Category: blogging

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 40

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

 

I left the others out the front of the hut in Barnes charge, except for Williamson who stayed inside, feigning illness.  If everything went according to plan, a sketchy plan at best, Monroe would slip the diamonds to Williamson, and then melt back into the bush, heading back towards the fork in the road heading to the airstrip.  She would then report on what troops were between us and our objective.

I signaled for Davies to join me.

The commander and the man who’d reported to him earlier strode across the compound to a smaller building that might pass as a jail.  There was a guard out the front who jumped up and snapped to attention when the commander came up the steps.

“Open the door.”

The guard fumbled with a ring of keys, found the one for the door, and unlocked it.

The commander looked at me.  “You may speak to them for five minutes.”

“Alone.  You have my word we’ll not try anything.”

He nodded at the guard.  “Bottom of the steps.  Don’t let them out of your sight.”  To me, he pointed to another building about 50 yards away, “I’ll be there, don’t keep me waiting.”

We waited for him to come down the steps and start striding to his office, then went up the stairs, and I knocked on the door.  “My name is James, and I’m here with Davies to take you home.  We’re coming in.”

I opened the door slowly pulling it towards me, and the odor that came out of the room was that of people who had not been allowed to wash for several days, if not longer.  Once the door was fully open and the interior lit, I could see two stretchers and two men sitting up, struggling with the light in their eyes.

At least they were able to sit up.

Our information was they had been captive now for about seven months, and, looking at them, they didn’t seem to appear to badly off.  They showed signs of weight loss, and pallid skin, but not to the point of being maltreated or starved.

“Who did you say you were?”  The man on the left was about 50ish, grey thinning hair, and I suspect once a lot bulkier than he was now.  There was an air of brashness about him, but that would have been beaten out of him long ago.  Now he was just a shell of his former self.

“Sgt James, and Lieutenant Davies.  Part of the rescue team sent to bring you home.  A Colonel Bamfield sent us.”

“You took your time.”

Th either man spoke.  Younger, a military type, perhaps the other man’s bodyguard.  He had a few scars, so I expect he had offered some resistance and paid for it with the butt of a gun or two.

“We tried once, but it failed.  There were not the people who had been holding you at the time though, were they?”

“No.  If that was an attempt, they were the people who came to ‘rescue’ us, only it was a means for them to use us for ransom.  It’s taken them a while to find the right people.  Bamfield you say?  Who is he?”

“Runs the military’s operations that the military doesn’t want to acknowledge.  We’re here, but we’re not here if you know what I mean.”

The older man shook his head.  “It doesn’t matter.  What happens now?”

“I go and have another chat with the commander.  We exchange gifts, and we leave.”

“You do realize that’s not going to happen,” the military type said with a degree of despondency.

“How so?”

“There are about 50 men here, possibly more, all armed, and all waiting for you to arrive.  I expect they’ll take the ransom and then kill all of us.”

“Yes, I had thought that might be the case.  But, don’t worry.  We have a few tricks up our sleeve.  So, gather your belongings, if you have any, and wait for us to come back and get you.”

“Are you going to drive out of here?”  The military man spoke again.

“A short distance, yes.  There’s an airstrip not far from here, so all we have to do is get there, and we’re halfway home.”

“There’ll be government troops there.  It’s used for people coming in to visit the national park and they provide local security.  Boroko knows the Captain in charge there, and they have an arrangement.  He’ll know what your options are, and you’ll just be walking into a trap.”

That had always been a possibility, but Bamfield wouldn’t send us there unless there was a chance we could use it for our escape.  But, what the man was saying was just another wrinkle in a plan that had lots of wrinkles.

“Provided you get a mile from this place before being attacked.”

“All very interesting points,” I said.  “But, like I said, pack your stuff and let me worry about the details.  Feel free to take in some fresh air while we’re gone.  It won’t be long.”

“I’ll stay,” Davies said.

“OK.”

I took a last look at the two, both now struggling to their feet.  They might not be in as good a condition as the commander had said.  As long as they could cover about half a mile at best, everything would be fine.

I walked slowly back to the hut where Williamson had just emerged, and I went over to him.

He handed me a package that hardly made a dent in my pocket.  It was probably the reason why diamonds were used, small, and easily transportable.  Gold bars would have been a different, and far more difficult, proposition.

From there, I walked more briskly to the commander’s hut and as I approached he came out.

“Everything in order?”

“It is.”

I pulled the package out of my pocket and handed it to him.  “You can check the contents while I wait here.”

A smile, like a cat who swallowed the canary.  A nod to a soldier standing behind me, I could hear the weapon being trained on me.

“I guess this is where…”

A second later the soldier crumpled to the ground, a bloody mess where his head had just been.  A second raised his gun and suffered the same result.

“Call off your dogs’ commander.  I’m sure we both don’t want to see people die needlessly.”

Two hands for a signal to lower weapons.

“Your missing people.”

“Out there, strategically placed.  Excellent marksmen too.  At the moment they’re showing restraint.  It’s up to you how long that lasts.”

He motioned to the guard at the prisoner’s hut to take them to the cars, “Join them, Sargeant James, I’ll be along when I’ve checked the diamonds.”

By the time the two men had joined the rest of the team at the cars, the commander had come out of his office and was walking towards us.

“Three cars, we’ll keep the other.  I assume you’re heading towards the airstrip.”

“It’s one of our options.  I hear the government had a platoon of soldiers there under the command of a Captain.  You might want to warn him we’re coming.  You might also want to warn whoever you have in the field between here and there we’re coming.”

“I can’t guarantee your safety once you leave the compound.  If there is anyone out there, it will not be my men.  We have an agreement remember.”

“Good.”  

While we were talking the others had got themselves into the cars and started the engines.  Time was of the essence.

We walked down to the barrier, and once again he ordered his guards to remove it.

Once they had the cars drove past and then the last car stopped just the other side, waiting for me.

“I wish you good luck, Sargeant James.”

“Let’s hope the atmospherics don’t interfere with my call to my people.  I’d hate to see this place destroyed because of a misunderstanding.”

I hadn’t seen Jacobi since just after we arrived, and he had headed straight to the commander’s hut.  No doubt they had a lot to talk about.

I got in the car, and we drove off.

I was half expecting a hail of bullets, but all I could see was the two guards replacing the barrier and the commander standing behind it, arms crossed, still looking like the cat who swallowed the canary.

 

© Charles Heath 2020

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 40

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

—

I had to almost restrain Carlo from going up to the castle and singlehandedly kill everyone in it.  I didn’t doubt he could do it, for a short time at least, until they realized what was going on.  There were too many of them to take on alone.

It would need a careful plan, and knowledge of the layout of the castle, and the likely spots where the soldiers were located.  It was a plan that had been slowly formulating in the back of my mind, especially after Carlo’s help with an internal map of the castle, some parts of which I hadn’t got to see in my brief stay.

I forgot that being built back in the middle ages, and the history of cities fighting against each other, there were ways in, out, and around, both inside and in the walls, so that soldiers could travel from one part of the castle to another without being seen, and not having to go inside the castle itself.

There were, also, tunnels, one of which I had inadvertently found, but there were more, and it seems only Carlo knew of those.  Some were useful, others would lead to an early confrontation, and give early notice of our intentions.  Those we would avoid, or use to escape.

We had set up a command center at the church ruins, having found several rooms off the cellar that had two exits.  I didn’t like the idea of being trapped, nor waiting in a location that Fernando was familiar with and was likely to return to.

Which, in a sense, I was hoping he would because we had set a trap and he and his men would be caught in the crossfire.  He was not going to get a chance to explain, nor would I ask any questions, or show him any mercy.

Especially when I found out what he had done to Martina.  If it was as bad as Chiara, he would be repaid in kind, if the opportunity arose.  I tentatively agreed to give Carlo five minutes in the room alone with him, but he knew that expediency might not give him that luxury.  Blinky was not happy about it, but he hadn’t been here long enough to know what the man or his people were like.

We’d also worked out the surveillance system so that we would know when anyone turned up in the village, particularly our prized defector Meyer, and whether anyone left the castle to come down to the village because it was possible there would be more defectors passing through, and they needed to be warned.

What was particularly useful was finding the radio that Martina had been using.  It was in the church grounds, which was not entirely unexpected, but one of Blink’s men had stumbled over it when looking to set up a latrine.

Blinky had brought a radioman, but his radio had been damaged in the parachute landing.  Now he had a new toy to tinker with, and got a connection back to Thompson, after some initial difficulty in translation.  That I could help him with, my Italian was marginally better than a schoolboy.

Thompson was relieved to hear from me, as I was to talk to him.

“It’s been difficult to get a clear picture with Martina, but I got the impression you had to be precise with your questions.”

“A case of getting lost in translation, perhaps.”  I had not had similar problems, but Thompson was from the aristocracy, and his version of English was sometimes quaint.

“The situation is bad, I understand.”

“It is.  The castle is over-run with British-German double agents.  The three you sent out, and reinforcements that followed.  I get the impression we have about 20 odd dead soldiers languishing in shallow graves somewhere on the Italian countryside.”

It hadn’t been hard to realize that while the officers were known British officers, the soldiers were substituted Germans whose English language and mannerisms were impeccable.  I had no doubt once they’d reeled in Meyer, they would move on, integrating into invasion forces and creating havoc from within, unless of course, we stopped them.

A sigh at the other end, perhaps a lamentation of such needless loss of life.  This war was getting tiresome for both of us.

“How close is Meyer?  We last heard he was in Gaole, waiting for a courier to take him to the village.  His arrival is anticipated to be any time from tomorrow onwards.”

“We’ve got men out keeping tabs on everyone.”

“Blinky arrive with his team?”

“All bar the radio, but as you can hear, we have access to one do it will not be a problem.  I think we might finish this and talk again tomorrow.  Don’t want the Germans tracking the radio waves.”

“Good.  Tomorrow, and hour before today.”

I’d almost forgotten that the Germans were good at tracking radio signals, especially when they thought the enemy was using them, as those at the castle would.  That radio unit could also be used to trace other radio signals, and no doubt they had picked up the signal.  Hopefully, we had not been on long enough for them to run the trace.

That was not going to be a problem.  One of Blinky’s soldiers on village reconnaissance was waiting for us as we approached the church ruins.”

“What is it, man?”

“There are four people at the village, looking for someone or something.”

“More defectors,” I said.  “We’d better get to them before Leonardo and his men get to them first.”

—

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

A to Z Blog Challenge – April 2025 – P

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P is for — Perhaps not.  What happens if you don’t do something

…

There comes a time when everyone has to pay the piper.

I remember when I was very young that my father came into my brother Jack and my room and had a talk, one of half a dozen or so that were supposed to give us grounding for later life.

Long after he’d gone, I realised each one had followed a mistake he had made and didn’t want us to follow in his footsteps.

This one confused me.  He had read us the story of the Pied Piper, how he had offered to rid the town of rats, and when he did, they refused to pay him.  What happened after that was retribution

If only they had paid the piper!

Of course, over time, memories fade and interpretations change, and often they are forgotten, or perhaps just the relevance.

That is to say, I finally understood what it really meant, but by then, it was too late.

My brother and I were like cheese and chalk.  Jack had grown up more like our father, and when our father was killed a dozen or so years ago in what the police called an unfortunate accident, my brother didn’t believe them.

Being the younger, I had no idea what anyone was talking about, but in my own way, I was glad he was dead.  I had seen what he had done to my mother, and it often surprised me now when I reflected on it why she stayed.

There were reasons for everything my mother once said, ones that can be told and others best left alone.  Trouble only comes from trouble.

Yes, both my parents often spoke in riddles.

But it was a dozen years since my father died.

A dozen years later, Jack left home, vowing vengeance on the men who he claimed killed him.

A dozen years since my mother and I moved out of the house, the house my father said he had bought for all of us, but a week after he died, some man turned up with two goons and threw us out

With nothing but the clothes on our backs.

Neither of us had realised my father was a small-time criminal juggling so many bad deals that it only took one to bring down the house cards.

And less than a dozen years since my mother was struck by a hit-and-run driver and killed, leaving me on my own, penniless and homeless.

Less than a dozen years since I moved across the country, changed my name and appearance, and made the acquaintance of a girl who had suffered much the same trauma as I had, we healed together.

And in those dozen years, I’d rebuilt my life.  It wasn’t perfect, but it was a life.

Until…

It took a few months before we realised that Jack was not the person we thought he was.  We didn’t so much see him than we heard about him and the ugly rumours that he had killed the Bellini brothers.

That would have been tolerable, but to learn he had taken over the Bellini brothers’ business was a surprise.  No, that wasn’t the half of it.  My mother believed it and suddenly feared for her life.

My brother had a streak of meanness in him, the same as our father, and they could go at it, right down to the inevitable scrap between them.

Then came the uglier rumours that we were thieves and liars and no better than the Bellinis, but it was the accusations of the next door neighbour, a widow who always had an eye on my father.  She said Jack killed him and had evidence.

Two days later, our neighbour was found dead, and in our letterbox that same morning was a brown bag with one word scrawled on it.  ‘Leave’.  In it was a pile of money, some of it blood stained.

The message has been received and understood.

I should have thrown that bag away, but it was the last tangible link to my brother.  I had hidden it away with the money and never thought it would see the light of day ever again.

So, when I saw it sitting on the kitchen table, along with all of the money from inside, when I came home that first day of the rest of my life, my heart nearly stopped.

“What is this?”  Eloise was looking very angry.

It took nearly a minute before I started breathing again.  How had she found it?  No one could ever stumble over it, ever.  I had told her a story of what happened to us, but it had been the sanitised version.  I had guessed most of it, and if I told anyone, they’d quite likely run.  Back then, Eloise was the only thing I had that wasn’t dirty.

There was only one explanation.

“How did you find it?”  There was only one person other than me who knew about it.  My mother.  But unless Eloise could communicate with the dead, I could not see how.

She held up a letter, yellow with age and stained like people and cars had run over it.  “It was delivered this morning, addressed to me.  It finally arrived eleven years after it was sent.  I nearly threw it in the bin, but I recognised the writing.  Your mother’s.”

I could see it had several addresses on the front as it crossed the country looking for her.

Of course.  When I told her about the money and leaving, she told me to throw it in the bin, that it was the proceeds of crime, and sent to us by Jack.  By that time, I had gotten over the fact that he was a criminal and said he was trying to keep us safe.

She simply said he was trying to get rid of us because she now knew he had killed my father and had the evidence, just like our neighbour.  We argued, and when she refused to tell me what it was, she stormed out in a rage, and remembering what had happened to neighbour, I went after her.

She was holding something, perhaps an envelope, in her hand, but by the time I caught up with her, it was gone.

Moments after that, I saw the car just before it hit her, and in that fraction of a second before the car drove off, I saw who it was and told myself it was not possible.

I knew she was going to tell Eloise who we were and how we got there, but when no letter arrived, I figured she had changed her mind.

“What did she say?”

“No.  You tell me what you think she said, and if it matches, we’ll talk.”

“If not?”

“You lied to me. What do you think?”

Well, that was the ultimate ultimatum.  I had no idea what my mother would say.  I marshalled thoughts, tried to drag back memories I’d long shoved into the deep recesses, and eventually came up with something remotely plausible.

And when I thought I had the lead in, my cell phone rang.  A severe expression from her told me not to answer it, but I grasped at a straw and hoped it wasn’t the one that broke the camel’s back.

I pushed the green button and said, “Yes?”

“Hello, little brother.  You’re a hard man to find.”

My heart did stop this time, and in that fraction of a second I had before I hit the floor, I saw Eloise’s look of anger suddenly change to one of utter fear.

It was an odd sensation coming back from the dead.  One second, everything was calm and peaceful; the next, Eloise was applying artificial respiration, probably second nature to her being an ER nurse at the nearby hospital.

I was alive, but just.  She had a phone in her hand and a voice saying, “Is he breathing? Is he breathing?”

“Yes.  Thanks.  Call me later.”  She tossed the phone and lifted my head onto her lap.

I was breathing, but it hurt, and I tried not to breathe deeply.  I should have been arranging to go to the local hospital, but there was a more serious matter to discuss.

I could see that she was distressed, firstly because of my deceit. And then at my near demise, though that might be a bit of an exaggeration, only a doctor could say definitely.  My immediate memory of events was hazy.  “What happened?”

“You answered the phone.  Then nothing.  Out like a light.  Who the hell was it?”

There were a hundred, no a thousand thoughts going around in my head, and all of them led to one conclusion.  “Someone you never want to meet.  You need to leave.  You need to get as far away from me, and this place, as fast as you can.”

I tried to look concerned, but short, sharp stabbing pains where my heart was skewed the look into something else.

“I don’t think I can leave you right now because, although you might not realise it, you just had a very severe medical episode.  I should be arranging an ambulance, but given what you are saying, that might not be wise.  But, Jonathon, it might be wise for you to tell me who it was and how they could do this to you.”

I took a deep breath and winced.  Mental note: less deep breathing if possible. It was the moment of truth.  She knew the characters, just not the right story.  I had kept mostly to the truth, but now, I would have to fill in the blanks.

“The one thing I never told you.  My brother is a criminal, Jack Schneider.  He was sentenced to life in prison, only it seems he has managed to reduce that to twelve years. Something I was assured would never happen.”

“But that’s a good thing, isn’t it?  You will get to see your brother again?  You said he saved you.”

Another pause to consider the ramifications of what I was about to say.  If she had any sense, she would leave and not look back.

“That wasn’t the truth.  I turned him in to the police and that saved me, so technically, it was right.  My brother murdered my father, and when the lady next door accused him of it, he killed her, and when my mother accused him of it, he killed her too.”

“Oh.  That’s not good.  How does a three-time murderer walk free after so little time?”

“That’s just it, I don’t know.  The same as I don’t know how he found out I was the one who gave the evidence that convicted him.”

“And let me guess, it was your brother on the phone telling you he was coming to see you?”

“It was my brother, but he can’t possibly know where I am.”

“He got your cell number, and there’s only three of us who know it, and I didn’t tell him.  Let me hazard another guess: you’re in witness protection?”

I nodded.  She had once said she had no faith in the witness protection program because they had botched hiding her real identity twice, once allowing the man she was hiding from to turn up at her residence.

No prizes for me for guessing what happened, and at that moment, I realised that calling witness protection now could have catastrophic consequences.

Something else I remembered.  We had moved and there was no possible way Jack could have known where we were, and yet he knew where to deliver the bag of money and be able to follow and kill my mother.  Our whereabouts were supposed to be secret.

I had not put two and two together back then, but I was young, unworldly, and struggling with grief.

“The bag and money?”

“Left by my brother for mum and I to escape before he was arrested and put on trial.  He told us then to forget about him, change our names, and live out our days in peace.  There was enough.”

“Then he was arrested?”

“Yes.  Not long after, he found out it was me who put him away.  That visit, he nearly killed me.  He said he wouldn’t fail the next time.  There was not supposed to be a next time.”

“Which now seems likely there will be?”

“After the trial, he said he would find me, no matter how long it took.  I don’t think it will take very long if he has my cell number.”

“Your first mistake was to trust Witness Protection.”

My thought exactly.  I looked up at her, sighed shallowly, and said, “I should get up if I can.”

“Let me help.”

I rolled over on my side, and she got up off the floor.  I reached up to take her hand, and she steadied me as I slowly stood.  Then, I took a few moments to take some breaths to determine whether the pain was subsiding or getting worse.

Subsiding.

“You need to leave.  You don’t want to be here when he comes.  The last thing I want is for you to be hurt unnecessarily.”

I had been promised he would never leave jail.  So much for promises.  There was only one problem left in his life, and that was me.  And anyone associated with me, which meant Eloise.  It might already be too late.

Instead of heading to the bedroom and throwing what she needed into a backpack, she picked up the money.  Exactly one hundred thousand dollars.

“Money will be no good to you if you are dead.”

She had her back to me, and when she turned, it was a woman I’d never met before.  It was Eloise but someone else inside that familiar body.

“I’m not planning on dying, John.  But we will need it when we disappear.  After we take care of one very large problem.”

“And how are we going to do that?”

“Easy.  You are the distraction, and I’m going to shoot him.”

And in that moment, that one look, that expression on her face.  It was very, very familiar, a face I’d seen before.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 92

Day 92

Writing Exercise – multiple views of the same event

…

I was given the brief to interview the witnesses regarding a theft, in plain sight, of a backpack from a university student who was engaged in conversation outside a cafe. I had been asking for more responsibility, and this, I was told, was the first test.

It was a simple set of questions: ask the witnesses what they saw and any means of identifying the thief.

Witness 1: Winifred Atkins, age 67

“What did you see?” was the first question.

“Not a lot. But…”

She looked the helpful sort, with a ready smile, some might call mischievous.

“There were six of them, students or teenagers perhaps. Pity they didn’t know how to dress properly, but these days, you know, anything goes.”

I nodded. I was sure the next witness would see them in an entirely different light.

“Anyway, they were talking, or maybe arguing. I could see the victim, the one who had her bag taken, was getting annoyed at the others. Something about a boy, but, then, isn’t it always at that age?”

“Is that what drew your attention to the group?”

“That, and that one of the other girls called her a rather bad name. It upset her, and that’s where the arguing started. It was distracting.”

“The victim was distracted?”

“No, I was. That’s why, when my attention was on the two of them, one almost trying to strangle the other, and I think I would too given the language, that’s when the thief came and went so quickly it was a blur.”

“From where?”

“Inside the cafe. By now, everyone was watching the two girls trying to strangle each other and the boys egging them on. Someone should strangle them. That’s when he picked up the bag as he walked past, and no one at that table noticed. No one. Not surprised.”

“Can you describe the thief?”

“Young, their age or a little older, hat covering his face, clothes shabby, those jeans with cuts in them, sandshoes, green t-shirt.”

“Any identifying marks?”

“None I could see. Only saw him for a fraction of a second; the fight was getting heated. That’s all I’ve got.”

…

That was the first. The second witness was Janet Wakely, aged 15.

“What did you see?”

“A fight. Some girl called the other girl a slut, and they went at it. I would have videoed it and posted it on the Internet, but I know you lot would have got in a twist over it.”

My boss would. I would have been able to use it as evidence. Pity.

“Then…”

“The victim wasn’t a very nice person, stealing that other girl’s boyfriend. Maybe you could charge her with theft.”

I tried to explain that the law didn’t work like that; it had to be a criminal offence like stealing property, like the girl’s backpack. “Did you see it happen?”

“Some old guy came out of the cafe with a coffee, walked past the table, and just picked it up. They were all carrying on so, they never noticed a thing. Brazen.”

“Can you describe the thief?”

“Oldish, about 30, maybe 40, you know. Levis, Nike shoes, the expensive sort, and one of them expensive polo shirts, you know, with the horse emblem. He had a hat with a maple leaf, which was odd for someone in this country to wear; maybe he was a foreigner.”

At least, at the end, she said he had gone up the same street as the previous witness.”

…

I made a call to our IT person and asked if any video had been posted on social media, guessing that my previous witness had, in fact, filmed the whole argument and posted it, and I was right.

And viewing it, I wasn’t surprised that both of them were wrong. A man had come out of the cafe, but he had walked straight past them. It was one of the boys at the table who had detached himself at the high point of the fight and taken the backpack while all their attention was focussed on the fight.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Searching for locations: The Bund, Shanghai, China

The Bund

The architecture along the Bund or Waitan is a living museum of the colonial history of the 1800s.  The area centers on a section of Zhongshan Road within the former Shanghai International Settlement.

The word bund means an embankment or an embanked quay.   It was initially a British settlement; later the British and American settlements were combined in the International Settlement.

The Bund is a mile-long stretch of waterfront promenade along the Huangpu River. There are 52 buildings of various architectural styles, including Gothic, baroque, and neoclassical styles. The area is often referred to as “the museum of buildings”.

Building styles include Romanesque Revival, Gothic Revival, Renaissance Revival, Baroque Revival, Neo-Classical or Beaux-Arts, as well as a number in Art Deco style.

Having seen these buildings initially the night before, mostly lit up, our viewing this morning was from the land side, and particularly interesting in that the colonial architecture was really fascinating considering their location, but not surprising given Shanghai’s history.  A lot of these buildings would be more at home in London, that out in the far east.

The Bund waterfront is about two kilometers long and impossible to cover in the time allowed for this part of the tour.

There was just enough time to get photos of the waterfront and the old buildings.

Some of these buildings had odd shapes, like one on the far right that looks like a bottle opener.

And, for some odd reason, a bull.

On the other side of the water, the sights that had been quite colorful the night before, were equally impressive though somewhat diminished by the haze.

NANOWRIMO – April 2025 – Day 18

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The Fourth Son

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Breakfast is supposed to be that first meal of the day, the one that sets you up for at least the morning.

If you can, get to sit down and relax.

If you don’t have a thousand thoughts running through your head, and none of them are good.

He is surprised to find that no one thought it a good idea to have the two brothers and the king autopsied.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but if there’s something, anything, the least of it would be for it to blow up in his face.

There were rumours, rumours he’d rather not hear, that his father had been acting strangely and making life difficult for everyone, which to a certain degree was how he generally was.

But….

Is it possible he may have recovered from dual heart attacks, or had he been sedated with an overdose of morphine?  Was it mercy that he died?  It was not what he wanted to think. In fact, it was the last thing he needed.

Those reports he received when he was back in America over that last year as his health declined and the old king was getting more and more despaired at the idea of Edward succeeding him, causing him to hang on longer than he should, were hard to read but not hard to understand.

It was the reason the new king believed, why the old king insisted on his return.

It would be good to discover what the old King’s motivation was, but now he was dead, perhaps they would never find out.

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

And the story:

It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.

The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.

He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent.  We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on.  Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.

Where was he going?

“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter.  He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing.  Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain.  He’s just sped up.”

“How far away?”

“A half-mile.  We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”

It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”

“Step on it.  Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do.  The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.

Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster.  We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.

Or so we thought.

Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility.  The car was empty, and no indication where he went.

Certainly not up the road.  It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit.  Up the mountainside from here, or down.

I looked up.  Nothing.

Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”

Then where did he go?

Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.

“Sorry,” he said quite calmly.  “Had to go if you know what I mean.”

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.

I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.

It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him.  It’s just a matter of time.”

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe”  available soon.

InspirationMaybe1v1

Searching for locations: Shanghai, China, by night.

When we arrive at the embarkation site we find at least 100 buses all lined up and parked, and literally thousands of Chinese and other Asians streaming through the turnstiles to get on another boat leaving earlier than ours.

Buses were just literally arriving one after the other stopping near where we were standing with a dozen or so other groups waiting patiently, and with people were everywhere it could only be described as organized chaos.

Someone obviously knew where everyone was supposed to go, and when it was our turn, we joined the queue.  There were a lot of people in front of us, and a lot more behind, so I had to wonder just how big the boat was.

We soon found out.

And it was amusing to watch people running, yes, they were actually running, to get to the third level, or found available seating.  Being around the first to board, we had no trouble finding a seat on the second level.

I was not quite sure what the name of the boat was, but it had 3 decks and VIP rooms and it was huge, with marble staircases, the sort you could make a grand entrance on.  The last such ornate marble staircase we had seen was in a hotel in Hong Kong, and that was some staircase.

But who has marble staircases in a boat?

We’re going out across the water as far as the Bund and then turn around and come back about 30 to 40 minutes.   By the time everyone was on board, there was no room left on the third level, no seats on the second level nor standing room at the end of the second level where the stairs up to the third level were.

No one wanted to pay the extra to go into the VIP lounge.

We were sitting by very large windows where it was warm enough watching the steady procession of the colored lights of other vessels, and outside the buildings.

It was quite spectacular, as were some of the other boats going out on the harbor.

All the buildings of the Bund were lit up

And along that part of the Bund was a number of old English style buildings made from sandstone, and very impressive to say the least.

On the other side of the harbour were the more modern buildings, including the communications tower, a rather impressive structure.

I had to go to the rear of the vessel to get a photo, a very difficult proposition given here was no space on the railing, not even on the stairs going up or down.  It was just luck I managed to get some photos between passengers heads.

And, another view of that communications tower:

There was no doubt this was one of the most colourful night-time boat tours I’ve ever been on.  Certainly, when we saw the same buildings the following day, they were not half as spectacular in daylight.

I never did get up to the third level to see what the view was like.

An excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – Coming Soon

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness.  I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there.  I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either.  Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots and all were empty.  Someone had removed the weapons.  That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch.  One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage.  It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief.  It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely.  It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground.  I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side.  After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks.  It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that.  I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch.  I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end.  I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door.  It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting.  There wasn’t.  It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was.  Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan.  The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental.  But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness.  My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void.  Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly.  A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job.  I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door.  If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in.  One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door.  There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting.  It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it.  The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea.  I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part.  The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives.  Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian.  I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up.  Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down.  The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally.  He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile.  “Not today my friend.  You have made a very bad enemy.”  He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth.  “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave.  Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess.  I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally.  I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved.  Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm.  I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation.  Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria.  I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table.  I thought you might be looking for it.”  She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth?  It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity.  “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible.  I went with the truth.  “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss.  It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it.  You need to leave.  It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened.  She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in.  It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences.  Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge.  She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream.  She didn’t.

She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous.  Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about.  She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me.  I used to work for the Government, but no longer.  I suspect these men were here to repay a debt.  I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded.  “Upstairs.”  I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs.  Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back.  I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound.  Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet.  It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you.  She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  Will you call her?”

“Yes.  I can’t stay here now.  You should go now.  Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled.  “As you say, I was never here.”

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2022

strangerscover9

Writing a book in 365 days – 92

Day 92

Writing Exercise – multiple views of the same event

…

I was given the brief to interview the witnesses regarding a theft, in plain sight, of a backpack from a university student who was engaged in conversation outside a cafe. I had been asking for more responsibility, and this, I was told, was the first test.

It was a simple set of questions: ask the witnesses what they saw and any means of identifying the thief.

Witness 1: Winifred Atkins, age 67

“What did you see?” was the first question.

“Not a lot. But…”

She looked the helpful sort, with a ready smile, some might call mischievous.

“There were six of them, students or teenagers perhaps. Pity they didn’t know how to dress properly, but these days, you know, anything goes.”

I nodded. I was sure the next witness would see them in an entirely different light.

“Anyway, they were talking, or maybe arguing. I could see the victim, the one who had her bag taken, was getting annoyed at the others. Something about a boy, but, then, isn’t it always at that age?”

“Is that what drew your attention to the group?”

“That, and that one of the other girls called her a rather bad name. It upset her, and that’s where the arguing started. It was distracting.”

“The victim was distracted?”

“No, I was. That’s why, when my attention was on the two of them, one almost trying to strangle the other, and I think I would too given the language, that’s when the thief came and went so quickly it was a blur.”

“From where?”

“Inside the cafe. By now, everyone was watching the two girls trying to strangle each other and the boys egging them on. Someone should strangle them. That’s when he picked up the bag as he walked past, and no one at that table noticed. No one. Not surprised.”

“Can you describe the thief?”

“Young, their age or a little older, hat covering his face, clothes shabby, those jeans with cuts in them, sandshoes, green t-shirt.”

“Any identifying marks?”

“None I could see. Only saw him for a fraction of a second; the fight was getting heated. That’s all I’ve got.”

…

That was the first. The second witness was Janet Wakely, aged 15.

“What did you see?”

“A fight. Some girl called the other girl a slut, and they went at it. I would have videoed it and posted it on the Internet, but I know you lot would have got in a twist over it.”

My boss would. I would have been able to use it as evidence. Pity.

“Then…”

“The victim wasn’t a very nice person, stealing that other girl’s boyfriend. Maybe you could charge her with theft.”

I tried to explain that the law didn’t work like that; it had to be a criminal offence like stealing property, like the girl’s backpack. “Did you see it happen?”

“Some old guy came out of the cafe with a coffee, walked past the table, and just picked it up. They were all carrying on so, they never noticed a thing. Brazen.”

“Can you describe the thief?”

“Oldish, about 30, maybe 40, you know. Levis, Nike shoes, the expensive sort, and one of them expensive polo shirts, you know, with the horse emblem. He had a hat with a maple leaf, which was odd for someone in this country to wear; maybe he was a foreigner.”

At least, at the end, she said he had gone up the same street as the previous witness.”

…

I made a call to our IT person and asked if any video had been posted on social media, guessing that my previous witness had, in fact, filmed the whole argument and posted it, and I was right.

And viewing it, I wasn’t surprised that both of them were wrong. A man had come out of the cafe, but he had walked straight past them. It was one of the boys at the table who had detached himself at the high point of the fight and taken the backpack while all their attention was focussed on the fight.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025