A photograph from the inspirational bin – 13

I came across this photo:

This is like so many roads off in what is known as the Gold Coast hinterland, that tract of land between the ocean and the mountain range that runs along the eastern side of the country, known as the Great Dividing Range.

This is the road that runs behind where friends of ours live, and runs on down into a valley where a river runs, and when the rains come down, floods.

It’s hard to imagine that a few hundred years ago all of this would have been tropical jungle, and intrepid explorers would be making their way north or west, just to see what was there.

I imagine in another 100 years, all of this will be gone, given over to housing, shopping malls, and factories, and anything that resembles country living will have been moved out to far beyond the mountain range and towards the what is called the ‘red’ centre.

Or over that time there is a reckoning with mother nature, and if there is, I know who I’d put my money on.

But, as for a story…

…

It was quite literally the road to nowhere.

You just had to follow it until it disintegrated into a dirt track, and then for another 20 miles before you finished up at a rusty gate attached to a dilapidated fence that surrounds the a house that was cleverly hidden behind a grove of trees, the only place I knew as home. We had no phones, no television or radio, no real contact with the outside world.

Until, one day, my fairy godmother came and rescued me.

Yes, it felt like that.

Little had I realized that there were any other people in our family, and it took until the death of my parents to find out I had grandparents, and a much larger extended family.

There had been, according to my father, no reason to leave. Or for anyone else to come, and the few that ventured to end of the road, found there was nothing to see, and no reason to stay.

For all intents and purposes we didn’t exist, and, oddly, I was content with that.

Until I decided to venture further afield, run into two people, a man and a woman, both of whom said they were related to my father, and ask me to take them back with them to meet my father,

A bad choice, but I didn’t know it at the time.

Not until my father ran them off at the point of the gun he always had with him.

He knew who they were, and it surprised me to see the change in him, from the strong silent type, to a man greatly afraid, though he would not tell me of what.

He just told me to lock myself in my room, and not to come out for anything.

I heard him leave, but not come back.

It took three days before I left that room, to find I was completely alone in the house. Outside, it was a different story. There, half way between the back door and the barn were the two people I’d brought home, both dead. A little further away were my parents, also dead.

And another man, who was leaning over my father.

I stopped when he looked up in my direction.

“You must be Jake.”

How did he know my name? I nodded, warily watching him in case I had to run.

He went from body to body, checking to see if they were still alive, then stood and turned around to look at me.

“Do you know what happened?”

“No.”

“Do you know who the other two are?”

I assumed he was referring to the visitors.

“No. The man said he was a relative, asked me to bring them here.”

“How did you…”

Escape? “My father told me to hide and not come out.” If this man was associated with the other two…

Perhaps he saw my trepidation.

“I’m a friend of your father’s, a policeman. You were supposed to be safe here.”

We were, until I brought the harbingers of death. “Not any more,” I said.

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 16

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.

…

Rather tired and bleary eyes, I made it to the fishing store five minutes late. I had a lot on my mind, woken late, and then had to battle traffic. I longed for the day I could afford a car, though riding the bike kept me fit.

It also took my mind of the encounter last night, the one that had kept me away, my imagination almost getting the better of me.

Boggs was there, and he didn’t look happy.

“Where were you last night? I tried to get you, but you weren’t answering.”

I had the phone on silent. Ringing phones had a way of bringing unwanted attention.

“I had something I had to do.”

“You went to the Lantern without me.”

What? Does he have a network of spies I knew nothing about? “So, I heard it went respectable and had to check it out.” And hoping Boggs didn’t know who was in attendance, other than me.

“We said we would go there together.”

“You apparently had something else on last night.”

“It’s not what you think. I had to go with my mother to the hospital for her 6 monthly checks.”

It was easy to forget. She’d had a cancer scare a few years back, and had undergone chemo for a few months, sending it into remission. But it came with 6 monthly checks, and both Boggs and his mother were constantly worried it might come back. It seemed it always did when you least expected it.

“And what was the verdict.”

He relented a little. “Good.”

“Then, I assure you that was more important.” No point in telling Boggs what I was doing, just in case it backfired, or he disagreed. “And I can assure you the place is not worth it anymore. Boring as shit.”

He shook his head. Not pleased, but at least not angry.

“Has Rico shown his face?” I asked.

“Yes, about an hour back, some of those people he associates with came and they went off together.”

Perhaps he was annoyed that I hadn’t been there because I’m sure Boggs would follow him.

“You’ve been here all this time?”

“He came to our place last night. I’m sure it was him who searched in my room. Not much of a professional thief, he left a mess behind. Went through the outhouse as well.”

“Looking for the map?”

“Seems so. He didn’t find it.”

No, he wouldn’t, because Boggs had it with him. At least that was what I thought he intimated a day or two ago.

“Copies?”

He reached for his back pocket and pulled out some folded paper. “Thought you might like to keep a copy for yourself.”

I tried hard to keep the excitement out of my manner. It saved me having to make up an excuse as to why I wanted a copy of the map, and I didn’t want to tell him about the plan involving Nadia, not unless I had to.

“Thanks,” I said, and slipped it into my pocket.

“Now, let’s go check out his boat.”

Writing a book in 365 days – 120

Day 120

Writing exercise – the wilds of Africa.

…

The ship took what seemed a long time from the ship’s last approach to being tied up at the wharf in Mombasa, Kenya.

I had watched the proceedings from the upper deck, the wharf swarming with people servicing other ships, and the groups waiting to take the ropes and tie us in between two similar ships to our own.

I had come for a safari, intrigued with the notion of coming face to face with a place called the Serengeti, to see native Africans and rich British and American tourists here to hunt wild animals.

By all accounts, they’d killed all their own and were branching out to new pastures.

We’d come from Southampton via the Mediterranean through the Suez Canal and down the Pacific side of Africa, what I would have called a wonderful voyage, but for others a torturous trek.

If you travelled steerage. For those with money, it was the perfect way to spend a month away from the hectic life of living in a city.

For me, even though I’d travelled steerage, it was an experience, culminating in the arrival, enjoying the breeze that tempered the heat and the exhausting conditions that had prevailed after we left Port Said.

The moment I walked down the gangplank and onto the wharf, the heat suddenly increased in intensity. It was only going to get worse.

I looked back on board and saw Louisa Bently, Lord and Lady Bently’s eldest daughter, along with the governess and two sisters. He was here to join the Embassy.

She had wanted to stay in England and resented the fact she had to leave all her friends and acquaintances to come to some ‘God forsaken he’ll hole’. She looked thoroughly miserable.

I was going to give her a wave, we had become friends of a sort during the voyage, but at her insistence, a secret from her parents and limited to stolen moments. It was a friendship that would not go anywhere; we were from different ends of the social spectrum. I saw her glance in my direction, then back to taking instructions from the governess. Their car had just arrived on the dock.

There were four other American families who were here for a safari, the safari that I had been requested to join as one of three security officers.

There were rumours of a war between the natives and troubles along the way in the villages, and reported reprisals against the whites, trouble borne of interfering missionaries, and railway magnates trying to open up parts of the country.

It wasn’t the first time or the last that the native might attach their so-called British superiors.

The Americans had disembarked and were filing into a coach arranged to take them to their hotel. I had to find my own way to the first campsite with the other officers. My overnight hotel would not be posh, but it was not far from the wharf.

They would be taken to Mombasa itself.

The recruiting agent in London had told me that Africa was mostly hot and dusty, the cities bustling, the countryside wide open, grassy and limited shade. It was hot, he said, but moderately so with temperate breezes, and sometimes it rained, sometimes torrential. It was no worse than the Midwest of America in summer.

It was like that overnight, raining heavily, and when dawn came, the sky had cleared and the sun was bearing down, a hint of a hot, dry day to follow. It didn’t take long for the water to disappear.

I had just enough time to get to the agent’s office and collect my ticket on what was known as the lunatic express from Mombasa to Kimusu on Lake Victoria, the gateway for the safari. I joined the advance party heading to set up the first camp. Five other men were there, fellow security guards, and a catering staff.

It promised to be two days of travel from British South Africa to Uganda, the perfect introduction to the conditions we would experience. However, after a few hours, once we left the coastal city and headed deeper inland, the heat and desolation increased noticeably.

Perhaps it would be the heat, the dry, dusty air and the look on the faces of the natives who all looked quite fierce, that would be more of a problem than the wild animals. Those thoughts occupied my mind for most of the morning of that first day.

It only got worse from then on.

…

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

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.