Category: blogging

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

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

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the current situation?”

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

He looked in my direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was hoping for the latter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was nerves more than the cold.

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

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

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fear factor increased exponentially.

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

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

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

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

We needed a distraction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

A long short story that can’t be tamed – I never wanted to be an eyewitness – 6

Six

Given the time we had from getting off the helicopter and the pickup of Latanzio, Amy had managed to collect his wife Angelina and her two children, and Gianna and her son, Latanzio’s mistress whom very few knew about.

It transpired Amy’s people had only discovered the mistress by accident during a surveillance mix-up.  It was, in Amy’s opinion, pure gold if it came to needing leverage, though she didn’t say what she might need leverage for.

Both were kept in separate rooms in different parts of the underground complex, each with their own guards.

And, what’s more, the wife had no idea her husband had a mistress, and even though she doubted his fidelity, it was not something a woman in her position could talk to anyone about because there was no knowing who she could trust, or whether it would get back to her husband with disastrous consequences.

Trust in anyone when being married to such a man, was non-existent.  To a degree, I felt sorry for her, though she had to know what she was getting into because he’d been a part of the family crime business from a very early age.  And, for that matter, so had she, but in her case of my was unfortunate in that she had very little chance of picking who she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

It seemed that being a Latanzio caused a great deal of grief for anyone who knew him or got in his way.

Both rooms were set up with CCTV cameras, and we were recording everything.  Amy wasn’t expecting much from their conversation, if there was any, as it was well known that Angelina was kept out of the loop deliberately.

As I sat in front of the monitors, set up in a room well away from the holding rooms, I could see Amy over on one side talking earnestly to a man I had not seen before, but the suit told me he was some sort of law enforcement, perhaps a superior and they were planning the next move

I slipped on the headphones at just the right moment, Latanzio being escorted into the room where Angelina was being kept.

She watched him come in, the door closed, but I could see him gesture for her not to speak. 

In a few seconds, he had summed up the room, the two cots provided for the children who were asleep, a state Amy had arranged to spare them the memories of being there, and then a glance at his wife which didn’t spark much of a reaction.

There was still a degree of residual anger in his manner, still trying to come to grips with the manner of how this escape was being run.

The lack of any outside communication. Or news on what was happening might become a concern at some point so it would be interesting how Amy handled it.

I had seen the surveillance reports and it seemed that for a married couple, they spent a lot of time apart, but that was mainly due to the fact she had insisted he not bring his work home, and that gave her plausible deniability.

And, because of that position, there was no surprise it had led to the affair.  Although Angelina had not mentioned it to anyone, whether she knew about it or not, there was no doubt in my mind she did but may have not known who it was.

When she did, it was going to be a very interesting few minutes.

He knew the room was bugged, but may not necessarily suspect he was on CCTV given the time frame in getting this together.  Perhaps he had been looking for obvious cameras as he came in, and during the time the guards removed the cuffs and shackles and saw none.

I hadn’t either until she showed me.

Not even a close inspection would find any cameras, but there were several obvious points where microphones were placed so he’d find them, enough that after he had discovered them, he would believe the room was clean.

As with most parts of the underground complex, it had been made over by a team of very experienced set decorators.  I had seen the before and the after and it was difficult to believe it was the same place.

I watched him systematically search and find four devices, and after the last, the triumphant expression.

“So, why am I here?” Angelina asked after he had finished his search.

“I was told that we would be removed to a safe location “

“But you don’t think so?”

“This whole operation doesn’t feel right.  If Benny had arranged this,  we would not be languishing in a dump like this.”

“Who then?”

“Either one of the Carmichaels or the cops.”

“Why would the cops kidnap you?  They already had you in custody.”

He didn’t answer, but I could see he was weighing the possibilities, and in his position, given he hadn’t been executed, which by my understanding of the rivalry between the two families, the only option if they had been responsible for his liberation.

So that left his own people or in his mind, the police.  It seemed to me if it had been his brother, another of our guests, he would not be languishing in that small room, and Benny would be there to greet him.

I wondered briefly whether we had been too clever.

From what I understood of the operation, no one knew what we had been planning and then executed it, and outside the world we had created, all hell was breaking loose.  It had to be done this way for realism and having a legitimate reason to scoop up all of the necessary parties associated with him, operations that would have failed without the right background.

To every media outlet, he had been taken in a daring raid on the prison transfer convoy. That in itself had been a carefully staged scene, right down to the last detail including ambulances for the injured guards.  But it wouldn’t take long before questions would be asked.

But, for now, he was the subject of a city-wide manhunt, and it was also noted that both his brother and his family were also missing, and the Carmichaels were top of the police department list of suspects.

“Frankly,” he said, I have no idea what’s going on, but if this is Benny’s doing, he’s not doing a very good job of it.  We should be a long way away from here.”

“You might think so, but I’d say we’re lucky we’re still alive.  Do you have any idea what’s going on outside?  Did you ever consider that it’s your actions that have brought this on?  Benny told me you killed someone, which can’t be true because you promised me you would not be like your father.”

“I’m nothing like my father, and you don’t want to believe everything Benny tells you.”

“This isn’t the first time, is it?  I told you I didn’t want to know about your business, and I trusted you to keep your word.  Trust, I’m afraid, that was misplaced.  I listened to your lies when the police accused you of murdering some rival not wanting to believe it was true, and now, on top of that, the police say you’ve either kidnapped or killed some guy who witnessed that murder.  I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt, now it’s time to tell me the truth.”

“It a frame-up.  The cops have been accusing me of everything they can’t solve, and none of it’s true.  I swear.  But this isn’t the time or the place to be talking about such matters.”

“No, perhaps not.  But tell me this, if you’ve got Benny to break you out of custody, that doesn’t strike me as the actions of an innocent man.  An innocent man would stay and take his chances in a court of law.”

“A court of law that’s stacked against me.  All they have is circumstantial evidence.  All they’ve ever had is circumstantial evidence.”

“Because all the so-called witnesses either disappear, recant their testimony, or turn up dead.  This has to end, if only for the children’s sake.”

Angelina, then, was no fool.  She knew exactly who it was she married, and I suspect she had, until now, overlooked the lies.  And in saying what she had, she was taking a very big risk.

“Like I said, this is neither the time or the place to be discussing such matters, so you will stop talking or there will be consequences.”

Even from where I was viewing the discussion, and in particular Angelina, I could plainly see he had hit a raw nerve.

I felt a hand on the back of my chair and looked up.  Amy had returned and was looking at the monitor.   She had put on the other headphones but left one ear uncovered.

I did the same. 

“What have I missed,”

“A joyous reunion, not.  I think Angelina is about to wring a confession of sorts out of the bastard.”

We both went back to the screen.

“Is that a threat, Tony?” 

Her voice had changed, not the sound of a wife who was disappointed, or was tired of her husband’s lies.  This was different.

“What do you mean?  No.  I wouldn’t threaten you, or anyone.”  Slightly apologetic. 

There was a change in the atmosphere in that room, and he had lost some of that bravado.

“Then you’d better remember that.  When we get out of here, you will be having a discussion with my father.  He had been taking a keen interest in your recent activities, and he tells me you have been indiscreet.  He wouldn’t tell me what it’s about, but I will find out, and you better not have broken your promise.”

With that, the conversation was over.  Perhaps there was more to Angelina than I first thought.

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 46

As some may be aware, but many are not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mouse catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some years ago.

Recently, I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits, I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

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This is Chester. I just told him it’s Dog Appreciation Day.

And it got the expected response, you don’t have a dog.

Agh.

Then I tell him that a neighbour had a dog just like the one we’re thinking of getting, and they’re going to lend him to us for a few hours.

You can’t do that. This is not a dog-friendly environment. Remember the last time you had a dog. Fleas in the carpet, stains on the wall, and as for toilet training…

Yes, he has a point. The last dog we had was almost a disaster, besides the fact it was ten times larger than Chester. Friendly though, when Chester didn’t hiss at him.

This dog, I say, is smaller, not much bigger than you. A jovial chap who doesn’t bark much, just when recalcitrant cats annoy him, so I’m told.

Who are you calling recalcitrant?

No mistaking that distinct look of displeasure, almost recalcitrant I thought.

It’s going to happen, get over it.

Was that a cat shrug I saw? Another icy stare just to chill the atmosphere in the room, and he leaves.

Yes, I do like stirring the pot. You think he’d know by now.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 12

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

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

Was I working for a ghost?

 

I sat in that room for an hour.

I had no doubt someone was on the other side of the mirrored wall, watching me, analysing my body language.  I hoped I hadn’t given any indication that Nobbin was a name that I recognised, or knew, but I was still new to this game, and as much as I tried to perfect it, I still didn’t think I had a poker face.

More than likely I had a ‘tell’.

There was something else I had to worry about, and that was what approach this Dobbin would take.  For instance, did he know that I had met up with the man in the alley, and stretching that big if, did he know who the man in the alley was, and was he one of ours.

Of course, that was another problem I had, and that was recognising who ‘ours’ were.  It seems the people I knew, were not the same people who were really running the place.

Or, paradoxically, were these people, interlopers, trying to get intel on the group I was supposedly working for.  But they hadn’t disavowed me, so I must be working for someone they approved or knew of.

An hour and a half, and I was beginning to think this might be another game by my previous interrogators.  I was glad not to be on the other side of the mirror, trying to work out what I was ‘telling;’ them.  Once, I’d got up and stared directly into the mirror, thinking I might be able to see who was behind it.  I also thought of tapping it to see if I could get a reaction.

And, in fact, I was about to do that very thing when Nobbin walked through the door and closed it behind him.

I saw him do a quick check of the room, from the floor to the roof, and stopping briefly at the mirror, before sitting down.

“We probably have an audience for this discussion,” I said, inclining my head towards the mirror.

“You might be right, but I did ask for a clean slate, and if anyone is considering recording or viewing this interview, there will be dire consequences.”  Looking at the mirror, he added, “I made that very clear at the highest level.”

He then looked back at me.  “Your name, I believe, is Sam Jackson?”

“Yes.”  My current working name, that is.  Once deployed to the field we started using aliases, and my first and current alias was Sam Jackson.  But how they made the passport look old and used for that legend was interesting, yet not a question anyone would answer.

“You were recently assigned to a surveillance team, for this man.”

He’d brought a folder with him and pulled out a photograph of the man I’d cornered in the alley.

“Is that him?”

Was there a right or wrong answer here?

“Yes.”

“Who was leading this operation?”

“A man named Severin.”

“Describe him.

I did.

It evoked no reaction.  Nobbin had a poker face.  In fact, I was beginning to think it was etched in stone.

“Do you know who he is?” I asked.

“No.  But we will find out.  Thank you for your time.”

He stood, gave me one last look, and left the room.

I waited a minute, and then followed him out, where a security officer was waiting to escort me out of the building.

On the steps outside, security pass returned, I wondered if that was then end of my tenure with that organisation.  Or whether I actually had any tenure in the first place.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Writing a book in 365 days – 209

Day 209

Put it in your own words

…

What exactly does that mean these days?

Perhaps before the advent of computers and spell checkers and grammar checkers, and the vast array of writing helpers available, our writing was our own.

You know, getting sheets of paper, drawing lines on them, filling up the ink well and having a supply of ink available, then with your feather, or purposely made pen and nib, got stuck in.

What came out of your head went down on paper, the nib scratching its way along the lines, and thoughts tumbled out.

It may not have made any sense, but it was your own.

Except, of course, you decided deliberately or otherwise that you would copy someone else’s wprl either verbatim or very thinly disguised.  Yes, there have always been lazy cheats.

I like to think that it was the exception rather than the rule.

Nowadays, you don’t ever have to write at all.  Just a few plot points, and the story is written for you.

No effort, no putting it in your own words.  And unfortunately, it is probably eminently readable.

What is the point?

I will never surrender to AI.  I use spell checkers, but they have very strange ideas sometimes.  It simply means you need to know how to spell.  It can’t be that hard.  We all went to school and learned the rudiments of our language.

Or maybe not. Not if the rumours about students and teachers’ abilities are remotely credible.  I mean, spend half an hour in a crowded pub after the end of the word day, and the conversational language used is terrible.

It seems no one can string a sentence together without at least three or four profanities.  And our regard for others? 

Perhaps a story about ordinary people would be very uninteresting, and we would all have to migrate to a fictional world where respect and conversation without profanities still exist.

So much for the modern youth writing in their own words.

But I digress…

I’m sure that on some level, we all like the idea of picking up a book or reading one using an e-reader that doesn’t have that language or disrespect.

After all, books are what take us into a different world than our own, into the imagination of the writer who has, hopefully, toiled long and hard to put his or her masterpiece down on paper in their own words. 

Searching for locations: Oreti Village, New Zealand, – No two sunrises are the same – 2

Oreti Village, Pukawa Bay, North Island, New Zealand

On the southern tip of Lake Taupo

Our first morning there, a Saturday.  Winter.  Cold.  And a beautiful sunrise.

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This was taken from the balcony, overlooking the lake.

The sun is just creeping up over the horizon

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It gradually gets lighter, and then the sun breaks free of the low cloud

It lights up the balcony

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And the trees just beyond, a cascade of colorful ferns.

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It looks like it’s going to be a fine day, our first for this trip, and we will be heading to the mountains to see snow, for the first time for two of our granddaughters.

I go missing for a day, and…

It’s like dying a literary death.

The silence is deafening.

It seems, after a lot of trial and error, trying this that and the other, I’ve discovered that you only get out of social media what you put into it.

And it means that unless you are on it 24 hours a day, every day, spruiking, or whatever it is we writers are supposed to do promoting ourselves and our work, nothing happens.

Don’t get me wrong, there are those who are raging successes, and I am happy for them.

But for us living on the fringe, and there is quite a lot of us, trying valiantly to reach the public eyes, the battle is just that, a battle.

When do you get time to write?

Is it a choice between writing, or trying to garner support and a following?

The authors who are published by the large publishers will tell you that it is the only way to become an author, where all of the marketing is done by the publisher and all they have to do is put in an appearance and pocket the royalties.

I don’t think that’s necessarily true.

But when I find that happy medium between marketing and writing, I’ll let you know.

Until then, I guess there will be more days like today, and that battle going on in your head that is telling you to give up, it’s never going to get any better.

Maybe not.

But give up? Not today, nor tomorrow.

After all, we live in a world where anything is possible.

An excerpt from “The Things We Do For Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself.  Feeling the dampness of the pillow, and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs. Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived.  He’d heard her and Mrs. Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs. Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines.  She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied.  Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity.  And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain.  Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs. Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.  She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one.  Coming up to the new arrival she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner.  Would you like to sit with Mr. Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.  He purposely didn’t look back.  In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six.  Out of a thousand!

“If Mr. Henshaw doesn’t mind….”  She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so.  Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.”  Mrs. Mac promptly ushered her over.  Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you.  You are most kind.”  The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.”  It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone but made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs. Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be.  There was something about him.

His eyes, they mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying?  There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No.  That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?”  Seconds later she realized she’d spoken it out loud, had hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilization, and home, as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal.  All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up.  “Rest.  And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note.  No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs. Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel.  Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but realized it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observance, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown.  And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame.  They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was he could do with a decent feed.  In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr. Henshaw?”

He looked up.  “Henshaw is too formal.  Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs. Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere.  It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs. Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself.  Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle.  “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought.  He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone.  Then, to Mrs. Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses.  After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation.  “How did you arrive?  I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question, otherwise she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me I had an accident.  I ran up the back of another car.  Of course, it didn’t matter to him the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.”  His attempt at humour failed.  “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came.  Both had found, after getting to know each other better, their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs. Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling.  She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living,” Michelle asked in an off-hand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser.  I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well.  Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, and tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work.  I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you.  I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night and then smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2024

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Searching for locations: Oreti Village, New Zealand – No two sunrises are the same – 1

Oreti village, Pukawa Bay, North Island, New Zealand

On the southern tip of Lake Taupo

Our first morning there, a Saturday.  Winter.  Cold.  And a beautiful sunrise.

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This was taken from the balcony, overlooking the lake.

The sun is just creeping up over the horizon

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It gradually gets lighter, and then the sun breaks free of the low cloud

It lights up the balcony

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And the trees just beyond, a cascade of colorful ferns.

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It looks like its going to be a fine day, our first for this trip, and we will be heading to the mountains to see snow, for the first time for two of our granddaughters.

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz