was looking to sell, and there were at least half a dozen suitors. There was supposed to be an announcement, but it hadn’t happened while I was at work, but considering how long I’d been in hospital, and the two weeks in an induced coma, anything could have happened.

Louisa stretched and changed positions.

“You look better,” she said.

“Relative to what, or when?”

“Half an hour ago.”

I shook my head. Sometimes Louisa was prone to saying the oddest stuff. “What’s the deal between our parents. Dad was here for all of five minutes. Where’s our mother?”

“She left.”

OK. Blunt, but plausible. “Why?”

“Dad was being an ass.”

“Does she know I was in an accident?”

“I told her.”

“So, you’re seeing her?”

“She calls. I don’t know where she is. I think she might have gone to stay with one of our aunts.”

I sighed. Louise had an awfully bad memory, and I was sure one day she was going to forget who I was.

There were four sisters, our mother the youngest. She had a love-hate relationship with the middle two, so the best bet would be the eldest sister, Jane. Jane was also the crankiest because she hated children, never got married, and was set in her ways.

Then, there was something else lurking in the back of my mind. Another item I’d overheard when I suspect I was not meant to be listening.

I might not have a job to go back to if the company had been sold, I might not have a home to go back to if my parents had split up, and I might not be able to do anything for a long, long time. Recovery might be complete, but it wasn’t going to happen overnight.

I had a sister who blamed herself for my accident, and an old girlfriend who wanted to see me, though I suspect not like this, broken and useless. What else could there be?

Oh, yes. Another snipped from the shouting match behind the door. And an explanation of why my father had all but abandoned me. My mother had also had an affair, and his son, well he was not his son.

No surprise then I had a father who didn’t want to know me.

What else could go wrong?

There was movement outside the room, and raised voices, one of which was saying that whoever was out there couldn’t go into the room. It didn’t have any effect as seconds later, a man and a police officer came in. The officer stood by the door.

Louisa looked surprised but didn’t move.

The man, obviously a detective, came over. “Your name Oliver Watkins?”

It was, and hopefully still is. “Yes.”

“I need you to answer some questions.”

“About the accident?”

He looked puzzled for a moment, then realized what I was referring to. “No. Not the accident. About the embezzlement of 50 million dollars from the company you work for. It seems you didn’t cover your tracks very well.” He turned around to look at Louisa, “You need to leave now, miss.”

“I’ll stay.”

He nodded to the officer, “You leave now, or he will remove you.”

She looked at me, with a different expression, “You didn’t tell me you were a crook, Olly.”

“Because I’m not.”

The officer escorted her from the room and shut the door.

The detective sat in the recently vacated chair. “Now, Mr Watkins. It seems there is such a thing as karma.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

NANOWRIMO – 2024 – Day 15

Behind the Green Door

…

Why do people build robots?

We’ve discussed this, but it is coming back to haunt me. Perhaps it’s a place where I should not go because when I think about it, and the fact humans have a terrible streak in them, that a seemingly wonderful idea will without any doubt be turned into something devious or murderous.

The first that comes to mind – taking into account Blade Runner, sex workers and soldiers. Lets save the human versions from a fate worse than death. i guess if you don’t give them the ability to think for themselves and simply program their responses, it might be an idea.

But should we not give them the right to be a sentient being?

In my utopian world, as some might call it, I would like to think that in 200 years, we will have become better people. The problem is, the creator of this new, amazing, lifeform realised that her work was going to be manipulated into something more horrific.

That might have hastened her demise, and then more or less a certainty when she did what she did. Miranda is all that survives from her work, other than several earlier prototypes, and there is no means of replicating her.

Yes, management was looking at prolonging their lives if not forever, much like the Asguard on Stargate. As I said, I’m using bits and pieces of a great many Sci-Fi shows over the years as a guide.

The problem is, even if they could, not all of their soul could be transferred (Miranda only has some of Elsie’s personality, memories of Michael, and traits in her), and Miranda has a specific timeline and will grow old and die like a normal human being. After all, she is mostly real.

Michael is beginning to think there might be some of Elsie in Miranda, and the more they talk, the closer they seem to get. Sometimes the lines between them get blurry, and he has to think twice before he makes a mistake.

…

Word written today 2,112, making a total of 27,906 words

Searching for locations: Flinders Street Station, Melbourne, Australia

This is the famous clock tower of the Flinders Street Station (the main train station for suburban trains) in Melbourne.

We were staying in a hotel (The Doubletree) directly opposite the station and our room overlooked the station and the clock tower.  I took photos of it during the day:

and this one, at night.  It came out better than I thought it would.

20160302_215639

Searching for locations: Smith Street, Fitzroy (Once part of what was known as Marvellous Melbourne)

Of course, it could easily be Collingwood depending on who you barrack for in the local football competition, as it is Fitzroy, but the map and my GPS tells me the street is, for all intents and purposes, in Fitzroy.

Not that there is a football team for Fitzroy any more, that moved north to Queensland a long, long time ago.

But…

Going for a wander up and down the street shows two or three very different sides to inner suburban living, and the effect that comes from a diverse range of cultures, the city has acquired over the past few decades.

Once viewed as almost the slums of Melbourne, these inner suburban areas have moved upscale to become havens for the more wealthy middle classes and a home for many diverse outlets, not the least of which are eateries.

And. In just this small section of Smith Street, there are a lot of eating establishments, from the Old Kingdom Peking duck restaurant to a small place selling Falafel, and then everything in between. It says a lot about how Australian eating habits have changed in a single generation, where back in those infamous old days you would be lucky to have a fish and chips/ hamburger shop and one or two Chinese restaurants.

Now, intermingled with gourmet bakeries and cozy coffee shops, there are a plethora of other eating establishments that cater to any cuisine you can imagine.  In fact, it’s possible to dine out on a different cuisine every night for a fortnight and only traverse about half a kilometre up and down the street.  It could be ideal if you lived in one of the small fronted houses just off the main carriageway in a leafy narrow side street or laneway.

And, as you would expect in an inner-city suburb,  the streets are narrow and made more hazardous for traffic because of the trams, a familiar sight in many of the streets in this area, and a much-used form of transport for workers making the short trip into the city.  It’s almost possible to take the extra half hour, and walk.

The street is lined with old buildings, some dating back to about 1868, there’s around the turn of the century, but most are not inhabited except for the street level where there is an eclectic mixture of furniture, haberdashery, and clothing stores catering to a particular group of people, what some call yuppies or upwardly mobile men and women who are between 25-35, with high paying jobs, and preferably no children.

Then there a subgroup walking there streets, homosexual men, some wheeling adopted children in pushers, others walking hand in hand out for a Saturday afternoon stroll where they can feel safe among many others.  It’s very different from other places I’ve been, but one can imagine there are places like this in every city all over the world.

But as a backdrop to the appearance of wealth, the shopfronts that cater to those upwardly mobile upper middle classes, there’s that exact opposite in full view, the homeless, and beggars, sitting on the ground outside the more run down shops soliciting alms, asking for a spare dollar, and even one asking for a cigarette.

Everyone walks past them, imagining no doubt there are not there, or that if they ignore them, they will go away.  I think not.  And, I suspect, more will come out of their daytime hiding places and take up residence in Smith Street itself.

The only surprise is that the local council has not asked the police to move them on. It’s an interesting juxtaposition of inhabitants in an area that no doubt can only attract the upper middle classes, as anything and everything is relatively expensive, particularly real estate, and permit driven parking spaces.

Would I live here?  No.

Would I come here to wine and dine?

Maybe, if I could get parking, which there appear to be very few spots or any other form of parking such as under the local supermarket which can be very expensive.  And if you are lucky enough to find a spot, who has the time or the memory if continually feeding a parking meter every two hours, particularly if you’re having a good time.

Equally, it’s a place I would not feel comfortable, even if it was once a safe haven, which up to a few years ago, I’d probably think it not.  In fact, at times I was not sure what to make of some of the people on the street, but I guess if I lived here, it would no doubt be the norm.

Would I recommend people to come here?

Of course.  One of the more interesting places in Melbourne to experience grassroots cuisine that is incredibly diverse in it range and price, and even from a place with tables and chairs that may have seen better days, but you haven’t come to see the furniture.

And to my mind, the dining is definitely better, here than perhaps Carlton, which in itself is Mecca to a plethora of university types, both teachers and students alike, and the coffee culture that pervade that area of Melbourne.

I have no doubt you will come and leave with a very good opinion of the place.

As for me, I came here for an engagement party held at the Hotelito de Jesus, a Mexican restaurant, serving a variety of Mexican dishes.  As I’m no expert of that particular cuisine, everything was going to be new.

It was.  It’s spicy but not too spicy, the pork belly excellent, the canapés delicious, and both the mushroom-based and shredded beef based mini tacos were equally scrumptious.

All of this was washed down with two particular Mexican beers, two of several available in bottles, cans, or by the glass.

Oh, and you can get sangria by the jug too if you like.  I would have, but my passion for trying different beers won out.

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

NANOWRIMO – 2024 – Day 15

Behind the Green Door

…

Why do people build robots?

We’ve discussed this, but it is coming back to haunt me. Perhaps it’s a place where I should not go because when I think about it, and the fact humans have a terrible streak in them, that a seemingly wonderful idea will without any doubt be turned into something devious or murderous.

The first that comes to mind – taking into account Blade Runner, sex workers and soldiers. Lets save the human versions from a fate worse than death. i guess if you don’t give them the ability to think for themselves and simply program their responses, it might be an idea.

But should we not give them the right to be a sentient being?

In my utopian world, as some might call it, I would like to think that in 200 years, we will have become better people. The problem is, the creator of this new, amazing, lifeform realised that her work was going to be manipulated into something more horrific.

That might have hastened her demise, and then more or less a certainty when she did what she did. Miranda is all that survives from her work, other than several earlier prototypes, and there is no means of replicating her.

Yes, management was looking at prolonging their lives if not forever, much like the Asguard on Stargate. As I said, I’m using bits and pieces of a great many Sci-Fi shows over the years as a guide.

The problem is, even if they could, not all of their soul could be transferred (Miranda only has some of Elsie’s personality, memories of Michael, and traits in her), and Miranda has a specific timeline and will grow old and die like a normal human being. After all, she is mostly real.

Michael is beginning to think there might be some of Elsie in Miranda, and the more they talk, the closer they seem to get. Sometimes the lines between them get blurry, and he has to think twice before he makes a mistake.

…

Word written today 2,112, making a total of 27,906 words

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2024

In a word: Nobody

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

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

That’s just one use of the word.

Another might be…

Who did that to your room?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.

For the main characters Harry and Alison there are other issues driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry, it is the fact he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.

Between observation, the less than honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, nothing is ever what it seems.

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

The cinema of my dreams – It’s a treasure hunt – Episode 81

Here’s the thing…

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

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

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

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

…

The rescue story

…

When I woke again, it was noticeable that it was light outside the room, even though the curtains were drawn.

My mother was sitting, or rather slumping, in the chair beside the bed, asleep.  She looked tired, worse, like she had been to hell and back.

I guess the thought of losing me, after my father, might have been too much for her to bear.  It also brought up the question of why I hadn’t told her what I was doing.  At the time, it didn’t seem to matter, I’d always be coming home, and there was no question in my mind that anything bad might happen to me.

So, of course, there was an easy answer and a more complicated answer, but I had to hope she wasn’t going to jump to any conclusions before I had a chance to explain.  And then, when I thought about it, what could I say that was not going to tip her over the edge?  In not planning for the worst eventuality, the worst had happened.

I’d done everything I said I would never do, and for selfish reasons.  It was nearly the death of me.  How could I expect her to understand any of it?

She stirred, then slowly sat up, and stretched.  Those chairs were not comfortable at the best of times.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She stopped mid-stretch and looked at me.  It was not with anger or annoyance, but relief.

“How are you?”  She lowered her hands to take mine in hers.

It was a strange question, given my condition, and being in a hospital.  Yet, I guess everyone asked that same question out of courtesy or to make polite conversation.

“I’m told I’ll live.”

“A good thing too.  I’m glad they found you.”

“Who?”

“You know, that slip of a girl you told me you liked, but she was too good for you, or some such nonsense.”

“Charlene?”

“The sheriff’s daughter, yes.”

“She still is.”

“Only in your mind Sam.”

Forever the matchmaker even on my near-death bed, she had always been looking for the right girl, never accepting that our station in life made certain choices impossible.  And, even if Charlene liked me, she would not be allowed, but that was something my mother would never understand.

“What day is it?”  I had no idea of the date or time for that matter, but it had to be days later.

“Thursday. You were missing for nearly eight days, and it’s been a further five days while being treated for severe dehydration.”

First question, what happened to Boggs?

It was as if my mother could read my mind.  “I was told that when they found you, you were asking about Boggs.  I’m sorry to tell you he was found deceased yesterday in one of the caves.”

Had he got lost, or did Alex and Vince go after him too?  They hadn’t left in the same direction, so in all likelihood, he simply got lost, though being the climber and cave Explorer he was, that seemed unlikely.

“That Cossatino girl recovered quickly, but she’s still here, under observation.  She’s been saying she’s not leaving until she sees you.  I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Sam. The sheriff is considering charges against that whole family.”

“She didn’t do anything wrong.  It was her brother and Alex who tied us up and left us for dead.”

She didn’t get time to respond, but the astonished look on her face told me something was very amiss.  The sheriff and Charlene had arrived with the doctor and a nurse who hustled her out of the room.

The doctor examined me, asked a few questions to determine whether I could withstand an interrogation, and then left me with the interrogators, the sheriff, standing back after closing the door, and Charlene, in the seat my mother just vacated.

She had her notepad open on a blank page.

“Firstly, I should apologise for taking so long to send out a search party.  For the record, I received your text message.  I assume you sent that before you left.”

“As we walked out the door of the shoreside hut.  I assume that was the first place you looked.”

It was obvious it wasn’t, so I was beginning to wonder what happened.  My first question was, “When did you find out we were missing.”

“Your mother came to the office two days after the message.  She said you hadn’t come home but wasn’t overly worried because she assumed you were with Nadia.  She only came because your work had asked her if you were ill because you hadn’t turned up for your shift, and that it was the first time.”

“As a courtesy to your mother Sam, I said I would look into it.  I went to the warehouse and Alex said you had taken off with Nadia and had left him in a difficult position.”  The sheriff wasn’t making excuses, just reporting the facts.

I hadn’t been thinking about Alex simply because I didn’t want to, not right then, but I was probably going to have to.  My first thought went to Nadia, who, by the time we realized that we might die, had all but signed his death warrant.  If she survived, she was going to kill him, and her brother, and her explicit description of how she was going to make them suffer made me shudder.

Charlene noticed.  “Again, I’m sorry, but we have to go through this.  What happened after you left the hut?  Take your time.  I know this might be painful, but it is necessary.”

Given what the sheriff just said, I had a feeling that implicating Alex wasn’t going to be easy.  Having a head start on us, he had time to get a story out there and friends who would readily lie for them.

And Nadia being on the outside of her family, the Cossatinos would close ranks around Vince, and between Alex and Vince, refute any allegation I made, and quite possibly Nadia too.

It would be good to know what she was thinking.

“For whom?  Because from where I’m sitting, and judging by the expressions on your faces, I’m the one who’s in trouble here.”

“We just want the facts, Sam.”

“It seems to me you’ve already got them, and what I have to say, if there was anything to say, is irrelevant.  I don’t know anything about what happened to Boggs, and I’m not prepared to speculate.  I don’t know what Nadia told you, but I remember very little about what happened, except we were in a cave, and then I woke up here.”

It then occurred to me to look at my wrists, and there were only faint marks to show I’d been tied up.  I knew then someone had come back and untied us so that if we hadn’t been found, our deaths would not be suspicious.

“We just want your side of the story.”

So the Benderby’s could refute it once the sheriff delivered my statement.

“You just got it.  If Nadia gave you hers, then that should be it.”

“Nadia won’t tell us anything, not even why she was in the cave.  It seems it was a place where pirates might once have visited, but except for a bundle of straw and an empty chest, there was nothing.”

And there it was.  The bodies had been removed, the crime scene cleansed, and we were simply trespassers the Cossatino’s could prosecute.

“Boggs had taken us spelunking, obviously in a place we shouldn’t, but I thought with Nadia coming with us, we didn’t need permission.  Perhaps the assumption was wrong.”

“Cossatino isn’t interested in charging anyone with anything.  He’s just happy we found his daughter.”

Pity the feeling between daughter and father wasn’t mutual.

“The good tidings abound.  Everyone is happy.”

“I’d still like to know why you were adamant Alex had something to do with the professor’s death.”

“I don’t.  I hate the bastard, it’s as simple as that.”

“We know the professor was killed at the mall, you got that right, and dumped on Rico’s boat, but there was no evidence Alex was there, or any safe, desk or anything except dust.”

Of course.  Alex had been on a massive clean-up exercise, just in case we survived.  It was going to be a very interesting first meeting when I saw him again.

“A good guess then.  I’m no longer interested in treasure, Boggs, God rest his soul, or anyone else for that matter.  Soon as you’re done with me, I’m gone, and you will never see me again.”

With that I rolled over to face the other way, the interview as far as I was concerned, was done.

“This isn’t over Sam.”  Charlene was disappointed but she’d get over it. 

And my estimation of her just fell below zero.  It was clear Alex had got to her. And she believed his story.

Of course, I just realized what I’d said to my mother, and had to hope she didn’t repeat it.  But, knowing her affiliation with Benderby, I had no doubt she would tell him, so I could expect a visit from his lawyers, threatening all kinds of punitive action if I dared to repeat it.

As for Nadia, the fact she said nothing told me everything.  Both Alex and Vince were going to face a different type of justice, and I was going to ask her for an invitation.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022