Category: blogging

In a word: Murder

I started off thinking that murder was pretty straight forward, you know, someone pulls out a gun and shoots someone else: murder.  Of course, there are any other means of doing the same crime, by knife, poison, strangulation, or suffocation.

Or, by endless inane conversation.  Much less chance of going to jail with that one.

Its the stuff that keeps crime writers going, fictional detectives detecting and crime scene investigators analysing.

Still the fact someone might be getting away with murder, means they’ve successfully found a way to have their cake and eat it.

Come to think of it how many times have we used that word in vain, like when a child drives you to distraction, red-faced and you say with a great deal of conviction ‘you do that again I’ll murder you’.

Just make sure it doesn’t actually happen, or those words will come back to haunt you.

But this is only one aspect of using the word.

You could, if you want, scream blue murder, which is literally impossible.  In fact, what the does that really mean?

It can also refer to an onerous task or experience, hence the possibility that listening to that discussion about hot water bottles was absolute murder.

For one thing, it probably murdered an hour or two of my time.

It could also describe a comprehensive defeat, that we murdered the other side 86 to nothing.  Come to think of it, I never got to participate in such a game, so that might account for why I’d never heard it used before.

And, lastly…

Did you know it can refer to a flock of a particular type of bird, I think crows.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 78

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

Finding the treasure, or something else

…

It was time to go.

She had stayed with me the whole time, and made sure I’d seen her phone the whole time.  I was sure it was deliberate, and there would be repercussions at the end of this exercise, success or not.

She made no mention of it the whole time too, but it was stewing behind her eyes, and I could feel it.  It was a trait of my mother’s when dealing with my father, whom she never really trusted, and not without reason.  He had let her down, us down, more times than I could remember.

We had just enough light to find our way to the base of the cliff.  The weather forecast was for a cloudy night and the prospect of rain around midnight, when I was hoping we’d either found what we were looking for, or it was a bust.

The wind had picked up after we left the cave and was gusting intermittently by the time we were in position, so between the darkness and the wind, the climb was going to be ‘tricky’.

Boggs said he was up for the challenge.  I was not so sure. 

It was not far upwards to the ledge, but by the time he started, the moon had gone behind the cloud cover, the wind had picked up, and the temperature had dropped dramatically.  A minute later, he had disappeared into the darkness, leaving only a trailing rope behind that I was loosely holding.

The wind overtook the noise of him ascending, and the hammering of pitons into the rock crevices, so it felt like we were alone on the beach.  Nadia was standing about 10 feet away looking upwards.

Was she tracking Boggs progress, or waiting for something else?

The moon shed little light on our position, in between passing clouds, not enough to work solely by it. We had torches, and intermittently I could see approximately where Boggs was, and it seemed to me he had been at the same spot for at least ten minutes.

Had he reached an impasse?

We had no means of communication, I wasn’t going to call out to him, nor, I was sure, would he call out to me.  At least, only if it was necessary.

Then, I felt a slight tug on the rope, the sign her had made it to the ledge.  If he had not found it, the plan was we would leave, and go back to square one.

I went over to Nadia.  “We’re up, you’re next.”

“I’d rather stay on the ground.  I don’t need to be scaling rocks.”

“We agreed, we’d all go up.”

“Are you sure this is not about you having trust issues.”

“No.  It’s time, unless you know something I don’t.”

“Like?”

“You tell me if there are any surprises waiting for us up there?”  It was as close as I was going to get saying that she had betrayed us, and, knowing what was waiting, didn’t want to be there to face our disappointment.

“When have I had time to arrange anything.  You’ve been with me the whole time.”

I had, though it was not for that purpose, but not an unreasonable assumption on her part given the circumstances.

I shook my head.  I think deep down I was expecting some sort of development, even though I had hoped that she would be as good as her word.  It also annoyed me that she was making it so I was put in a position where the only assumption she could make was that I didn’t trust her.

It was like being painted into a corner.

And it was clever on her part because she left the onus on me, absolving herself of any blame, whether on not she was telling the truth or not.

I was the bad person.

“As you wish,” I said.  “Go home, there’s no need for you to stay.  It’s probably the last place you should be when everything goes pear shaped.”

“I’m happy to be the last line of defence.”

“When the shit hits the fan, Vince isn’t going to care whether you share the same surname or not.  Best you’re not here at all.”

“Are you expecting him?”

“We’re trespassing on Cossatino land.  If he finds out…  Best if you were not here, seriously.”

“You do realise what he’ll do if he does find you.”

It was a statement, not a question, and yes, I did.  And I’d kept Boggs waiting long enough.  “I’ll let you know what we find.”

Enough sparring, I turned and headed back to the base of the cliff. 

Scaling the cliff was not that hard, Boggs had said to keep a tight hold on the rope and used the pitons he’d places strategically as footsteps on a ladder.

When I reached the ledge, Boggs was waiting and pulled me up the last of the climb onto the narrow alleyway between rocks.

“Took your time,” he muttered.

“Nadia is having reservations about joining us.”

“Sending the lambs to the slaughter, eh.”

I’d expected that reaction, and I could see how he’d reach such a conclusion.

“She is not a climber.”

“Neither are you, but…”

“I don’t think it matters which side she’s on, in the end.  We’re not here by invitation, especially if Vince turns up.  Let’s get on with it before we get cold feet.”

“You don’t have to be here, you know.”

“Actually, I do.  You asked me along for the ride, and I let you down.”

I’d thought about it, and it seemed to me everyone, one way or another, had let him down.  If I put myself in his shoes, I’d be terribly disappointed.

“You’re here now, that says a lot.  But, enough talk, let’s see where this goes.”

I looked up and could just see the overhang, an almost flat slab of rock almost suspended in mid-air.  If it fell, we might be crushed, on it would land on or crumble, over the outer wall, which in itself looked to be part of the original wall split away.

What was once most likely a ledge, was now was tunnel.  The ledge would have been much wider, before the fall, and in this current form, narrower than it used to be.  If there was a chest or two to take away, it wouldn’t be wide enough.

I followed behind, the small torch beam picking out the sharp edges and avoiding jutting pieces of rock, making progress slow.

Ahead I could see Boggs had stopped, and was examining the wall.  When I joined him, he was standing in front of wood panelling.  A closer inspection showed it to be a door.

“That’s a good sign,” he said.  He rapped on the door and it sounded dull, like it was hollow.

To one side there was a rusty handle and a large lock, equally rusty.  I picked up a rock and with one hit, it snapped of and clattered on the ground.

I then pounded on one of the wooden panels and it disintegrated.  It had rotted over time, how much time was moot, and didn’t take much to bash an opening wide enough to fit through.

The air coming out was quite pungent, if not foul.

“Not exactly a welcome.”

“It smells of death.”

Boggs gave me a look that might have translated to ‘keep your opinion to yourself please’.

“Well soon find out.”  After selling the torch light as far in as he could, and not seeing any immediate danger, stepped over the threshold.

“Beware of any possible boobytraps.”  I’d seen too many films with similar situations, and if there was treasure in this cavern, the pirate would not let it be taken without a fight.

“Seriously, Sam.”  He turned a put his light on me. “That’s just a myth perpetuated by Hollywood.”

“Just saying, be careful.”

I saw him shrug, and turn back.  Perhaps as a nod to my warning, he reached out, checking for trip wires, as I ailed my torch at his feet, and saw what looked to be a rope strung six inches above the ground.  It looked as rotting as the door timber.

“On the ground,” I said.

He moved his light to join mine, saw the rope, and traced it from the floor, upwards to the roof.  If he had tripped over it, might it bring the roof down, or part of it?

He stepped back, kicked through it, and it disintegrated into dust.  Nothing happened.  It had to be the rope had rotted and couldn’t be used to spring the trap. 

“So far, so good.”

A flimsy rope wasn’t going to stop him.

“Just be careful.”

We used both torches to light both sides of the cave, and the roof, just in case.  The torch light did not reach the end, so it was slow progress.

Twenty paces later, we came to a larger cavern, and a quick look around showed parts of it had been man made.  A shiver went through me, and I thought that might be a ghost passing through me.

“You feel that?” I asked Boggs, now several steps in front of me.

“It’s just cold Sam.”

“I reckon there’s a body down here, somewhere.”

Suddenly his torch stopped, near the floor, adjacent to what looked like a ledge.  The corner of the cavern.  There were torn rags scattered. 

I joined him and added the light from my torch, widening the display.

The involuntary gasp was mine.  A skull, still attached to the skeleton, partially covered by cloth sitting in the corner, as if that was his final resting place.

“I was not expecting that,” Boggs said, the slightest of cracks in his voice.

I shuddered. 

I moved my torchlight along the wall, and found two more skeletons, both lying down on the ground in front of the ledge, as if they had been dragged there.  It wasn’t hard to deduce how at least one died, a sword appeared to be through the middle of the torso.

“Pirates who didn’t like their share of the treasure,” he said.

“Or raiders, who weren’t expecting guards?”

All three looked as though they were from the 17th and 18th centuries, and had not been disturbed for a long, long time.

A view of the cavern showed nothing else, except for what looked like beds made of straw on the ledges, and several chests that were in better condition than the door to the cave.  There was more clothing and other supplies, like pewter mugs and plates, and pottery bottles, some of which had liquid in them.

We didn’t say much, there wasn’t much to say. 

Except the obvious, we were the first visitors in a long, long time.

There was a passage off to one side, not visible from the entry point to the cavern, and now that we had established there was no treasure, headed towards it.

Boggs shine his torch in the entrance, and it appeared longer than the beam travelled.  The sides of this cavern were damp, and I could hear a slow dripping sound in the distance.

If my orientation was right, we would not be going,  further into the cliff, but running parallel with the shoreline.

“Ready?”  Boggs asked. 

There was no mistaking that hint of fear in his voice but whether he didn’t feel safe, or perhaps because of what we might find, like more dead pirates, I was feeling equally apprehensive.

‘As I’ll ever be.”

He took a few tentative steps, checking the walls as he went.  I followed.

It was damp underfoot, and several times I stepped in a small puddle.  We were surrounded by the aroma of salty water and a mouldy dank smell of dampness.

The next cavern was just beyond the initial torch beam, but slowly came into view as we approached it.  This cave showed signs of being dug out, and the cavern definitely so.  This was not a natural part of the cave system.

This cavern was slightly larger than the last one, had just one ledge which had three chests set out equidistant on it.  It was the first sight our torches displayed.

Was this the treasure?

Boggs headed straight towards them.  I was a little more circumspect, and slowly ran my torch around the rest of the room, until I found another body.

This one was definitely not as old as the other three.  In fact, my guess, it was either Ormiston, or, dare I consider it possible, Boggs senior.

By this time Boggs had opened the first chest and muttered, “nothing”, letting it slam down quite loudly and making me jump.

“Hey,” I said, “There’s another body here, but it’s not a pirate.”

He swung around and pointed his torch on the body, and gasped.  “No.  It can’t be.” 

He went over and knelt beside the body.  The clothes were still intact, and although damp and grimy, were still recognisable.

I saw him check the pockets first of the coat, then the pants, finding what looked like a wallet.  He carefully opened it, then fell backwards, surprise or disbelief.

“Is it.”

He held up the wallet.  “My father.  How did he get here?”

“No treasure in the chest?”

“Empty.  If it was there, it’s long gone.”

So, Boggs senior had known where the treasure was, as he had said, just before he disappeared.  Had he led the others here, and they had incapacitated him, then left him to die?

I checked the other two chests, the second nit holing treasure, but another body, jammed into the space, in slightly better condition than Boggs, but there was no mistaking the cracks in the skull.

It was another man, and if I was to make a guess, it would be Ormiston.  Had Boggs and Ormiston joined forces, or had they turned up at the same time and attacked each other.

“I think that the body in this chest is Ormiston,” I said, closing the lid to the chest.  “It would be interesting to know if they ran into each other, and whether they had found the empty chests too.”

Boggs hadn’t moved.  I could see him struggling with the fact he had found his father, and the location of the treasure, where it had once rested. 

The fact Ormiston had head injuries suggested the treasure was here, and someone had removed it.

Cossatino?

But, the question was, how did they get here if they didn’t come in via the door we’d broken down.  There was another cave leading off this cavern, but it looked as though it led into the hill, rather than head towards the shoreline.

I was heading towards that entrance when I heard a scream cut short, coming from the direction we had just entered the cavern.

Nadia?  Had she changed her mind, followed us, and found the pirates?

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 6

Let’s pause a minute, in space, to get it some measurements right

…

Out there, in space, it’s not like being on the highway, going from one side of the country to the other.

That, effectively, is only a few thousand miles, or kilometres as we now measured distance, the influence of the European countries attached to the space alliance.

But late at night, and astrophysics, or astrology, or whatever the science of space is called, is not a subject to take up, particularly when you’re tired.

The other night I was tired, and confused, and hence got all my numbers muddled up. The thing is, when numbers go up to billions, with all of them zeros, it could be confusing for everyone.

Or maybe it was just me.

But, the first constant is the speed of light. That’s approximately 1,079,251,200 km per hour, Pretty fast, eh.

But, as I’m told, nothing can go faster than the speed of light.

So, in this story, it’s a given.

Spaceship speeds, in this story, are measured as SSPDs.

SSPD 1,000 is the speed of light.

This new spaceship will not go that fast. It is capable of SSPD 5, but even then, it’s not recommended. So, we are, from the beginning, are going to accept that it will go SSPD 4.

Trials got it to 4.5, but that was when the design engineers were aboard and could fix any problems.

So how fast are the SSPD increments?

SSPD 1 is 1,079,251 km per hour. SSPD 2 is double that. That’s the fastest cruising speed the current ships can travel.

This new ship goes twice as fast so at SSPD 4 it can cruise at 4,317,004 km per hour.

Now, where I got everything wrong, is the distance of the planets from Earth, and the time it would take to get there.

Mars: about 56 million km when in line between the earth and the sun, but has a min of 54.5 million km

Venus: between 38 million and 261 million km

Mercury: averaging about 77 million km to a max of 222 million km

Jupiter: from a min of 588 million to a max of 968 million km

Saturn: from a min of 1.3 billion to 1.7 billion km

Uranus: from a min of 2.57 billion to 3.15 billion km

Neptune: from a min of 4.3 billion to 4.7 billion km

Since in the story, it’s possible the ship might be stopping at Mars briefly, the time it could possibly take, given the position of Mars at the time (about 60 million km), is about 14 hours.

As for the ultimate destination, Neptune, at 4.5 billion km approximately, it is going to take 1,042 hours, or 43.5 days.

Hopefully, I’m now over some of the confusion of distances between the planets, and will have some semblance of credible measurements and times.

…

“Remember that time…” – A short story

I don’t remember 40th birthday parties being all that interesting.

It was going to be a momentous year as each of our friends celebrated theirs.  We were of a group that had formed strong friendships at school, and they had lasted over the next 25 years, even when some had ventured further afield, and others had stayed at home.

I was one of those who had remained in place, as had my wife, and several of the neighbors.  I never had dreams of venturing any further than the next state, and except for a couple of years on transfer for the company I worked for, I had lived all my life in the city I was born.

The same could not be said for Janine, my wife, who once had a vision for herself, a career in law in either New York or Washington, and had ventured there after graduating law school, stayed a year and then returned in circumstances that she had never talked about.  She had accepted my proposal, we had married, and that was that.

Fifteen years on, there had always been that gap, that part of the story I’d never asked about and one I felt she would never talk about, and it was a small chink in what I wanted to believe was an almost perfect marriage.

But there was one small caveat she had requested; that she had no desire to have children, or to be a mother, something she said she would be terrible at.  It didn’t bother me, one way or another, though as each of the others had children, there was a small part of me that was, for a while, envious.

Michael Urston was one of my close friends, who lived across town and was also a lawyer and a man of ambition.  He’s taken his law degree to Washington and converted it into a path to public office and had attained the lofty position of Mayor for several years of our fair city, and then paradoxically didn’t run for re-election for reasons I never thought stood up.

But it had been his decision, part of the plan to retire at forty, and he’d achieved it.  Ursula, his wife, was prickly at the best of times and had always considered herself above all of us.  I guess being a prom queen had that effect on some people.  She liked to be the centre of attention, and for some reason, she and Janine always managed to rub up against their respective wrong sides.

Something else I knew; he had a thing for Janine, as had several others in our group, and I could see, sometimes the looks that passed between them, and I was not sure how I felt about it.  There was never any indication of either talking it further, but there was a bond between them that sometimes I envied, especially lately when it seemed, to me, that we were drifting apart.

But tonight, it was going to be Janine’s fortieth birthday party, and there were going to be a dozen friends coming.  At the last minute, Janine had changed the venue to a restaurant rather than at our home, and that I suspected was because we lived in a magnificent house that all the others envied, and I was sure it was out of deference to them.  Buying the house had been her idea, and down through the years, as we moved into larger residences, she had been trying to shed the memories of where she had come from.

Neither of us had been from a wealthy family, and I had no wealthy family connections.  I was from generations of motor mechanics, which was my first occupation in the family business, and Janine’s family were farmers, something she had no intention of becoming, hence the desire to become a lawyer.  And I didn’t think either of us had airs and graces despite what we owned or how we fitted into the local society.

Fred DeVilliers and Susan, his girlfriend of many years, who didn’t believe they needed a piece of paper to sanctify their relationship, were best friends also, though I knew Janine and Susan were not quite as friendly as it appeared.  That I noticed some years ago when both were having a heated discussion, one they thought no one was around to hear.  Their bone of contention had something to do with Michael, and I didn’t get to discover what it was.

As for the others, they joined in the conversation, ate the food, drank the wine, and then went home again.  Like me, they were not interested in politics, religion, or miscreant children’s stories.  Our get-together was children-free, and often about reminiscences of older and more carefree times.

Oh, and just to stir the pot a little, this day, I had tendered my resignation as CEO of the company.  It was a matter of principle, the board had decided to downsize and shift a proportion of manufacturing offshore, a decision I knew I would have to implement if I stayed there.  When I vehemently disagreed, I was given the option to leave on mutually agreeable terms.  It was not something I could spring on Janine, but, equally, it was not something I was going to be able to hide from her.  Not for very long anyway.

She was running late at her office, and I agreed to meet her at the restaurant a half-hour before the other guests were due to arrive.  It was nothing unusual for one or other of us to be running late.

As it happened, I left the office, and the building, an hour after resigning.  The company didn’t want me hanging around and granted me the two weeks I’d normally have to work off before leaving, for security reasons.  I quit, therefore I had to leave, in case I had some desire to sabotage the company in some way.  I wouldn’t but it was standard practice, and it didn’t go unnoticed that I was escorted by security to my office to clear the desk, and then to my car.  They also gave me the car as a parting gesture.

After leaving the office I went home.

I took what amounted to over twenty-odd years of service in a cardboard box to my home office and dropped it in the corner.  Not much to show for it, other than a decent salary, annual bonuses when we made a profit, and quite a few shares, not that they were worth much now because the board hesitated to embrace recent technologies.

About two hours later I heard a car pull up out the front on the driveway, and two doors closed.  A look out the window that overlooked the driveway showed it was Janine and Michael, who as they approached the door were in animated conversation.

I thought about letting them know I was home, but then a voice inside my head asked how many men have come home during the day to surprise their wives and found her in bed with another man, or, in these rather liberated days, in bed with another woman?

And that thing between them, would it be now I would discover what it was?

It made me feel rather horrible to think I could suspect her of cheating, but it momentarily took away the sting of the resignation.

The door opened and they came inside.  I could just see them from where I was standing, a spot where they would not see me, not unless they were looking.  And my heart missed a beat, they were embracing very passionately, leaving me with no other conclusion than this was a middle-of-the-day tryst.

“Come,” she said, taking him by the hand.  “I only have a couple of hours before I have to get back for a deposition.”

With that, they went up the stairs and disappeared into the bedroom, our room.

I sat down before I fell down, then having regained some composure, went over to the bar and poured myself a drink.

Two losses in one day.  A job, and a wife.  I guess it wasn’t exactly a revelation.  I knew something was amiss, and I conveniently ignored all the signs.  I thought about going up and walking in on them, but that, to me, seemed like a childish act.  After a few more drinks, I decided to wait, see if they both left and then decide what to do.

The front door closing, and the car departing, woke me out of a reverie.  I got up and looked out, expecting to see an empty foyer, but instead saw Janine, in a dressing gown, still holding the front door handle, as if transfixed.  A beautiful memory of what had just happened, or a tinge of regret, and another secret to be kept in a head, I knew now, that held so many others.

I decided to make myself known, now rather than later.

“Do you come home often during the day,” I said, standing in the doorway where she could see me.

She jumped, perhaps in fright, or in guilt, it didn’t really matter.

She turned.  “Daniel.  What are you doing here?”

“I resigned this morning.  A difference in opinion on how the company should proceed.  I was escorted out and decided to come home.  I should have gone to a bar.”

She knew that I knew, so it would be interesting to see what she had to say.  I could see her forming the words in her head, much the same as she did in a court of law.

“It was the first time, Daniel, an impulse.  I’m not going to make an excuse.  It’s on me.  I wanted to find out what it would be like.”

And that made me feel so much better.   Not!

“Well, it’s a hell of a fortieth birthday gift, Jan, and one I guess I couldn’t give you.  I trust you didn’t grant that wish to any of the other men who may desire you?”  OK, that wasn’t exactly what I meant to say, but the words didn’t exactly match what I was thinking.

“You mean do I sleep with every man I have a desire to?”  A rather harsh tone, bordering on angry.  She was angry with me.

“You tell me what I’m supposed to think.”

“I had sex with one other man, no one else since the day we were married.  It was a mistake, and I’m sorry.  If you hadn’t been here, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Washington,” I said, almost to myself, a light bulb lighting up in my head.

The memory of a distant conversation, on a holiday, when we visited Washington, Philadelphia and New York.

“What about Washington?”  A change in her expression, was slight, but I could see it.  She remembered it too.

“Remember that time, at one of those monuments, probably Jefferson’s, when you said something rather odd, and when I asked, you brushed it off as nothing important.  You were looking out over the water and said it was one of your fondest memories after, and then stopped yourself.  Michael had just married when he moved to Washington, and you were there too, for a year.  I suspect now you and he had an affair, and it ended badly as affairs do and the woman has to leave.  There’s always been that bond between you.  Not the first time Jan.  The affair never ended.”

“It did, Daniel.  Like I said, this was a mistake.  It won’t happen again.”

I stepped out of the office and walked down the passage and came into the foyer.  Two stories high, there had been a debate about whether to have a fountain in the space adjacent to the stairs or a statue.  The statue won, and I lost.

Close up, I looked at the woman I’d loved from the moment I first saw her, and of the surprise when she agreed to marry me.  I had no idea then I was her second choice.

“I’d say I’m on a roll.  Lost my job, then lost my wife.  Bad luck comes in threes, so I’m going to lose something else.”  I looked around.  “This house?  I don’t think I could stay here, not now.  It would just be a reminder of everything bad that’s happened to me today.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.  I told you it was a mistake.  I made my choice twenty-odd years ago and it hasn’t changed.”

She took a step towards me, and I took one back.  The thought of being close to her now, after what she had just done, didn’t feel right.

“Look, before you do something silly, let’s sit down and talk about it.”

“No.  There’s nothing really to talk about.  I’m sure you can come up with a very convincing argument that will justify everything you’ve done, and why I’m being a fool, but the truth is, there are no words that can justify what you just did.  Yes, I could forgive you, and believe me, I want to, but there’d always be some resentment and the fact I could never trust you again, even if you promise not to.  What’s done is done.   Have a great birthday, and party, and make up some excuse for me not being there, but I’m going away for a while.  You have got everything you ever wanted Jan.  Be grateful for that.”

With that, I turned and headed for the door that led to the garage.  I wasn’t going to leave by the front door.  I expected her to say something, but she didn’t.  I expected a reaction, but there was none.  What choice did I have?

In the car, I found myself heading for the airport.  I couldn’t go to my parents, they were dead.  My sister lived on the other side of the country, and all I would get from her if I told her what happened would be an I told you so, so it was down to my brother, who had moved to the UK to get away from everyone.  I called him, and when he answered, I simply said, “I’m coming to see you for a while.”

And he replied, “It was Washington, wasn’t it?”

He’d know who she was, and who Michael was when he saw them together all those years ago.  And tried to warn me before I married her.

What was it with politicians and women?

—–

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

NANOWRIMO – 2024 – Day 11

Behind the Green Door

…

Michael believes that management is an insidious organisation, run by faceless leaders.

No one knows much and no one it seems wants to dig too deep lest they get into trouble.

But …

Unlike the rest of the police/detectives who do as they are told, no one else seems to be as inquisitive. Perhaps Michael’s inquisitiveness stems from the bitter disappointment of losing his mother, ostensibly to the police/secret police who took her away and was never seen again.

it is a familiar theme, people disappearing, though those disappearances are covered by a missing persons report, where if people are missing it is generally considered the person committed suicide.

Michael doesn’t believe all of them have. Life wasn’t all that bad in their city.

No, an investigation has shown that something happened to precipitate the disappearance.

Some, once he discovered there was a pipeline to the outside world, have managed to escape. This too, could apply to those in their 60’s not wanting to obey Rule 71.

Miranda had been taken away and is now back, acting differently.

Before she was taken Michael was given an instruction to active subcode routines.

He uses the codeword and a change comes over her.

It is unsettling.

…

Word written today 1,865, making a total of 19,016 words

Searching for locations: An old country homestead, Canungra, Australia

Or to be more precise, the homestead at what is now O’Reilly’s vineyard, where there is a pleasant lawn out back running down to the river for picnics, an alpaca farm next door, and the homestead plays host to functions and wine tastings

My interest was that we had assumed there was a restaurant, and we were going to have lunch. There might be one, but not the day we visited, it was just cafe food or a picnic available.

I was more interested in the old homestead because it was a fine example of the homesteads built in the ‘outback’.

…

Today we are having lunch in the Platypus room, in the O’Reilly’s vineyard farmhouse, which, if you close your eyes and let your imagination run free, could see it as the master bedroom of a homestead.

Certainly, the building is old, made completely of timber, inside and out, with the traditional high ceilings to keep the heat at bay.

At one end, a large bay window, which would be ideal to sit and view the outside, past the sweeping verandah.  There is a small lawn and a rotunda, but beyond that what might have been extended gardens, is the vineyard.

The homestead is in an ideal position midway between the main road and the river, has the traditional surrounding verandah, and shows signs of being extended on almost all sides.

On the other side of the wide corridor that leads you to the bar, and, coincidentally, down the centre of the house, is a smaller bedroom, also used as a dining room, and ubiquitously named the library.

It may be small but it does have a fireplace, which the assumed master bedroom does not, but now I’m thinking that room might have been the morning room.

Behind the room, we’re in is another bedroom, or perhaps this might be the master because it does have a fireplace and is quite large.  And a name, the Ambassador room.  Now it serves as the pickup place for picnic baskets.

There is another room on the opposite side of the corridor called the Drawing Room but is not open to the public.  But, going into the room with the fireplace adjacent to it, you can sell the aroma of pizzas, so it’s probably an extension of the kitchen, and, walking around the outside that side of the house proves it to be the case.

After all, they do catering for weddings and need a very large food preparation area which I discovered runs down the whole of that side of the house.

At the end of the corridor I’d the bar and spare space, and running off that and behind that is where there is a large dining area, perhaps prior to COVID, the restaurant.

It’s not hard to imagine that area as a very large entertaining area, either for very large dinner parties, or dancing.

As for the food, it’s either a picnic basket or pizzas.  We chose the latter, not realising the bases were not homemade, but bought in.  

The toppings however were both plentiful and tasty.  It could have been hotter, because it was a cold day, and it was cold in the room.

As for something to do other than taste the wine, and buy a few bottles, you can get up close to the vines, which, at this time of the year gave been pruned back and look quite dead, look at or walk an alpaca, even feed it, or all of them, or go down to the river and see if you can spot a Platypus.

Perhaps next time we’ll have a picnic down by the river.

A moment to slip back into the past

Televison is a great recorder of the past, and most channels, and especially cable tv have great libraries of films that go back more than a hundred years.

And, whilst it’s possible that modern day films and television series can try to recapture the past, the English as an exception being very good at it, often it is impossible to capture it correctly.

But, if you have a film shot in the moment, then you have a visual record of what life, and what was once part of our world before you in all it’s dated glory. The pity of it is that, then, we never appreciated it.

After all, in those particular times, who had the time to figuratively stop and smell the roses. Back then as life was going on, we were all tied up with just trying to get through each day.

Years later, often on reflection, we try to remember the old days, and, maybe, remember some of what it was like, but the chances are that change came far too rapidly, and often too radical, that it erases what we thought we knew existed before.

My grandmothers house is a case in point. In it’s place is a multi lane super highway, and there’s nothing left to remind us, or anyone of it, just some old sepia photographs.

I was reminded of how volatile history really is when watching an old documentary, in black and white, and how the city I grew up in used to look.

Then, even though it seemed large to me then, it was a smaller city, with suburbs that stretched about ten or so miles in every direction, and the outer suburbs were where people moved to get a larger block, and countrified atmosphere.

Now, those outer suburbs are no longer spacious properties, the acreage subdivided and the old owners now much richer for a decision made with profit not being the motivator, and the current suburban sprawl is now out to forty or fifty miles.

The reason for the distance is no longer the thought of open spaces and cleaner air, the reason for moving now is that land further out is cheaper, and can make buying that first house more affordable.

This is where I tip my hat to the writers of historical fiction. I myself am writing a story based in the 1970s, and its difficult to find what is and isn’t time specific.

If only I had a dollar for every time I went to write the character pulling out his or her mobile phone.

What I’ve found is the necessity to research, and this has amounted to finding old films, documentaries of the day, and a more fascinating source of information, the newspapers of the day.

The latter especially has provoked a lot of memories and a lot of stuff I thought I’d forgotten, some of it by choice, but others that were poignant.

Yes, and don’t get me started on the distractions.

If only I’d started this project earlier…

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Searching for locations: The Kingston Flyer, Kingston, New Zealand

The Kingston Flyer was a vintage train that ran about 14km to Fairlight from Kingston, at the southern end of Lake Wakatipu, and back.

This tourist service was suspended in December 2012 because of locomotive issues.

However, before that, we managed to go on one of the tours, and it was a memorable trip.  Trying to drink a cup of tea from the restaurant car was very difficult, given how much the carriages moved around on the tracks.

The original Kingston Flyer ran between Kingston, Gore, Invercargill, and sometimes Dunedin, from the 1890s through to 1957.

There are two steam locomotives used for the Kingston Flyer service, the AB778 starting service in 1925, and the AB795 which started service in 1927.

The AB class locomotive was a 4-6-2 Pacific steam locomotive with a Vanderbilt tender, of which 141 were built between 1915 and 1927 some of which by New Zealand Railways Addington Workshops.

No 235 is the builder’s number for the AB778

There were seven wooden bodied passenger carriages, three passenger coaches, one passenger/refreshments carriage and two car/vans.  The is also a Birdcage gallery coach.  Each of the rolling stock was built between 1900 and 1923.  They were built at either of Addington, Petone, or Hillside.

I suspect the 2 on the side means second class

The passenger coach we traveled in was very comfortable.

This is one of the guard’s vans, and for transporting cargo.

The Kingston Railway Station

and cafe.

A poster sign advertising the Kingston Flyer

The running times for the tourist services, when it was running.

An excerpt from “One Last Look”: Charlotte is no ordinary girl

This is currently available at Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

…

I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense.  Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.

I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.

It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.

The boy was Alan.  He was about six or seven.  The girl was Louise, and she was five years old.  She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.

I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.

We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds.  I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.

We were so happy then.

Before the tragedy.

When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell.  Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.

It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children.  They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.

Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.

Until one day she couldn’t.

Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand.  She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it.  The damage done to her was too severe.

The doctors were wrong.

She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants.  It was enough to have them arrested.  It was not enough to have them convicted.

Justice would have to be served by other means.

I was outside the Bannister’s home.

I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die.  It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing.  I had murder in mind.  It was why I was holding an iron bar.

Skulking in the shadows.  It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.

I waited till Archie came out.  I knew he eventually would.  The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go.  I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.

I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.

“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me.  He knew what it was, and what it was for.

It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes.  He was alone.

“Justice.”

“For that slut of a sister of yours.  I had nuffing to do with it.”

“She said otherwise, Archie.”

“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.”  An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.

I held up the pipe.  It had blood on it.  Willy’s blood.  “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up.  He sang like a bird.  That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”

“He dunnit, not me.  Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.”  Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.

“No, Archie.  He didn’t.  I’m coming for you.  All of you Bannisters.  And everyone who touched my sister.”

It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.

I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries.  Those were the very worst few hours of my life.

She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late.  If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.

If only I’d not been late…

When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood.  The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.

At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told.  He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.

I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy.  There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.

He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone.  It was a half mile walk, through a park.  The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness.  He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.

He didn’t.

It took an hour and a half to get the names.  At first, when he saw me, he laughed.  He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.

When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list.  I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.

When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi.  The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me.  I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.

At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality.  The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.

Archie could help but rub it in my face.  He was invincible.

Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out.  He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged.  I didn’t care.

Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me.  I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.

I revisited Willy in the hospital.  He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come.  Suffocation was too good for him.

David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters.  His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful.  Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered.  A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.

He and I met in the pub.  We got along like old friends.  He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges.  We shook hands and parted as friends.

Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared.  I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me.  He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.

When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes.  I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it.  He told me he was just a spectator.

I’d read the coroner’s report.  They all had a turn.  He was a liar.

He took nineteen bullets to die.

Then came Archie.

The same factory only this time there were four seats.  Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities.  She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.

Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.

A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.

Archie’s mother cursed me.  I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.

Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily.  The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family.  I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.

He was a little more worried about his sister.

I told him it was confession time.

He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.

I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony.  I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes.  This time he did, it all poured out of him.

I went over to Emily.  He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm.  Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.

“Louise was my friend, Archie.  My friend.”

Then she shot him.  Six times.

To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this.  May God have mercy on your soul.”

Now I was in jail.  I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession.  Without my sister, my life was nothing.  I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.

They were not allowed to.

For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors.  I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.

Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.

Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”

When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone.  They ignored me.  I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.

I was beginning to think I was going mad.

I ignored him.

“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that.  You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”

Death sounded good.  I told him to go away.

He didn’t.  Persistent bugger.

I was handcuffed to the table.  The prison officers thought I was dangerous.  Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that.  McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.

“Why’d you do it?”

“You know why.”  Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.

“Your sister.  By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”

“It was murder just the same.  No difference between scum and proper people.”

“You like killing?”

“No-one does.”

“No, I dare say you’re right.  But you’re different, Alan.  As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen.  We can use a man like you.”

“We?”

“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”

I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him.  It looked like I didn’t have a choice.

Trained, cleared, and ready to go.

I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible.  People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.

People like me.

In a mall, I became a shopper.

In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.

On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.

At the airport, I became a pilot.  I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.

I had a passkey.

I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.

That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life.  Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.

Two pilots and a steward.  A team.  On the plane early before the rest of the crew.  A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.

Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.

Me.

Quick, clean, merciless.  Done.

I was now an operational field agent.

I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides.  It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.

I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.

It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.

Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.

Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.

I was Barry Gamble.

I was Lenny Buckman.

I was Jimmy Hosen.

I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.

That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision.  If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.

Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.

God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness.  Not that day.  Not any day.

New York, New Years Eve.

I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag.  They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.

This time I failed.

A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…

Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her.  It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.

I was done.

I’d had enough.

I gave her the gun.

I begged her to kill me.

She didn’t.

Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.

How could she?  No one could know what I’d been through.

I remembered her name after she had gone.

Amanda.

I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.

Someone else had the same imperfection.

I couldn’t remember who that was.

Not then.

I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it.  After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.

The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.

It was late.

People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks.  Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.

A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.

He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”

Two of his friends dragged him away.  He shrugged them off, squared up.

I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground.  I looked at his two friends.  “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”

They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk.  She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.

I looked around to see where her friends were.  The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.

She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.

I sat beside her.  “Where are your friends?”

“Dunno.”

“You need help?”

She looked up, and sideways at me.  She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state.  Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nobody.”  I was exactly how I felt.

“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care.  Just leave me here to rot.”

She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.

Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.

“Where are your friends?” I asked again.

“Got none.”

“Perhaps I should take you home.”

“I have no home.”

“You don’t look like a homeless person.  If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.”  I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.

She lifted her head and looked at me again.  “You a smart fucking arse are you?”

“I have my moments.”

“Have them somewhere else.”

She rested her head against my shoulder.  We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.

“Take me home,” she said suddenly.

“Where is your place?”

“Don’t have one.  Take me to your place.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m drunk.  What’s not to like until tomorrow.”

I helped her to her feet.  “You have a name?”

“Charlotte.”

The wedding was in a small church.  We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot.  Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.

On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.

I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.

Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.

And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age.  She arrived late and left early.

Aunt Agatha.

She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look.  “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.

“Likewise I’m sure,” I said.  It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte.  It was clear she feared this woman.

“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.

“You know why.”

Agatha looked at me.  “I like you.  Take care of my granddaughter.  You do not want me for an enemy.”

OK, now she officially scared me.

She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.

“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.

“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”

Charlotte never mentioned her again.

Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.

Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us.  Her husband was not with her this time.

Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother.  She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.

We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends.  For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.

I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother.  It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.

Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.

Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close.  I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness.  We were never close.

But…

This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head.  It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.

And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction.  “You seem distracted,” she said.

“I was just remembering my mother.  Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”

“Why now?”  I think she had a look of concern on her face.

“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.

Another look and I was wrong.  She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.

I was crying, tears streaming down my face.

I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.

It was like coming up for air.

It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life.  I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.

And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”

I could not speak, but I think I smiled.  It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye.  Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.

“Welcome back.”

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

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