An excerpt from “Sunday in New York”

Now available on Amazon at:  https://amzn.to/2H7ALs8

Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.

We met the Blaine’s at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaine’s frequently visited, and had recommended.

Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’.  It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.

It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over.  It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.

Aside from the half frown half-smile, Alison was looking stunning.  It was months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary.  On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to.  She had adored it, and me, for a week or so after.

For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.

She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars got on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds silence, and many more gasps.

Even I had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room.  Once more I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me.  Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others ‘out there’ who were more appealing.

Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight.  She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.

More than once I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”

Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together.  It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement.  Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.

The battle lines were drawn.

Jimmy was looking fashionable, with the permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it.  Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.

The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out she had straightened it.  And took the moment to look deeply into my soul.  It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.

Then it was gone.

I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me.  A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.

When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.”  It was not a question, but a statement.

I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’ but I accepted it with good grace.  Sometimes Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand.  I guessed she was talking about the new job.  “It was supposed to be a secret.”

She smiled widely.  “There are no secrets between Al and I, are there Al?”

I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.

I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al.  I tried it once and was admonished.  But it was interesting her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not.  It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.

Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil.  As I understood it, the Blaine’s were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in.  I didn’t ask if the Blaine’s thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.

And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realized I was looking at both of them.  I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand.  And yet, apparently, Alison did.  I must have missed the memo.

“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”

No secrets.  Her look conveyed something else entirely.

The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us.  It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me.  We were going to need it.

Then, a toast.

To a new job and a new life.

“When did you decide?”  Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.

Alison had a strange expression on her face.  It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind.  Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.

Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realized it would be churlish, even silly if I made a scene.  I knew what I wanted to say.  I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine, or upsetting Alison.  This was not the time or the place.  Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.

Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing.  If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decide there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control.  “It’s the little things.  They all add up until one day …”  I shrugged.  “I guess that one day was today.”

I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real?  Or; I told you he’d come around.

I had no idea the two were so close.

“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me.  I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points.  It was all I could come up with at short notice.

“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted.  “Alison was off to get some study in with one of her friends.”

“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up, and immediately got the ‘shut up you fool’ look, that cut that line of conversation dead.  Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.

It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose.  Care to join me, Al?”

A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend.  “Yes.”

I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation.  I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.

I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.

There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show.  I was quite literally gob-smacked.

I drained my champagne glass gathering some courage and turned to him.  “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up.  You know Alison is doing her law degree.”

He looked startled when he realized I had spoken.  He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed.  Or perhaps it was deliberate.  She’d definitely had some enhancements done.

He dragged his eyes back to me.  “Yes.  Elaine said something or other about it.  But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week.  Perhaps I got it wrong.  I usually do.”

“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”  I shrugged, as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again.  “This week or next, what does it matter?”

Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart.  It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; it was possible she was now telling me lies.  If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?

We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”

“Trouble, I suspect.  Definitely more money, but less time at home.”

“Oh,” raised eyebrows.  Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details.  “You sure you want to do that?”

At last the voice of reason.  “Me?  No.”

“Yet you accepted the job.”

I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him.  Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him.  “Jimmy, between you and me I haven’t as yet decided one way or another.  To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”

“Barclay?”

“My boss.”

“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay that recently moved in the tower a block down from us.  I thought I recognized the name.”

“How did Elaine get the job?”

“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”

“When?”

“A couple of months ago.  Why?”

I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker.  I felt sick, faint, and wanting to die all at the same moment.  “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time.  Too busy with work I expect.  I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”

I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted and I knew I had to keep it together.  I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down.  I sucked in some deep breaths, and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.

And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown.  Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”

Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth.  It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction.  It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.

When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and I.  I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, it didn’t matter.  If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact I took over the dining engagement did.  She knew well enough the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket.  She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.

But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points.  Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine.  She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.

Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly.  I chose to ignore her, and pretend nothing had happened, instead of telling her how much I was enjoying the evening.

She had her ‘secrets’.  I had mine.

At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me.  It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, Jimmy came looking for me.  I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse.  When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was but neither made any comment.

It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which to a large degree it was for the other three.  But I had achieved what I set out to do, and that was to play them at their own game, watching the deception, once I knew there was a deception, as warily as a cat watches its prey.

I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree.  It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.

We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaine’s back to the Upper West Side.  But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer.  She showed concern for my health, asked me what was wrong.  It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.

She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it.  Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.

And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.

It left me confused and lost.

I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.

And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

Sunday In New York

Searching for locations: Huka Falls, Taupo, New Zealand

Huka Falls is located in the Wairakei Tourist Park about five minutes north of Taupo on the north island of New Zealand.

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The Waikato River heading towards the gorge

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The water heading down the gorge, gathering pace

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until it crashes over the top of the waterfall at the rate of about 220,000 liters per second.  It also makes a very loud noise, so that when you are close to it, hearing anything but the falls is impossible.

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

Writing a book in 365 days – 204

Day 204

Setting a story in an invented world

We are all born with an imagination.  It’s simply a matter of whether we choose to use it or not.

Some people have every reason to want to disappear into an imaginary world of their creation because life is too hard or impossible in reality.

I was there for two reasons.

The first, because I loved reading books, especially stories about brave people and children who had holidays by the sea, who got together to have adventures.

Of course, if you were like me, it was Enid Blyton, the Famous Five and the Secret Seven. I must have read and reread those stories over and over.

As I got older and the stories got more sophisticated, right out of the school library, my desire for adventure only grew.

Yes, we went on holiday, but there was never anything like what happened in those books.

Until…

We were allowed to stay at my grandmother’s house, who lived in the country.  It was by a highway, it was at the end of a lane, it was only a very large block of land, and it was a huge house, lots of rooms, and a place where an imagination could run wild.

My grandmother lived alone.  She was a hoarder.  She had lots of old musty books and stories that were much different from those I read.

She had a wing of bedrooms, one for my mother, her sister and her brother and a spare, rooms filled with stuff, which, while she went off to bowls and left us on our own, we used to explore.

Those rooms have files of magazines, old documents from the garage her husband, long deceased, had run.  History.

Then there was the outside, now in disrepair.  Two garages and old cars rotting away.  A workshop that had all manner of tools, an overgrown garden of the sort one usually found in towns.  There was an outhouse adjoining the laundry, very scary to go to at night, and almost as much during the day.

It was like stepping back in time, long before we had all the modern conveniences we have today.

Hers used to have a large fountain, a rose garden, a croquet lawn, a fernery, and a greenhouse.  We recovered some of it, particularly the fountain, and it was incredible.  Those gardens would have been magnificent.

Inside the house, there were tables, luxurious lounge chairs, 1930s furniture, cupboards, a wooden stove, and an ice box, an almost perfect reminder of what it had been like long before we were born.

My brother didn’t see it, but then he never really had an imagination.

The second, because of the horrible things that happened to us, if I hadn’t been able to escape, I don’t think I would have made it to adulthood.

A vastly different world was needed, one I could almost walk through a portal into, a place where I could escape.

A child in a boarding school in the English countryside, a pilot in a Sopwith Camel flying over the trenches of WWI, a seaman on a destroyer in action against the Germans in a great sea battle, and an Explorer in the middle of the jungle in Africa, going down the Nile, or the Zambesi.

Anything but who I was and where I was.

In a word: Sheet

Well, we all know what a sheet is, it’s one of those things you put on a bed.  A bottom sheet, a fitted sheet, a top sheet, flannelette sheet.

It could also be a piece of paper, e.g. pass me a sheet of paper please, only to get in reply, what size?

There can be a sheet of flames, best if you see one get away as fast as you can.

Of course, that fire can be put out by rain sheeting down.

You can have a sheet map, that is one that opens out.  Funny how you can never get them folded back the same way.  And a problem when you’re in a car and open it out – hang on, I can’t see out the window!

That lake is a lovely sheet of water, very still just as the sun comes up, and then, what a reflection.  Great if you are a landscape painter.

Then there’s sheet metal, did that in school and wasn’t very good at it.

If you’re a philatelist, then there’s always a sheet of stamps, might be worth something in a hundred years’ time.

Then, if it is worth millions, you might turn white as a sheet with shock.

But the best of all, if you drink too much it is said you are ‘two sheets to the wind’.

When you’re given another chance, it is like being given a clean sheet.

And another form might be to do with sailing when you sheet a sail, which is to say you are making it either tauter or less taut.

English can be confusing sometimes, can’t it?

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

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The fifth attempt, and now it’s a launching pad

I have a stab at improving this starting piece every now and then, a project that started about a year or so ago, and I find myself rewriting the start over and over because I’m not satisfied with the characterization.

It’s not so much the storyline, as it is in trying to create sympathy for the character, and not find him as dull as Ditchwater.  But that takes words, and no one wants to read a biography when they want full-on mayhem.

As writers, we tend to create colourful characters and shy away from those who are dull and boring, because after all, as a reader, you want to become something or someone who is far from ordinary. 

Well, Sam/Graham has a past, and it might catch up with him, but just not in the way he imagined it might. I haven’t quite decided what that past is, but hiding out under witness protection, or just hiding away from a world that he no longer understands is still in the balance.

They say trouble comes when you least expect it.

I can attest to that. It does.

I was at the end of my shift. Another shift, another bright, another 10 hours of my life gone, doing a job that, had you asked me 20 years ago would I be here, I would have said no.

Circumstances and stupidity put me here, and it’s not as if I didn’t deserve it. I was told I had choices, and I did, but I didn’t make the right one.

There are excuses, but that was all they were; excuses.

Jim was like me, and like Joe, and like Mike. My name was Sam. They were easy names to remember, we didn’t need to know much more than that, only that we had each other’s back.

“Usual weekend?” Jim asked.

I was heading towards the kitchen to get my small fridge bag, then out the back door and off home.

“The boat and the lake await.”

“You still expecting to find fish in that swamp?” Mike had been with me one weekend, and nothing took the bait.

After six or so months I was beginning to think the locals were right. There were no fish.

“Miracles can still happen.”

“Yeah, right. You should come hunting with us.”

“Don’t like guns.”

Not any more, anyway. There was a time I was happy to use one, when I had purpose, and there was a reason to use it.

“Then why pick a job that needs one?”

“Chances of having to use it, zero, Mike. If I have to I will, but until then…”

I left it there. We’d had this conversation and it always ended the same way.

I collected the bag, told them I’d see them next Monday, the start of the next shift, and stepped out the back door into the early morning dawn, that period just as the light came.

Silent, fresh, the promise of either a good day or a bad. I wasn’t sure. I glanced over towards the car and it was covered in snow.  The weather was clear now, but I could feel more snow was coming.  A white Christmas?  That’s all I needed. 

As I approached my car, the light went on inside an SUV parked next to my car.  The door opened and what looked to be a woman was getting out of the car.

“Graham?”

That was another thing about the members of my team. Our current first names were not necessarily our real names. It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time.

I looked again and was shocked to see my ultra-successful sister, Penelope.  She was leaning against the front side fender, and from what I could see, didn’t look too well.

How on earth did she find me, after all the years that had passed?  Perhaps that sparked my un-conciliatory question, “What do you want?”

I could see the surprise and then the hurt in her expression.  Perhaps I had been a little harsh.  Whatever she felt, it passed and she said, “Help.”

My help?  Help with what? I was the last person who could help her, or anyone for that matter, with anything.   But curiosity got the better of me.  “Why?”

“I think my husband is trying to kill me.”

Then, with that said, she slid down the side of the car, and I could see, in the arc lamps lighting the car park, a trail of blood.

My first thought was she needed the help of a doctor, not a stupid brother, then a second thought, to call 911, which I did, and hoped like hell they got here in time.

And, yes, there was a third thought that crossed my mind.  Whether or not I would be blamed for this event.

So, from the last version to this, I decided we didn’t need a sob story, it’s one that can play out as and when circumstances require an explanation for our main character’s disposition.

And I have this renewed vigour for getting into action as soon as possible, and, as you can imagine a lot more is about to happen, in about three sentences time.

Exactly what that is, you will have to wait…

© Charles Heath 2022-2023

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 40

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, titled “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. He’s pretending to be wise.

We’re having a discussion about perspective. I’m trying to explain that it is different for every person.

He reckons from his perspective, I’ve lost the plot.

So, I say, this is how it goes.

Imagine you’re arrested for a crime you didn’t commit. All the evidence is circumstantial, your gun is missing, and only two people know the combination; you can’t get corroboration on your whereabouts at the time of the crime, and you were heard to say you wanted to kill the victim.

A measured look of thoughtfulness followed by, he’s guilty of course.

Why do I ask.

Give a man a gun and it’s bound to go off.  That’s the problem with you humans.  You need to figure out how to get along with each other without having a gun to back you up.  Have you ever seen a cat with a gun?  No, I didn’t think so.

How did this get to be about guns and not perspective? I ask.

Leave the gun out of the equation, then it’s only circumstantial.  Just saying.

I shake my head.  Why am I talking to a cat?

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job? – Episode 6

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.

Did he just witness an execution?

I could see the cogs in his mind turning over.  Calculating what it would take to get past me.

Running would only help me.

Walking, well, he wasn’t going to get far.

A fight?  He might be more experienced, but I was angrier, now controlled anger aided by rational thinking.  There would be no blindly lashing out.

Reconnaissance, Surveillance, and Self-defence.

We were ten yards apart when he stopped, moving to one side near the wall.  I’d seen him looking for a weapon, but luckily none were on offer.  Someone kept this laneway very clean.

A car had been parked at the end, and I’d seen him try the doors.  Locked.  It would not be available for his escape.

He glared at me.  “You’re Jackson, right?”

A brief moment of shock.  How did he know my name?

“Who I am is irrelevant.”

“So you say.  But I can assure you this is all wrong.”

Rule number seventy, or something like that, the target will say anything to get you offside.

“You harmed my friends.”

“Then, you’re in big trouble if you regard them as friends.  In this business, we don’t have friends.”

He was right in one respect.  Having friends gave our enemies leverage.  But without friends, the loneliness of the job could break you.

But, right then I wasn’t interested in his opinion.

When I didn’t answer he said, “This is a setup.  I’m not the enemy; I’m one of you.  I made a mistake, and now they’ve set the dogs on me.”

I didn’t ask why we were following him, that was above my pay grade, added to the fact I didn’t want to know.  Knowing the perfidy of the target could compromise how I treated him.

“You’re the target, why I don’t care.”

“Look, I haven’t got much time.  Find a man called Alfred Nobbin.  I work for him.  I found something I shouldn’t, which is why you are here, now.  Tell him the evidence is ….”

I didn’t hear the bullet that killed him, but it came from behind me, hit him in the chest, its force sending him backwards, and he was dead before he hit the ground.”

I turned but there was no one there.

© Charles Heath 2019-2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 203

Day 203

Writing exercise

You have heard this story a million times, but not quite.

It was a mad dash from the office to the airport, and like most times when it came to personal travel, I just made it, or I was five minutes too late.

Of course, this time, I had a legitimate reason.  Because I had to clear the vacation days, I needed to go home and be with my mother whose health had taken a turn for the worse, and it meant visiting HR.

And in HR was Adeline, the woman I had met at a staff function the week before and had spent a rather interesting evening.  I had a strict policy on not dating work colleagues, but for some reason, she seemed different.

It was not a date, and we had parted without any commitment to continue, though something inside me told me it might be worth pursuing.

I had to sign the vacation form, and she was the dury officer on the desk.  In the end, I had to run, but she had asked to exchange phone numbers.  I had no idea how long i would be gone, a few days or much longer, given my mother’s doctors wasn’t sure himself.

All I knew was that her time was almost up.  Stage four cancer was as unpredictable as it was relentless.  The only positive is that it had given me the time to get home and spend those last few weeks with her.

My brother and sister were on the other side of the world and wouldn’t be able to make it, though they were trying to get home.  The thing was, our mother was not all that keen for them to return.  It was an odd response and one I couldn’t understand.

Perhaps I would find out when I got there.

On a trip that involved two planes, one made at least a dozen times over the past two years without a glitch, was expected, given the circumstances, to be equally as easy.

Wrong.

It was like the universe was trying to tell me something.  A surplus bag left behind stopped my outward-bound first flight, delaying it to the point it was scrubbed and everyone had to return the next day.

That killed the connecting flight, so that when I was finally on the ground, the second flight wasn’t leaving for another eleven hours.

I finally got home two days after I started out.  I was glad she was not at death’s door, or I would have missed seeing her alive and have those last few meaningless words we say to people who are dying.

It was a given that I would automatically ask how she was, knowing she was never going to feel well again.  And yet there was no stopping us because we had been indoctrinated a long time ago with such human concern.

She was propped up in a comfortable chair by the fire, reading a book when I got there, fighting off the beginnings of a snowstorm, and driving an unfamiliar car.

At best, I was expecting to be snowed in.  My mother’s last conversation over the phone while I was waiting for the second plane was upbeat, though I could hear the pain in her voice. She was on regulated morphine shots to manage that same pain.

I dumped my bag at the foot of the stairs and went into the large living space.  In winter, it could get very cold, but it was the views in spring and summer that more than made up for the other two seasons.

“How could you read a book when the falling snow is so breathtaking?”

In more ways than one.  The intense cold outside could make breathing difficult.  It used to affect me when I was younger.

“Richie, at last.”

I went over and gave her a hug.

Mrs Davis, her carer, came in carrying a tray with tea and coffee.  My mother had never acquired the taste for coffee, perhaps because of her family origins back in England.  

She was, she always said, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, that she should have been a princess, and only the thought of all that pomp and ceremony that came with the title had put her off, running away to America and a different sort of life.

And when we asked her what she meant, she would always say, ‘That’s for me to know and for you to find out’.  But it never escaped me that Dad always used to call her his ‘Princess’ with one of his enigmatic smiles, along with their story on how she came second in the Prom Queen stakes, and therefore would always be his Princess.

I never understood what he meant, and the others just thought he was simply crazy in love with her.

It was the sort of love I wanted to find, but so far, I had not.

Mrs Davis poured the tea and left us.  I sat in the seat beside her, where Dad always sat.  It was strange that he always called the living room ‘the throne room’.

“You were lucky.  The airport just closed.  The snow is going to set in for a few days.”

God’s will, perhaps.

“Any word from the others?”  I could see the inadequate beside her, a sure sign she had been video conferencing with my brother and sister.

“I told them it’s not urgent.  They have obligations and children to consider.  Unlike you, free as a bird.”

It was a blessing and, ironically, a curse.  She had hoped that she would have at least one grandchild from each of her children, and I had disappointed her.

There had been several candidates over the years, but i was not what they were looking for, and in the end, I decided not to try.  If it was meant to happen, it would.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  I’d rather she were perfect for you than second best.”

“You were, according to Dad, and that’s all I ask for.”

“You’re not a second-best sort of person, Richie.  She’s out there. You just haven’t met her yet.”

It was the same every time I came home.  It saddened me that this would be the last time and that it was going to be hard to remain upbeat.

Several weeks passed, and it was very hard to watch her slowly decline.  Her bed was set up in the living room, making it easier for her to get from the bed to the seat

A steady stream of visitors showed how much the townsfolk adored her, everyone coming to pat their respects while she had the strength.

Now it was deserting her, so she remained in bed and held court from there.  A different colour dressing gown for each day of the week.

Our conversations were of childhood memories, hers and mine, though there were hard any of my mine that she wasn’t aware of, and a whole swathe of hers I had no idea about.  I don’t think any of us did, Dad included

And, then, when I thought she had drifted off into a morphine induced dream state, she said, with conviction, “You have heard this story a million times, but not quite.”

At first, I thought she was actually talking in her sleep, but she was not.  She had opened her eyes and was looking straight at me.

“What more could there be?”

“More than you could ever imagine.”

©  Charles Heath  2025