The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 30

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 was a good plan.

Wallace, once he discovered his search team had gone missing would send another group to find them, and we would dispatch them in the same manner.

Each foray would reduce his group at the castle until it became, for us, a manageable size. Currently, it was 35, with four already killed. There was also the Leonardo factor, and his men, according to Martina, numbered seven.

If I was Wallace, who would realize once he discovered the body on the road to Chiara’s, that sending his own men out to be picked off was a bad idea, would eventually send Leonardo and his men as the first foray to resolve the problem.

That, of course, would present the same problem as Wallace’s men, there would be deadly retribution. The villages had all hated Leonardo, and he had dislike them for not selecting him as the local head of the resistance. That had fallen to Martina, a more popular person, and one more capable.

It seemed to me, from what she had told me, Leonardo was more a mercenary, one who would work for the highest bidder, and that was the sort of man Wallace would have no trouble employing.

Martina was right to round up the villagers to keep them safe

But, for Carlo and I, we needed to pre-emp their strike, and the safest assumption was that they would return to Chiara’s, looking for her, and for answers.

There was some discussion as to who would be in the attack group, and I agreed that the more we had the better chances we had of beating them, but in the end, we also needed people with the villagers, just in case the worst-case scenario happened, Leonardo knew of the underground wine storage facility and came there instead.

As far as Martina was concerned, he didn’t. Very few people knew of its existence.

In the end, it was decided that Carlo and I should go. He had no doubt he could take Leonardo’s seven by himself, and I didn’t doubt him, so I went along just in case he needed some help.

I took the distant ground with the sniper rifle, and when I saw them, I was not to hesitate to shoot them. Carlo would be closer and clean up what I missed. We had enough ammunition to take out at least twenty.

And that’s where we were, from dusk until the following morning, waiting for the search team to arrive. It did not occur to Carlo, or me, that there was a possibility they might not come, or that Leonardo might have something else in mind.

Alone, in the dark, and surrounded by what could only be described as an eerie stillness, it was hard to imagine that a deadly war was being waged.

In this part of the world, it was not so intense, that according to our intelligence, the Germans were getting stretched very thin on the ground, and were withdrawing soldiers from the extremities of Europe to bolster the fighting closer to home, and the imminent attack in France by the allies.

Of course, there was no way the Germans could know where and when, even I didn’t know that, but it was coming. It seemed odd to me, by way of contrast, that the Germans high command had basically wasted a formidable and hitherto undetected group of double agents to rescue a rocket scientist which, in my mind, was hardly going to save or lose the war for them.

Perhaps that’s why it had not been up to me, and I hoped that our people knew exactly what they were doing. Those that had been filtering through the castle were not exactly the sort of people Thompson had been expecting to defect, but once he learned of Meyer’s desire to leave, that assessment had changed.

It also caused a reassessment of the operation at the castle, which led to the discovery people were not making it beyond that point and became the reason for my mission. The fact I’d been attacked before I reached my objective was coincidental, but it didn’t take long to realize why.

From that to here had been the proverbial hop, step, and jump.

I had not anticipated having to join the resistance, not be involved in becoming a guerrilla.

Not had I expected a dog for a companion. Jack was lying on the ground next to me, and it looked like he was getting a well-earned rest.

Then he heard something, and lifted his head, ears pricked up.

Then I heard it.

The sound of an airplane passing overhead, but some distance away.

It was not the clearest night so all we could do was hear it, not see it. A patrol? A plane that had lost its way. It was a bit south of where the action was, or where I’d expect the Germans to have either fighters or bombers.

Perhaps the allies then, but late at night surrounded by darkness, there would be little to see.

A minute later, nothing.

Jack put his head down, and I was struggling to keep my eyes open. Something had better happen soon, or I would miss it.

A to Z Blog Challenge – April 2025 – G

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G is for – Going Home

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“You look like a man who has just seen a ghost.”

Jake had made his usual stop on the way from his office to the front door, on his way home for the day.

It was ritual if he and I were in the office and depending on who was leaving first.

I looked up. Jack was a man without a care in the world, happily married for twenty-two years to the most adorable and kind woman.

He was lucky, in love, in a career, in everything. The rest of us had to battle over what was left.

I, on the other hand, thought I had been happily married for twenty years to an equally adorable and kind woman, was reasonably lucky in my career, and worked hard to get where I was.

Except…

Everything I thought I knew about marriage, career, life, was about to be completely undone by a single video clip sent anonymously to me, five minutes before Jack put his head in the door.

“It’s nothing. I’m just looking at new headlines again, and I shouldn’t. The world is going to hell in a handbasket, and I think I’d rather not know.”

I switched the phone off and put it face down on the desk. Even when not looking at it, the scene still played in my head.

“Ellie’s got her track meet this weekend, and I’m counting on you and Jacquie to be in the cheer squad.”

“Of course. If I remember, if she wins this, it’s the state titles, right?”

“And then nationals, and then… well, I’ll try not to get too wrapped up in the possibilities.”

“She’ll win, don’t worry.”

His eldest daughter was a sprinter at school, the same school both our children attended. She had shown an early aptitude for running and won everything the school had to throw at her. Now, she was about to conquer Regionals, then state.

Neither of my two had any aptitude for sports of any sort. Neither had I, so I guess they got that from me, much to Jaquie’s dismay as she had been a champion swimmer, just shy of competing at the Olympics.

That four one-hundredths of a second would always be, for her, the difference between success and failure. From her point of view, not mine.

I could see he was going to ask another question, perhaps about Jacquie, but he thought better of it. He knew something was amiss, but it had happened before and sorted itself out.

“Just make sure you’re there.”

“Promise.”

Another concerned glance, and then he left.

I looked at the phone and went to pick it up, but I could not unsee what I’d just seen. Jacquie, looking ten years younger, dressed in clothes that, while barely there, would cost more than our house, in a passionate embrace with a devastatingly handsome man who was instantly recognisable as a very well known, very visible, billionaire.

But…

It couldn’t be, because she was at a sales conference in Seattle, verifiable by the location of the calls I received over the last five days, ending with one from her an hour before telling she was on her way home from the airport.

The only explanation was that she had a doppelganger, and someone I knew, or didn’t know, had sent it thinking it was her.

Except…

Jacquie had a small scar in a place that would not normally be seen, and in that clip, in that scanty outfit, it was the first thing I noticed. Anyone else would miss it because you had to know about it and know where it was.

Which made it all the more confusing because that clip was of the couple in Monaco, Monte Carlo, two days ago, a long, long way from the rural parts of Kansas where we lived, and Seattle where she was supposed to be.

I sat back in my chair and looked at the ceiling. I don’t know what I was expecting to see, perhaps a sign that this was all a case of mistaken identity. I stayed there in the silence after everyone had gone home and the cleaners had moved in.

Enough.

She would be home by now, though I had not received the usual message. Perhaps she had forgotten and was overtired from the flight and drive and had fallen asleep in her favourite chair.

It would not be the first time.

But, for just a moment…

There had always been this thing between us, a moment in the relationship before it became a relationship. Our eyes had met across a crowded room, and suddenly, there was no one else in it.

I blinked, and she had disappeared.

For the next hour I looked for her, trying to look like I was not looking for her, and just as I was about to give up, thinking my imagination had simply conjured up an apparition, she was standing behind me.

A tap on the shoulder sent a shock wave through me, right after scaring me half to death.

I turned, and she was standing there, head slightly tilted, a smile that could and did light up the room. It certainly made me feel in a way I had not for a long time.

“Who are you?” I asked. Not the question, not the blunt manner, not the girl to be trifling with.

“Mimi.”

“I’m…”

“William, yes, I know. You fascinate me.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Not as well as I’d like. What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

It was a trick question. I was working. I debated whether to tell her I had a job to go to, and then didn’t. “Where and when?”

She smiled. “Do you like playing games?”

I did not. Normally, this sort of behaviour would have ended this conversation, but I was intrigued. Someone was playing with me, and I wanted to know who.

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll send you a text message.”

There was a commotion behind me, and I turned. When I turned back, she was gone.

Fun over. I believed then I would not see her again. There were only two people who could pull this off. I’d wait, and when she didn’t call, I would give them a piece of my mind.

I was wrong.

It was the beginning of an odyssey, one that was going to take an emotional and physical toll, one that took me on what she eventually called a journey of discovery.

It did not require me to get her approval. It would tell me if I considered myself worthy.

Worthy of what?

I danced to her tune for three months. There were highs, there were disappointments, and in the end, I got on a plane and went home.

That last meeting was meant to be in the foyer of a plush hotel in Hong Kong, a place I’d always wanted to visit, but with someone special, she had not turned up.

Three months after that, after no contact, no explanation, nothing, she arrived on my doorstep.

I had spent those three months honing the speech I would give her, a speech that had been through many drafts, a speech that was fed by an ever-increasing anger.

And then, there she was.

Her appearance was that of someone who looked as though they had been held captive in a dusty, odorous basement, tied to a chair, and beaten.

She collapsed in my arms, the faintest of a smile, or was it simply utter relief, and the two words that I didn’t quite hear, but what I thought was, “I’m safe.”

She never told me what had happened, other than she had been on her way to the hotel to meet me, and the next thing she knew, she was in a prison cell. From there, it was as if she had stepped through a portal into hell.

She could not remember how she got to my doorstep, just that it was the only place she could remember when asked by a rather alarmed cabbie.

I had a thousand questions, and in the end, I didn’t ask. She said she had no memory of where she came from or who she was, other than a name on a passport in her pocket, Jacquie Wilson.

I put her name and address into Google, and it came back with a house belonging to James and Anna Wilson on the other side of town.

Beyond that, there was very little.

Three months after that, we were married, I got the job I spent the next seventeen years in, and we had our ups and downs.

She became a writer, produced several novels of moderate success, went off to writing conferences every year, some I went with her, more recently not, and before her latest conference, in Seattle, we had an argument which I still didn’t understand what precipitated it, and now had the added bonus of a receiving a certain video.

And wondering why, in the car, that whole encapsulated life decided to pop back into my mind after I’d so determinedly tried to forget it.

I was approaching the last intersection before turning into my street, and in the semi-darkness of late evening, it was ablaze with flashing lights when my phone buzzed.

Police, ambulance, fire trucks. A major incident. Then I could see a car, or what was left of it after being hit very hard by a truck, which a heavy tow truck was in the process of dragging away.

There was something familiar about the car, but there wasn’t time to keep looking. An incoming message flashed up on my phone screen.

“Don’t go home. Mimi!”

I hit the brake, and the car skewed towards the side of the road in a half slide.

Mimi.

OMG.

Ordinarily, it would mean nothing. I’d only heard that name used once.

A name belonging to the mysterious girl who had turned up on my doorstep.

Another message appeared. “Appearances are deceptive. Girls are safe. See you in heaven!”

Then, a few more seconds, while the confusion danced in my head before another message, clearly being sent in real time by someone nearby.

“Now!!!”

I could see ahead a man in a suit peering in my direction, then talking into his phone as he started walking towards my car.

Damn.

No time or way to leave quietly. Screaming tyres, fish tailing turn, but I was out of there, leaving a running man fast outpaced by the car.

I had just enough time before turning a corner to see a car pull up beside the running man.

It was not the Friday evening I was looking for.

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Writing a book in 365 days – 81/82

Days 80 and 81

Write a piece and then edit it by reducing its size by 20 percent.

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First draft:

Growing up I did not believe l had one of those lovable faces.

My brother, known in school as the best looking boy of his graduating class, said it was a face only a mother could love.

He was mean.

Simone, a girl who was a friend, not a girlfriend, said my face had character.

She was charming and polite.

Looking now, in the mirror, l decided I’d aged gracefully.

I could truthfully say my brother had not, but that was as far as the comparison went.

My overachieving brother was the epitome of success in business, a veritable god zillionaire. Everything he touched turned to gold.

My ultra successful sister, Penelope, had married into the right family perhaps by chance, but she was also a very learned scholar whose life was divided between her chair and the university and her social life with the rich and famous.

Then there was me.

I gave up on my chance at university because l was not the scholarly sort and didn’t last long. Sadly l was the first of my family to be sent down from Oxford.

Instead, l took on a series of professions such as seasonal laborer, farmhand, factory worker, and lastly, night watchman. At least now I had a uniform and looked like I’d made something of myself.

It would not be enough for my parents who every year didn’t say it out loud but the disappointment was always there in their expressions.

My brother in his usual blunt manner said l was a loser and would never change.

My sister was not quite so blunt. She simply said it was disappointing so much potential was going to waste. I only asked her once what she meant and lost me after the first four-syllable word.

Finally, I’d taken their comments to heart and decided l would not be going home to the family Christmas holiday reunion.

I told my boss l was available to work the night shift over the holidays, the shift no one else wanted.

It was he said the time for reflection. He hated his family as much as I did so we would be able to lament our bad luck though the long cold hours from dusk till dawn.

It was 3 a.m. and it was like standing on the exact epicenter of the North Pole. I’d just stepped from the warehouse into the car park.

The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but more snow was coming.

It was going to be a white Christmas, all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.

As I approached my car, the light went on in an SUV parked next to my car. The door opened and what looked to be a woman was climbing down from the driver’s seat.

She closed the door and leaned against the side of the car. “Graham?”

It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time, my ultra-successful sister, Penelope. From what I could see, she didn’t look too well.

“What do you want?”

“Help.”

My help, I was the last person to help her or anyone for that matter. But curiosity got the better of me. “Why?”

“Because my husband is trying to kill me.”

The instant the last word left her lips I saw her jerk back into the car, and then start sliding down to the ground. There was no mistaking the red streak following her as she fell.

She’d been shot from what could be a sniper rifle, which meant …

602 words long

…

After editing:

My parents were very wealthy, with an Upper Westside Apartment in Manhattan and a holiday house in Martha’s Vineyard. My sister had a successful medical career and married a most eligible bachelor, as expected, and my brother he was a politician.

I’d not seen any of them in at least five years, and they hadn’t called me.

You see, I was the black sheep of the family. I dropped out of college when it all became too much and drifted. Seasonal labourer, farmhand, factory worker, add job man, and night watchman.

At least now I had a uniform and a gun and looked like I’d made something of myself.

It was hard to say why, but just before I was about to head out of the factory to end my shift, those thoughts about them came into my mind. They might be gone, but I guess I will never forget them. I wondered briefly if any of them thought about me.

It was 3 a.m., and it was like standing on the exact epicentre of the South Pole. I’d just stepped from the factory warehouse into the car park.

The car was covered in snow. The weather was clear now, but I could feel more snow coming. A white Christmas? That’s all I needed. I hoped I remembered to put the antifreeze in my radiator this time.

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

“Graham?”

It was a voice I was familiar with, though I hadn’t heard it for a long time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

478 Words

Mission accomplished

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Searching for locations: The Pagoda Forest, near Zhengzhou City, Henan Province, China

The pagoda forest

After another exhausting walk, by now the heat was beginning to take its toll on everyone, we arrived at the pagoda forest.

A little history first:

The pagoda forest is located west of the Shaolin Temple and the foot of a hill. As the largest pagoda forest in China, it covers approximately 20,000 square meters and has about 230 pagodas build from the Tang Dynasty (618-907) to the Qing Dynasty (1644-1911).

Each pagoda is the tomb of an eminent monk from the Shaolin Temple. Graceful and exquisite, they belong to different eras and constructed in different styles. The first pagoda was thought to be built in 791.

It is now a world heritage site.

No, it’s not a forest with trees it’s a collection of over 200 pagodas, each a tribute to a head monk at the temple and it goes back a long time. The tribute can have one, three, five, or a maximum of seven layers. The ashes of the individual are buried under the base of the pagoda.

The size, height, and story of the pagoda indicate its accomplishments, prestige, merits, and virtues. Each pagoda was carved with the exact date of construction and brief inscriptions and has its own style with various shapes such as a polygonal, cylindrical, vase, conical and monolithic.

This is one of the more recently constructed pagodas

There are pagodas for eminent foreign monks also in the forest.

From there we get a ride back on the back of a large electric wagon

to the front entrance courtyard where drinks and ice creams can be bought, and a visit to the all-important happy place.

Then it’s back to the hotel.

NANOWRIMO – April 2025 – Day 8

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The Fourth Son

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It’s a question I have to ask. Why is there a three-star Michelin chef on the Royal Jet?

Are you getting the vibe that this Royal family are rich beyond avarice, their people are downtrodden, and the monarchy should be irrelevant?

Yes, all good topics, and they are to be covered in today’s lesson on the monarchy and the people.

The principality has been around for 800 years, and it is actually the 800th-anniversary celebrations this year.

Once, the whole country was owned by the king and staunchly defended by his army. Gradually, over time, the need to defend the place was replaced by diplomacy. People were gradually allowed to have their own land, houses, and businesses.

Cue today, and everyone is happy.

The king is largely a figurehead. The people are represented by a parliament that makes laws and decisions that reflect the will of the prople, the church is the church and not the inquisition,

Nobody wants to invade them because they have nothing of value unless you call their tourist industry and souvenirs worth usurping. Of course, there are treaties with France and Germany, which guarantees them protection, but there are no enemies.

Or is there?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. That wasn’t possible.

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

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

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

At least we agree on that, she thought.

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

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

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”

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

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

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

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

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

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

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

Was that what she was expecting?

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

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

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

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

Rebellion was written all over him.

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

“Mr. Henshaw?”

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

“Then my name is Michelle.”

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

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks. Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, so do I.”

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

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

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

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

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

“After a fashion.”

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

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

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

“Whatever for?”

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

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

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

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

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

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

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

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

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

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

Dinner over, they separated.

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

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

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

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

…

lovecoverfinal1

Searching for locations: Shaolin Kung Fu, near Zhengzhou City, Henan Province, China

After leaving the hotel in Zhengzhou, which was once one of the eight ancient capitals of China, we are going to Dengfeng city, the home of China’s most famous martial art – Shaolin Kung Fu.

The Shaolin Temple nearby is the origin of Chinese Zen Buddhism, and the Songyang Academy, called “the Centre of Heaven and Earth” is located 87 Km from Zhengzhou, or, as we were advised, a 2-hour drive. It will be scenic because we are heading towards the mountains.

As one of the four ancient Song Dynasty Academies, Songyang Academy is one of many schools in the province. It is both on a large scale, is quite spectacular, and is a comprehensive Wushu training base where students are trained to spread the Shaolin Wushu Kung fu style at home and abroad.

There is a 500-seat demonstration hall where you are able to observe 30 minutes of various martial arts in shows starting on the hour.

Outside there is a specific area that generally has about 600 trainees learning kung fu elements during the day but can hold 5,000 people when outdoor performances are required.

The kung fu school

The thing you notice most about the kung fu school is its size and then the number of buses which tells you that it is a popular tourist stop.

And with that size comes long distances between the car park and the venues we need to go to, the first of which is about half a km, and that’s just to get to the ticket plaza.

But, it is pleasantly set out and is quite a large number of shops for both souvenirs and food

We pass by some of the students going through their paces

From there it’s another long, long walk to the show arena, where we’re supposed to see various kung fu elements on display. We watched this for a few minutes, then headed off towards the hall for a more intense demonstration of kung fu, and because there is limited seating we have to start lining up at the head of the queue to get a seat.

But…

Everyone else has the same idea and we join the throng which then becomes a ride, and true to the Chinese they start finding ways to push in, even using the imaginary friend somewhere ahead in the queue.

The doors open and then it’s open slather, with the hoards pushing from behind and sliding up the side to get in first. We go with the tide, and manage to get in and find a seat though we were separated from three of our group.

It was an interesting show even though not one word of English was spoken, which from our point of view was a disappointment because we had no idea what was going on.

However…

It wasn’t hard to follow

What the performers were doing was relatively self-explanatory, and quite fascinating, especially the guy who broke a sword over his head, and the guy who stopped two spears penetrating the neck, both examples of very disciplined men.

Boys gave a demonstration of kung fu moves, and intensity and age increased as this progressed to the end.

Next, we were taken in hand by an instructor in Tai chi or an equivalent, I was not quite sure what it was called, and went through the twelve or maybe more moves that constituted a morning or afternoon exercise session or it could be just for relaxation. I lasted the first session but it was a little difficult to do with my sore limbs and a bad back.

Not that I could remember any of it now other than hands overhead, hands in front, bent knees, and a few gentle kung fu hand moves.

Perhaps when I get home I might seek out someone to show me the moves.

Whilst the others were following their training instructor, I wandered about, finding a large statue

And some smaller statues

Lunch in the Zen Restaurant

After all that exercise it was time to have lunch purportedly the same food as the king fu masters.
It’s in the Zen restaurant, aptly named, and the food when it came, came thick and fast, but some of it wasn’t very nice, meat with bones, tofu, a tasteless soup, but some good dishes like the vegetables and noodles with meat, without bones.

The only problem was nothing to drink except a pot of hot water. No tea, no cold water, and if you wanted a cold drink you had to pay for it. After paying 550 yuan why should we have to pay more for a drink when we have not had to so far.

But no cold water? That was just not on, and when we brought this to the attention of the tour guide she just simply ignored us. We just didn’t get anything.

That basically tainted the whole experience.

After lunch, there was the Shaolin Temple and the Pogoda Forest to visit.

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case. The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me. I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters. She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible. I could sense the raging violence within him. Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts. Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy. Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution. Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down. I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess. Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again. It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe. I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee. It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category. I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again. I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.