Category: blogging

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

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

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the current situation?”

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

He looked in my direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was hoping for the latter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was nerves more than the cold.

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

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

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fear factor increased exponentially.

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

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

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

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

We needed a distraction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

Searching for locations: The Lingering Gardens, Suzhou, China

The Lingering Garden

These gardens are very tightly put together and are interspersed with buildings that you can go in and look at as distinct from just looking in from the outside.

There are lots of paths that wind around interspersed with rocks which may or may not be sculpted, and equally interspersed with trees, bushes, and small plants.  In the middle is a lake which usually has lotus plants in bloom, but they are not in season.

The gardens were built around a small lake that was filled with fish of all sizes and colours

The buildings were also a contrast for those built for the men

and those for the women

In the middle of the garden was a significant rock pillar

surrounded by certain areas of the garden that had smaller rock formations

 

At the end of the garden is a large collection of bonsai trees, some of which are quite exquisite.

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume 2

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:

And, the story:

Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?

Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave.  Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.

But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision.  She needed the opportunity to spread her wings.  It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.

She was in a rut.  Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.

It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper.  I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.

And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere.  Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication.  It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.

So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock.  We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.

It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one.  Starting the following Monday.

Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.

I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.

What surprised her was my reaction.  None.

I simply asked where who, and when.

A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.

A week.

It was all the time I had left with her.

I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.

She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.

Is that all you want to know?

I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.

There’s not much to ask, I said.  You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place,  and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.

Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would.  And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.

One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.

So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.

Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology.  It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you.  I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.

Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.

I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me,  you can make cabinets anywhere.

I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job.  It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.

Then the only question left was, what do we do now?

Go shopping for suitcases.  Bags to pack, and places to go.

Getting on the roller coaster is easy.  On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top.  It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.

What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.

Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.

There was no question of going with her to New York.  Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back.  After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind.  New friends new life.

We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.

Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever.  I remember standing there, watching the taxi go.  It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.

So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.

Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.

People coming, people going.

Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was.  Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.

As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.

Perhaps it was.

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

Coming soon.  Find the above story and 49 others like it in:

Writing a book in 365 days – 91

Day 91

Writing Exercise – Write about a place you’ve never been, with an out-of-sorts traveller, and a misunderstanding

…

Have you ever just decided on the spur of the moment to get away?

Anywhere but home, or whatever you think home is, but really it’s just four walls slowly closing in on you because it turns out it had become nothing like what you were hoping for.

A bit like life, really.

I ran away from home, not literally, but practically, because everything back home reminded me of the miserable life I had, no respect, no friends to speak of, and parents who couldn’t;t see past the asperations they had for me, my fathers to take over the hardware store, and my mother, to marry that nice girl Cindy, just up the road.

Cindy had no aspirations. The hardware store was a dinosaur from the past and would soon be superseded by the online suppliers who were cheaper and always in stock.

No one was listening, so I left.

Now, the same was happening. No one was listening, and I was getting stuck in a rut.

Time, I told myself, for a change.

New York Penn Station, the place to go anywhere other than New York.

I fired up my computer and found the first trip it showed me, from Penn Station on West 34th Street to Kansas City the next morning at 10:45, Via Chicago. I’d never been to Chicago, but I’d just watched a rather bad musical movie called Calamity Jane, and it was a place in it.

I think they called that serendipity.

…

I packed my trusty backpack for a two-day travelling experience after booking a business class seat. I would, at the very least, travel in a little comfort, and was no stranger to sleeping in seats, given the number of red-eye specials I took travelling for the company.

I found the train, and my seat, shown to me by a conductor, which was a surprise.

Then it was simply a matter of picking up my book, and reading until it was time to sleep.

Except…

Just before the train departed a young woman, about 30ish if I was to guess, came up the aisle, looking at seat numbers and then sitting next to me.

First reaction, she smelled of moth balls. An odd thought, had she been living in a clothes closit? Nothing would surprise me in New York.

Second creation, surprise she travelled with so little. Perhaps that was why she had so many clothes on: jeans, flannel shirt, jumper, jacket, scarf, gloves, sturdy boots.

She looked me up and down but said nothing. I tried not to look at her, but there was something about her. Had I seen her before, or was she ill? She looked very pale, and her eyes were watery. Did she have a cold or worse, a variant of COVID? I really didn’t want to get sick before I got started on this odyssey.

For a few minutes, before the train started rolling out of the station, I seriously considered getting off the train.

I didn’t and hoped I wouldn’t regret it.

…

Six hours out, she looked like death warmed up. There was definitely something wrong with her, and I was considering going to the conductor to see if there was a doctor on board.

Then she woke up.

I had to ask, “Are you alright?”

“Why?”

“You look very ill.”

“I just feel out of sorts. Time of the year, between seasons. Hot one minute, cold the next.”

I’m surprised she told me, after the instant dagger look she gave me before I asked.

“Why take the train when you can fly?”

“Going to see my parents in Kansas City.”

“You live there?”

“No.”

Didn’t answer the question. Like everyone else I spoke to it was impossible to get a straight answer to a clear question.

“But your parents live there?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t?”

“No.”

“They moved to Kansas City?”

“No. Lived there all their lives.”

“But you don’t?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t it be quicker to fly?”

“Not enough time.”

OK. Another strange answer that begged a hundred questions.

“For what?”

She gave me a seriously dangerous look, and I think if she had either a gun or a knife, I’d be dead now. “Do you always ask daft questions?”

“Mostly, it seems, but I’ll bite. Not enough time for what?”

“To think about what I will say to them?”

“About what?”

OK. That was not a question to ask, but she definitely piqued my interest.

“A guy I knew in Kansas City.”

“But you don;t live there?”

“He followed me to New York. Thought I was the one. Seems he thought that about three, so he had three ‘the one’s’. If you know what I mean.”

I seriously considered going back to sleep. Or reading the Gideon version of the bible I stole from a hotel room.

“But you didn’t live in Kansas City?”

“Not now. No.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it.”

“To what?”

“Thinking.”

“About?”

“The not ‘one’.”

She looked at me strangely. “Are you sure you’re not an axe murderer? I mean, it would be just my luck…”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view

It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.

John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.

What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.

The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.

All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.

…

Available on Amazon here: https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

In a word: Quick

Go get your stuff and be quick about it.

I’ve tried on many occasion to be quick, but it’s like my shoes have lead soles, or it’s like walking through water.

Perhaps I should just stop finding excuses and admit it’s old age and I am slowing down!

I’m guessing that in using the expressing the quick and the dead, I’ve got one foot in the grave.

But when you use the word quick it generally means moving fast or doing something at a rapid rate.

It could also refer to someone who picks up knowledge rapidly, that is to say, that boy is quick, maybe quick as a flash.

I’ve been cut to the quick. An interesting expression which basically means you’ve been hurt very badly.

It also makes reference to the more sensitive side to us, hence the above expression.

It has a more literal meaning, referring to the quick, under your fingernails, and you know how much that hurts when you cut the nail too short, or remove the nail from the quick.

And like most of us, I’ve been caught more than once in metaphorical quicksand.

It doesn’t pay to go near or test out what real quicksand is, but if you have to, make sure you tie yourself to an anchored rope first.

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 38

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.

 

“So, Jacobi, tell me what I don’t know.”

I was taking the track slowly and keeping within a short distance of the cars behind me.  The road was little more than a dirt track, and in places, there were almost un-navigable ruts.  We would not have got a truck down this road.

He looked sideways at me.  “You know as much as I do.”

“That’s not possible.  I know nothing.  You set this up.  Tell me about the leader of this group.  Is he the heard of his own militia group?”

“An area commander of a larger group spread out across the top of the Republic, bordering onto Sudan.  They get their guns and other military hardware across that border.  Where we’re going, it’s their main camp in this location.”

“How many men will be here?”

“Twenty, thirty.  Sometimes they train new recruits.”

“Those militia back there, were they his people?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do, Jacobi.  And I think if you want to come out of this alive, you might consider giving me all the facts.  If they were his men, there could be ramifications if they don’t report back, especially if he was expecting to add to his payday.”

“Even if they were, there’s no communication lines out here.  They would have to report back to the camp first.  And then there’s the possibility with all the money they were supposed to collect, there might be a detour.  It’s why I think they asked for 10,000 rather than the 5,000.  The commander was going to take a cut.  Loyalty only goes so far in these places.”

“No likely surprises?”

“None that I’m aware of.  You killed them all anyway.  Dead men do not get up, walk back to come and inform.”

No, they didn’t.



A mile to go I saw the rear car stop for a few seconds and Monroe and Stark get out and disappear into the bush.  The chances were they could walk through the bush faster than we could drive on the track, and beat us there.

And, then, the checkpoint was in sight, a pair of empty petrol drums with a piece of wood across the road, each end resting on a drum.  Behind the barrier were three men, one I presumed to be the commander, the other two, guns at the ready, his guard.  Behind them was a clearing with several buildings and to one side several huts that might belong to some villagers.  There were a truck and two Toyota tray utilities parked to one side.

All in all, I could see about ten men.

When I reached the barrier, I stopped but left the engine running.  Just before we arrived, I gave the order to hide the hand weapons.  It was risky going in unarmed, but the chances were they’d take the guns if we were wearing them.  This way, if we needed them, there was a slight chance we might be able to retrieve them.

Both Jacobi and I got out.  I left my door open.  Jacobi closed his.

“Sergeant James, I presume.”  Good English, beaming smile, friendly manner.

“I think I know how Dr. Livingston felt.  I am he.”

A puzzled look for a moment, then the resumption of good nature.  He didn’t understand the nuances of British history in Africa.

There was no handshake, none was expected.  Jacobi stepped forward.  “I assume the packages are here, and in good condition.”

“Of course.  I assume that you have brought the exchange material.”

“We have.  Now, if we can just park these cars, we can get on with the exchange.”

“In a hurry, Jacobi?  Somewhere else to be?”

“Yes, as it happens.  I’m a busy man, as you are aware.”

Politeness disappeared from his face as quickly as the sun sometimes went behind a cloud.

The commander looked over towards a hut just back from the road, one I hadn’t seen from the car because it was hidden by a grove of bushes.  Two men came out.

“Move the barrier.”

As they did, he said to me, “Tell your men to get out of the vehicles and come slowly up the track.  My men will bring the vehicles into the camp.  Tell them also not to make any sudden or suspicious moves, or there will be trouble.”

A glance back showed another four of his men, also armed, appearing out of the bush towards the driver’s side of the cars.

I’d brought the radio and gave them the instructions the commander had given me.

Five minutes later we were standing outside one of the huts, the cars were parked neatly in a row, and each of us had been frisked as I thought we would.  The four who acted as drivers were now our guards, not with weapons trained on us, but they could be very quickly.

The commander waited until the guards at the checkpoint had replaced the barrier, then came striding towards us.  I could see he was counting heads and seemed perplexed by the time he reached us.

“There are men missing.  Where are they?”
© Charles Heath 2019-2020

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 38

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…

…

It didn’t surprise Johannesen there were about twenty prisoners down in the dungeons, though he was surprised to find that the dungeon area was quite large, and in several sections. The fact they smelled of wine told him that once, the cells were used at storage areas for bottles of wine.

Several of the cells that were furthest from the downstairs entrance, and recently boarded over caused several overzealous resistance fighters of Leonardo’s to start smashing walls looking for it.

Johannsen tried not to think about Leonardo. He was the very worst of men, a pig even by German standards.

Martina had been put in a cell not far from Leonardo’s wine cache. There was purpose in that, he could get drunk and then take it out of the woman who had made him look stupid. Come to think of it, he thought, it wouldn’t be too hard for a ten-year-old to do that.

The cell door was locked, but Johannsen had a key. He had meticulously gone through all the keyrings and loose keys that had been found and those that didn’t have an immediate use had been stored in the dungeon guardroom.

Matching keys to locks had been one of his secret tasks, under the disguise of being given the job by Wallace to match keys to locks for them. There were a few short in the end, keys to rooms, and cells that seem to serve no purpose. One had become Johannessen’s hideaway.

It was part of a plan he had been formulating, one where he could take prisoners and hide them. Of course, it wouldn’t work for the moment because the prisoners had to be moved on as soon as possible, and staying in the castle, even if the others didn’t know where they were, would invite a microscopic search. It would need Atherton’s knowledge of the castle, and whether there was another escape route they could use.

It was another of his works in progress, one that was highly likely to fail.

He stood back from the door and looked at the crumpled heap on the floor that was once the leader of the resistance. Leonardo had interrogated her before bringing her back, half-dead, to the castle, and in doing so had made it impossible for anyone to interrogate her further. Had that been the reason why Leonardo had bashed her senseless?

He saw a hand move by her side, and a low groan.

He spoke quietly, in English, “Are you able to come closer to the door?” He knelt down, trying to get a better look at her injuries. Abrasions, and bruising. Swollen eyes, possible broken nose, blood spatter everywhere on her clothing which remarkably was relatively intact. He had suspected Leonardo of doing a lot worse and may still have.

She lifted her head slightly, “Who are you?”

“I could be a friend.”

She laughed, then coughed, and blood came out of her mouth. Broken ribs possibly, and a punctured lung. She might be too injured to move.

“There are no friends in this place, just Tedeschi.” She lowered her head and closed her eyes. Her breathing was irregular and shallow. Definitely broken ribs, he thought. And not likely to survive another interrogation. Not if Jackerby was going to conduct it.

“I’d like to help you if I can.”

“Everyone in here, we’re beyond help. You know that because you’re one of them.”

“Some of us care what happens to people.”

She pushed hard to move around slightly to face him, laying her head on the side to face him. “Which one are you?”

“Johannsen.”

“Yes, Johannesen. Atherton mentioned you. As untrustworthy as the rest. But for me, I’m all but dead, but I’ll humor you. Get me out of here and away from that bastardo Leonardo, and I might believe you.”

Atherton. This might be an opportunity to find out how he could get in contact with him, knowing of course, she wasn’t going to tell him where Atherton was.

“If you want to get away from here, we need Atherton. He’s the only one who knows this place inside out.”

He could see her shaking her head, as painful as that might be.

“He’s not.”

“Then is there anyone who does?”

“There is.”

“Who?”

Again she laughed and it sounded like the death rattle of her last breath. “You think I’m that far gone that I would tell you anything?”

“If you want to escape, I can only get you so far.”

“There is no escape. Believe me. If there was, I would be gone. Save your trickery and lies for someone who might be gullible enough to believe you. I’m quite prepared to die, the fact I’ve lived this long is what some would call a miracle.”

With that she turned away, coughed, and went silent. She wasn’t dead, but death wasn’t far away.

When Johannesen reluctantly left the cell, he only made it to the turn towards the steps up when he ran into Jackerby.

Had Jackerby been somewhere near and overheard their conversation.

“You have a rather interesting interrogation technique,” Jackerby said.

Johannesen groaned inwardly. He had heard.

“Sometimes it’s better to try and infuse hope in the subject rather than resignation. I was trying to get her to tell me where Atherton is.”

“And did she?”

“What do you think. After what Leonardo did, she’s not likely to tell us anything. I’m sure if we had taken a different approach…”

“Yes, softly softly. Doesn’t work. Just leave the heavy lifting to us, and don’t bother coming down to revisit the prisoners. Otherwise, I might believe you really are trying to help them escape.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

A to Z Blog Challenge – April 2025 – N

…

N is for — Nostalgia.  Be careful what you wish for

…

I was woken by Chester, who had jumped up in the bed and was making himself comfortable.

At first, I was disoriented, and it took a few moments to reassure me I was not back in 1928 but home in bed, and a glance at the clock showed it to be 3:25 am.

I cursed Chester.

I didn’t want to be woken right then because I was about to meet James’s girl of his dreams, Matilda, and perhaps be granted a brief entry into a world very few knew existed, and as a bonusa about to experience a first-class sleeper on the Royal Scotsman, and later, dinner in the first class restaurant car.

Now…

Chester raised his head to glare at me, then let out a grumpy meow before putting his head back down and snuggling up close.  At least he hadn’t crawled under the sheets.  Yet.

I tried going back to sleep, hoping it would take me back, but I couldn’t.

After a few minutes, I got up and put on a thick dressing gown, went back to the sitting room, and picked up the manuscript.  Just in case I went back, perhaps I could study up on Matilda and James and their families.

I realised that I didn’t quite know who I was looking for or how I would recognise her, which would be quite odd if he and she were boyfriend and girlfriend.

I flicked forward through the pages to find how they met on the train and found a distinct detail: that she would be wearing a coat lined with fur and a sable fur hat.  In those days, fur wasn’t frowned upon, but of course, only the wealthy could afford it.

Matilda was also fashion-conscious and wore only the latest clothing trends, one such comment saying that she loved her white evening gown that fit perfectly.  I doubted she would be wearing it on the train, but something more appropriate for travel.

I also did a deep dive into the Royal Scotsman, the train that ran from Euston Station at 7:20 pm. and arrived in Inverness mid-morning and was not an express like the Flying Scotsman.  Surprisingly, it was two trains separating at Crewe, one half going to Inverness, the other to Aberdeen.

My ticket would put me on the right part of the train, so that wouldn’t be a problem.

I leaned back and could see the first shards of light trying to get past the curtains.  A new day dawning, another day of fact-checking.

Chester poked his head out the door to my room.  Of course, meal time.

I sighed.

“…James…James, are you alright?”

A girls voice caught my attention, then the name. I opened my eyes and felt a sudden jerk in the seat, and I realised I was moving.

The train.

My dream, or whatever was driving the sojourn, had brought me back to Matilda.

We were seated opposite each other, and the train was moving, not quite at speed, but it was getting there.

The clock on the wall said it was 8:03 pm.  Less than two hours before we reached Crewe.

Again, she asked, “Are you alright?” She had a concerned expression.

I blinked several times, then said.  “Of course.  I just got lost in the moment, on this train, with you and the anticipation.”

Of at least three events that would happen in the next 12 hours.

“It’s just a train.”

To a girl like her, it would be.  For me, well, it was momentous.

“Yes,” I smiled.  “It is just a train, something to get from one point to another, but it is quintessentially the best England can offer.  As you can now see, I am a little in awe of it, and perhaps The Flying Scotsman.”

She made a face.  “Perhaps we should take a rise on the Orient Express.  That’s a train.”

The waiter came to our table and waited for Matilda to cast a glance in his direction before asking, “A bottle of wine perhaps with dinner?”

She nodded.  “Champagne.  Mumm, I believe is available?”

“It is.”  Order in hand, he left.

“You do drink Champagne, James.  I forgot to ask?”

“Of course.”  And then gave silent thanks to my aunt, who had slipped me a decent amount of cash in case I needed it .  It would be improper to expect Matilda to pay for this dinner, and it wasn’t going to be cheap.

It was a four-course dinner starting with fish, soup, mutton, or other meat with roasted vegetables and a dessert.  It looked very elegant on the printed menu.  I’d seen something similar at the Savoy.

I took a moment to take in the vision that was Matilda.  The description in the book did not do her credit, and for James, there was an expression I heard my father use once: punching above his weight’.

She was too good for him, but that would not be a hurdle for them.  Her parents, though, of family, might be.

“Who exactly will I be meeting this weekend?  You did say it was going to be an outing for the hounds?”

“Yes, unfortunately.  It’s very beastly for the poor fox.”

“They can be pests, though.”

“Have you been on one?”

“Once.”  Dressing up and going out on horseback over hill and dale on what could be called a wild goose chase.  “We didn’t find a fox that day; it was cold, at times wet, and tiring.”

“This is in Scotland.  Cold, possible snow, and possibly no fox.  I would prefer not to go, but it’s mandatory.  I try to be elsewhere.”

Good to know.  Those riding lessons my mother made us all take would come in handy.  It was going to be fascinating seeing Matilda at home.

“Then it will be something to look forward to.”

The waitresses returned with the bottle and showed it to me, but I directed him to Matilda, who glared at him, then nodded and waited until he poured a small quantity into her glass.

She tasted it and nodded, and he filled our glasses.

As he left, the first course was served, and I waited until she picked up her cutlery, a fish knife and fork.

Haddock, perhaps, was a species hard to find these days, but back then…  whatever it was, it was exquisite.

Soon after finishing that course, the next arrived, the soup, and then the next, delivered by a now surly looking waiter, without broaching any controversial subjects and maintaining a companionable silence when required.

She had a way of making people, especially James, feel at ease in her company, and I could feel it, too.  But there was once where she gave me a curious glance, and I had to wonder if she didn’t quite know who it was sitting opposite her.

Mutton and blackberry jelly with vegetables.  It was a good thing I was hungry.  I tried to imagine what the fare would be like back in this period, and if I came back out, I would have to study up.

That, and the foxhound, and the hunt.  To be honest, for me to be in this dream, it had to be my imagination that was driving it, and I was trying to remember the pages of the book.

Yes, they had dinner, but not before a slight mix-up in their meeting before getting on the train and then going to their compartments.  In the book, he had met the travelling maid and companion, Bernice, and not for the first time.

She accompanied Matilda everywhere in London and sometimes at her lodgings in Oxford.  The notion she has a chaperone at all times was observed and respected, and ensured propriety.

Dinner was moments of small talk, firstly of the hunt, which had been ‘sprung’ on her at the last minute, followed by a banquet in honor of her return, with ‘friend’ though that term wasn’t qualified or explained.  Yet.

Somewhere in that would be a session with her father, she said, where I would get the opportunity to state my intentions and prospects.  It was not a meeting he or I in his place was looking forward to.

I’d read the first page of that chapter, and it didn’t bode well.  How did a son of a Knight address a Lord of the Realm?

“You are unusually quiet, James.”

It was that curious glance again.

“It might be because I’m going into uncharted territory.  I have to admit it scares me a little meeting your family for the first time.”

I tried to keep the trepidation out of my tone and almost failed.

“You’ll be fine.  They’re just normal people.”

She had said her father was like a cuddly teddy bear, but then she was his favourite and spoiled her, which only made life more difficult for prospective suitors.  He would not brook just anyone to take his daughter’s hand in marriage, not that this weekend was about that.

We kicked that subject around for a few more minutes as the clock ticked over to 9 pm. And then it was time to leave.

An almost platonic kiss at the door to her berth, and the evening was over.  On my way up the passage, a final wave as we disappeared into our sleepers, I was sure there was going to be no sleeping tonight.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 90

Day 90

Never be afraid to ask for or give advice

…

It’s part of the reason why I have a writing blog.

In the first instance, it is to highlight the issues I have in every aspect of writing, from constructing a sentence to describing a scene, to conversing between characters, and not losing the plot.

But it cuts a lot deeper than just the writing; there’s all that other tacky stuff, like marketing. The self-published author also has to be a consummate ad man, right out of the fifties and sixties, with all the slick means of selling what some might call the unsellable.

I have managed to hit every pot home and brick wall; there is.

Perhaps the best part is showcasing my writing, whether it is an episode of a long book, a short story, or parts of a novella.

But what is the most satisfying is the comments where nearly everyone is positive about my work, and sometimes, they will buy a book.

I confess I’m not going to become an international best-selling author overnight, in a week, month or even a year. But it is still a thrill when a book registers in the same column.

Conversely, I have quite a number of other authors’ websites and blogs that I read, and I make time every week to read other authors’ work, offer my opinion, and give a review, that rare thing that all authors need as part of their marketing strategy.