Whilst Davenport’s backstory is now coming together, I’m back with the main character, and working on a bit of his backstory too, mainly what he is about to remember of his past, locked away for many years, most likely caused by the trauma he suffered at the hands of the enemy, though the definition of ‘enemy’ here will have a number of different meanings.
These first dreams are disjointed but point to one certainty, Bill was, for a time, a prisoner, whether it was as a prisoner of war, or something else, he is yet to discover.
Another certainty he will learn in time is that he holds a secret, a secret several people would like to find out about, and who will go to extreme lengths to get it from him.
This memory fragment confirms he was a prisoner, despite the assurances to the contrary:
I woke suddenly, tense, eyes open, and alert. I could feel the fear coursing through my veins, every nerve end tingling.
I had only one thought in mind.
Escape.
Now.
Before it started again.
I moved my hand and found it strapped down as was my other hand and my legs. I was barely able to move.
A sudden jolt of pain went through me, starting at my shoulder where the knife had been dug in and twisted, the memory of which was very clear in my mind. It increased as I struggled against the restraints, the fear of it happening again stirring me to try harder.
I’d been here before and the result was bad.
Very bad.
I struggled harder.
I looked around and saw no one or anything else. The room seemed different from the one I last remembered, more closed in, claustrophobic. The light came on, bright neon lights, blinding me. The flash I got before I closed my eyes, it was a hospital room. I was captive, and it was after the torture session, where the doctors put me back together just enough to last the next session.
Torture, recovery, torture, recovery, over and over, night, day, light, dark, warm, cold. I had no idea where I was, what day, week, month, or year it was, when I’d last eaten, or eaten at all.
And I didn’t know why.
Why they didn’t kill me and get it over with. I didn’t know anything.
The door opened and I opened my eyes, now a little more adjusted to the bright light. He came over and looked down at me.
Chinese.
The enemy.
One of the insidious men keeping me alive.
I kept my eyes on him as he looked at the folder beside the bed, and checked my vital signs.
“How are we this morning?”
English, with only a trace of a Chinese accent. They all spoke nearly perfect English, confusing me, making me think I was safe. That I would talk to them. Confide in them.
I didn’t feel safe and I had nothing to say.
“You had a very bad night.”
Tell me something I didn’t know. I struggled against the restraints.
“They’re for your own protection. You tried to get out of bed and reopened your wound. I’m sorry, but we have had to restrain you.”
“Let me go,” I hissed, “or kill me.”
“I assure you no one wants to kill you.”
I didn’t believe him. He was trying to trick me. Trying to allay my fears. I knew all of their tricks now.
I had to escape. I had to get away or die trying. I could not take another session. Not in that dark, dank, evil room.
I tried harder to escape, felt the restraining hands of his friends, holding me down as he administered another injection, silence, and darkness closing in once again.
Still not sure where this is going, but it’s defining the past of our main character, and will become a lot clearer as the story progresses.
I am intending for these dreams, if extracted and put in order, will be the basis of the missing past the main character has not been able to remember, and given how horrific some of them are, it’s no surprise they’ve been buried very deep in his subconscious.
Navigating the Darkness: Sprinting Through Your Marathon Novel
E.L. Doctorow, a titan of American literature, once famously described the writing process as akin to “driving a car at night – you can only see as far as the headlight go.” This beautifully encapsulates the inherent uncertainty, the step-by-step progression, and the reliance on instinct that comes with crafting a narrative.
Then there’s the other, equally valid, piece of advice: writing a book isn’t a sprint, it’s a marathon. This speaks to the endurance, the discipline, and the long-haul commitment required to bring a sprawling story from conception to completion.
On the surface, these two nuggets of wisdom feel contradictory. How can you sprint through a marathon? How can you navigate the darkness with pinpoint precision if you’re also settling in for a long, grueling race?
The truth is, they aren’t contradictions at all. They are two essential facets of successful authorship, and the key to achieving the best of both worlds lies in understanding how they can and should work together.
Embrace the Headlight: The Power of the Present
Doctorow’s metaphor is a powerful reminder to ground ourselves in the immediate. When you’re staring at a blank page or a daunting plot point, the sheer magnitude of the “marathon” can be paralyzing. This is where the headlight comes in.
Focus on the Next Scene: Don’t worry about how you’re going to end the book. Just focus on writing the next scene, the next chapter, the next conversation. What needs to happen right now to move the story forward?
Trust Your Intuition: The headlight illuminates the path immediately ahead. This is where your creative impulse, your gut feeling about character motivation, or your instinct for dialogue takes over. Allow yourself to explore without needing to see the entire roadmap.
Embrace the Unknown: Sometimes, the best stories emerge from the unexpected detours revealed by the headlight. Don’t be afraid to go where the light takes you, even if it wasn’t part of your original plan. This is how discovery happens.
Pace Yourself for the Long Haul: The Marathon Mindset
While the headlight keeps you moving forward, the marathon mindset provides the structure and resilience to keep going. Without it, you’ll burn out before you even hit the halfway point.
Establish a Routine: Whether it’s a daily word count, a dedicated writing time, or a weekly goal, consistency is your marathon fuel. It’s about showing up, even when the inspiration feels dim.
Break Down the Giant Task: The marathon is made up of many miles. Similarly, your book is made up of chapters, plot arcs, and character development. Break down the larger goal into smaller, manageable chunks. This makes the journey less daunting.
Cultivate Patience and Persistence: There will be days, weeks, even months where the writing feels like wading through molasses. This is normal. Understanding that this is part of the marathon allows you to persevere through the tough patches without losing sight of the finish line.
The Long Game of Revision: The marathon isn’t over when you type “The End.” The real work of refining, shaping, and polishing is a crucial part of the longer journey. Trust that the initial draft, guided by the headlight, will be the raw material for a more polished creation.
Achieving the Best of Both Worlds: The Dynamic Duo
The magic happens when you stop seeing these as opposing forces and start integrating them.
Start with the Headlight, Build with the Marathon: Begin by focusing on the immediate scene, letting your creativity flow. As you complete sections, start to see the broader strokes, the emerging patterns that define your marathon.
Use the Marathon Structure to Guide the Headlight: Have a general outline or a compelling premise? This “marathon vision” can act as your distant parklights, giving direction to your immediate headlight-led explorations.
Allow for Detours, But Keep Moving: The headlight might reveal an exciting side road, but the marathon’s awareness of the destination ensures you don’t get lost indefinitely. You can explore, but always with a sense of returning to the main path.
Celebrate Small Victories (Headlight Moments) on the Long Journey (Marathon): Finishing a chapter is a milestone in the marathon. A particularly brilliant piece of dialogue is a shining moment in the headlight’s beam. Acknowledge and appreciate both.
In essence, writing a book is about learning to be both a navigator of the immediate journey and a seasoned long-distance runner. You need the courage to step into the darkness, guided by the light you have, and the wisdom to understand that this is a race that requires stamina, strategy, and unwavering dedication. By embracing the power of the present while respecting the demands of the long haul, you can indeed achieve the best of both worlds, and bring your story magnificently to life.
How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.
In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.
I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.
Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.
There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.
Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.
It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.
For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.
It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!
Navigating the Darkness: Sprinting Through Your Marathon Novel
E.L. Doctorow, a titan of American literature, once famously described the writing process as akin to “driving a car at night – you can only see as far as the headlight go.” This beautifully encapsulates the inherent uncertainty, the step-by-step progression, and the reliance on instinct that comes with crafting a narrative.
Then there’s the other, equally valid, piece of advice: writing a book isn’t a sprint, it’s a marathon. This speaks to the endurance, the discipline, and the long-haul commitment required to bring a sprawling story from conception to completion.
On the surface, these two nuggets of wisdom feel contradictory. How can you sprint through a marathon? How can you navigate the darkness with pinpoint precision if you’re also settling in for a long, grueling race?
The truth is, they aren’t contradictions at all. They are two essential facets of successful authorship, and the key to achieving the best of both worlds lies in understanding how they can and should work together.
Embrace the Headlight: The Power of the Present
Doctorow’s metaphor is a powerful reminder to ground ourselves in the immediate. When you’re staring at a blank page or a daunting plot point, the sheer magnitude of the “marathon” can be paralyzing. This is where the headlight comes in.
Focus on the Next Scene: Don’t worry about how you’re going to end the book. Just focus on writing the next scene, the next chapter, the next conversation. What needs to happen right now to move the story forward?
Trust Your Intuition: The headlight illuminates the path immediately ahead. This is where your creative impulse, your gut feeling about character motivation, or your instinct for dialogue takes over. Allow yourself to explore without needing to see the entire roadmap.
Embrace the Unknown: Sometimes, the best stories emerge from the unexpected detours revealed by the headlight. Don’t be afraid to go where the light takes you, even if it wasn’t part of your original plan. This is how discovery happens.
Pace Yourself for the Long Haul: The Marathon Mindset
While the headlight keeps you moving forward, the marathon mindset provides the structure and resilience to keep going. Without it, you’ll burn out before you even hit the halfway point.
Establish a Routine: Whether it’s a daily word count, a dedicated writing time, or a weekly goal, consistency is your marathon fuel. It’s about showing up, even when the inspiration feels dim.
Break Down the Giant Task: The marathon is made up of many miles. Similarly, your book is made up of chapters, plot arcs, and character development. Break down the larger goal into smaller, manageable chunks. This makes the journey less daunting.
Cultivate Patience and Persistence: There will be days, weeks, even months where the writing feels like wading through molasses. This is normal. Understanding that this is part of the marathon allows you to persevere through the tough patches without losing sight of the finish line.
The Long Game of Revision: The marathon isn’t over when you type “The End.” The real work of refining, shaping, and polishing is a crucial part of the longer journey. Trust that the initial draft, guided by the headlight, will be the raw material for a more polished creation.
Achieving the Best of Both Worlds: The Dynamic Duo
The magic happens when you stop seeing these as opposing forces and start integrating them.
Start with the Headlight, Build with the Marathon: Begin by focusing on the immediate scene, letting your creativity flow. As you complete sections, start to see the broader strokes, the emerging patterns that define your marathon.
Use the Marathon Structure to Guide the Headlight: Have a general outline or a compelling premise? This “marathon vision” can act as your distant parklights, giving direction to your immediate headlight-led explorations.
Allow for Detours, But Keep Moving: The headlight might reveal an exciting side road, but the marathon’s awareness of the destination ensures you don’t get lost indefinitely. You can explore, but always with a sense of returning to the main path.
Celebrate Small Victories (Headlight Moments) on the Long Journey (Marathon): Finishing a chapter is a milestone in the marathon. A particularly brilliant piece of dialogue is a shining moment in the headlight’s beam. Acknowledge and appreciate both.
In essence, writing a book is about learning to be both a navigator of the immediate journey and a seasoned long-distance runner. You need the courage to step into the darkness, guided by the light you have, and the wisdom to understand that this is a race that requires stamina, strategy, and unwavering dedication. By embracing the power of the present while respecting the demands of the long haul, you can indeed achieve the best of both worlds, and bring your story magnificently to life.
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’.
There’s more than one way … er, perhaps it’s better to say, there are many ways to use the word bar, which is not bad for a three-letter word.
Bar, the one you associate with drinks, in hotels, restaurants and we’ll, just bars.
Probably the best type of bar you might find me in is a Sports Bar, where you can snack on buffalo wings a tall glass of beer and watch with ice hockey in winter or baseball in summer.
It’s one I use from time to time when asked, what will we do, and the reply is often let’s go to a bar. The best bars are underground, dark and dingy, full of eclectic people, with a band playing almost passable music or better still jazz
Bar, as in the legal variety
There are so many legal references to using bar, that the one that I am most familiar with is being admitted to the bar which means that you can now practice law.
Raising the bar, if that’s possible, where the bar is that imaginary level which offers sinks very low. When someone says they’re going to try and raise the bar, you may be assured there will be a long battle ahead, simply because people generally find it hard to change.
Bar, as in we are not going to let you in here. Yes, this is the irksome one where you find yourself, often for reasons unknown, barred from somewhere or something. This may also be referred to by saying everyone may enter bar you.
Bar, as in an iron bar, the sort that is sometimes used as a blunt force object by villains to remind the victim they owe any one of a loan shark, bookie or the mafia. God help you if it is all three.
There are also iron bars of a different sort, those that are set in concrete outside a window most likely in a prison where the objective is to prevent escape.
It gives rise to an old expression, that person should be behind bars.
Then there is just a bar, such as a bar of gold, which I’m sure we’d all like to have stashed away, but not necessarily in the mattress, or the more common variety, a chocolate bar, which I have one now. What’s your favorite?
And just to add to the list of meanings you can always refer to sashes or stripes as bars.
Confused? Well, there’s still music, and the bane of yachtsmen, sand bars but I think we’ll leave it there.
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
Colonel Davenport, the evil mastermind as I like to think of him, but in reality, he was a tortured soul on a number of fronts.
I’d like to say what happened to him was not his fault, but to a certain extent, people can go one way or the other, choose between right and wrong, choose the easy path or the hard path, and most of all, never take advantage of a situation for personal gain.
Most people.
But try having a reputation to live up to, and the expectations of everyone put on your shoulders, and you knew you would never be able to carry the load?
That was Archibald Davenport, first son of General Horace Davenport, the great, great, great, so many times grandson of the fearless and famous Walter Davenport, who was with General Grant, serving with honor and valor in the Civil War.
No such weight was ever passed on to his younger brother, Leslie, so, free to live his own life, and in doing so, far surpassing his older brother in respect and accomplishment.
Archibald Davenport managed to miss the Second World War, much to the disappointment of his father, kept to the fringes of the Korean War, but unluckily was in the wrong place at the wrong time when serving officers were sought to go over as advisors to the Vietnamese in the years before the conflict escalated.
Or, speaking plainly, his commander wanted to move the problem on by obtaining a promotion to Major and recommending him for service in Vietnam. It was either that or dishonorable discharge and a few years in the stockade.
Knowing how it would affect his father, he took the commission.
But for an operator like Davenport, a man who could seek out and at the same time have trouble finding him, saw the conflict as a means to an end, and has latched onto an operative that he assumed was working covertly with the CIA, realized the potential for a man of his talents.
It didn’t take long before he was unofficially attached to the CIA, his army commander willingly signing the orders to ‘get rid of what will become a major (pardon the pun) problem’. So began the empire, arms, drugs, information, whatever was needed by whoever had the wherewithal, he was the man to see.
How did Bill find himself under Davenport’s command?
The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.
Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in.
…
Lallo delivered that statement with deceptive calm, and I didn’t miss the inference. That is if he was trying to say that anyone associated with that operation was likely to end up dead sooner rather than later.
Food for thought indeed, and suddenly it explained the reason for this interrogation. And though I didn’t want to believe it, or even think it possible, Breeman might be in some way connected with that operation. Or someone involved in it.
Suddenly I found my mid connecting dots, real or imaginary, that led back to Breeman requesting my transfer, knowing who I was, and then becoming closer in a way that was not expected, or could be explained, which had consequences if it came to light.
That was what Bamfield was alluding to in the desert camp.
But even Lallo had to admit it would be stretch at best to tie what was a random event being selected for what was basically an off-book training flight to being shot down, and link to a failed operation, and a suspicious suicide by Treen.
Especially when it was Bamfield’s own men who shot the helicopter out of the sky because we had so-called encroached the no-fly zone. Yet, by extension, if those people knew the proximity of the helicopter to the ground, and how thorough my survival training had been, that posed a whole new raft of questions, which, right then, I didn’t want to think about.
No, it was utterly ridiculous. My thoughts were simply the manna which drove conspiracy theories. Lallo was jumping to conclusions, and even I was guilty of the same offence.
Time to put it out of my mind, and answer the question, even if it sounded rhetorical. “It was the Colonel who tried to kill me, not the person who sent me on that operation. Are you trying to tell me Bamfield is involved in more than one conspiracy?”
Lallo simply shook his head, made a note in his notebook, and turned the page.
“Let’s go back to the day you were assigned to the ill-fated exercise. How many of your number at that particular base, are available for helicopter duty?”
“Four.”
“Who assigns the missions?”
“Operations.”
“Not the commanding officer?”
“No.”
“And in this particular case, when you were sent on the fatal mission?”
“I had to countersign the order. I didn’t see her name on the form.”
“But she would know, or be able to make suggestions.”
There was a group who made those decisions, not any one person, and it was possible anyone of that group could make a suggestion. But, as for Breeman, I doubt she was interested in that level of micromanagement.
Yet there was a suggestion I’d been moved off the active roster, and that it was possibly on her orders. Perhaps it would be best not to say anything about that. It also begged the question of why. Had she known something might happen to me? Or did she have an idea what might happen for another reason?
“Anything is possible, but I’m not privy to the machinations of command. I just do as I’m ordered.”
He smiled thinly. “I’m sure you’d say that even if it wasn’t true.”
Lallo was becoming an annoying little gnat, so I decided to treat him like one. “Is there an actual point to these questions, other than to dredge up past history, make erroneous accusations, and base all your conclusions on conjecture?”
“I simply deal with the facts before me.” It was almost a childish response.
A face hovered outside the ward door, and he noticed it.
“Excuse me.” He put down the notebook and headed out the door. Monroe remained, looking menacing.
Was someone else listening, and didn’t like the turn of events?
Writing exercise – The world is upside down; climate change has made our home uninhabitable
…
We had all seen it coming, and to a certain extent, pretended it wasn’t happening.
Until we could ignore it no longer.
Perhaps we could have kept our collective heads in the sand, but Mother Nature wasn’t going to wait that long.
We woke up one morning to snow.
Three months early, just as Fall began. Perhaps the fact that the trees had been losing their leaves far earlier than usual was a sign.
There were others, but it had happened before, a few years back, and it had sparked the usual warnings from scientists, debunking of climate change, politicians’ umming and erring, but in the end, nothing changed
We did the same this time. Been there, done that, nothing to see here. The government, such as it was, laughed it off.
As they did with most things that concerned the people, unless they were among the President’s private circle.
At first the snow turned the surroundings into a winter wonderland, usually here in mid-November, an interlude before the main event: Christmas.
It was barely into September, and it was a long way to the festive season.
It snowed every night for the next two weeks. All night, virtually at blizzard level, and so badly that it was difficult and then impossible to keep the roads clear. Except for the essential roads.
The houses were snowed in, then abandoned.
Whole areas were shut down and people evacuated.
I went up to the lookout once, and all I could see was white, except for a small area where the shopping centre was located
The whole was gone. Our house would be next.
Beth was holding a light blue sheet of paper in her hand, a hand that was shaking.
I knew what it was.
“We got one.” She held it up.
“Lou got his yesterday.” Lou was across the street. He’s lived there all his life, as did his parents before him.
We all knew this was the end. Any more snow and our town would disappear.
It was the same in any direction you could go.
She had the TV on. There was only one channel, reporting the weather and emergency information 24 hours a day. She never turned it off.
“They’re not ignoring it now. They keep playing the President saying it’s nothing and would go away in a few days. Now he won’t talk to anyone.”
No surprise. The last crisis, the pandemic, had been met with a similar response.
There were over a million deaths at that time; this had been exceeded in just two weeks. If it didn’t go away, the total was going to be horrific.
“We’re not going to be leaving any time soon. The police had shut the road for everything other than official vehicles.” The trains stopped at midnight; the last one snowed in at our station.
“What’s going to happen to us?”
“Last I heard, we’re going to the missile complex.”
It was a ubiquitous small town, with a big secret. We made up part of the air defence system in place to prevent invaders. And the threat of being wiped off the face of the planet if anything went wrong.
Freda hated the idea of nesting with nuclear bombs. So did I.
“Do we have a choice?”
“If you want to live.”
“So, in your opinion, it’s not going to stop.”
“No.”
I’d asked old man Bowen, ex-weatherman on channel 6 news, old meteorologist for Nasa, whose wife read tarot cards.
An expert.
“It’s part of a phenomenon that has happened in the past. Two more years, if we’re lucky.”
“And you know this…oh. the crazy old fool down the street. Seriously, Monte?”
There were things wanted to believe, believable things, things that some people just didn’t want to hear.
Fundamentally, a good person, when she had first met the Bowens, she took an instant dislike to them. He was abrupt and she was aloof, but that was just defence.
I smiled. “As much as you hate them, so far, everything he’d said had come true. As for the next, well, that was going to be the killer.”
“Or as the government says, we just have to wait it out a little longer.”
“While all the top officials, including our fearless leader, swan off to a country with a warmer climate.”
All the rich people were gone.
The president tried to sneak out by the back secret entrance that no one was supposed to know about. Except for one old press hack.
She didn’t answer. We agreed to disagree on certain matters, because not to would be letting politics destroy something good.
She glared at me. “Don’t say it. I’ve already had seventeen phone calls. It’s easy to lay blame, not so easy to prove it.”
Yes. He could do no wrong. And it was going to kill her.
But I wasn’t going to be drawn in this time. Just saying what I was thinking would get me arrested, and Beth would turn me in, husband or not.
“Then I guess God has a lot to answer for.”
That did it. The president and then God, sometimes the two fused, according to the president, speaking candidly about his ‘friends’, telling the reporter, or rather the stooge paid to preen his ego, that who was he to dispute they believed he was the almighty himself.”
It had been impossible not to burst out laughing.
The truck came to pick us up, one small bag allowed. Beth was going to come, but remembered that she had a small job to do and would come later.
She was warned that she had 24 hours. After that, no one knew what was going to happen.
It was more like they did, but to tell us mere mortals might have set off a chain reaction of dissent.
The last I saw of her, she was waving. I don’t think she expected me to leave.
We collected all the people on the street and headed to the silo. There were two other trucks. There was an officer in the truck who said there were rooms for 200 people. It was once a mass point for soldiers in case of an attempted invasion.
I found it amusing that anyone would come to put two for the purpose of invading it.
So did the others.
There were five trucks. The last of the townsfolk. All outlying areas had been evacuated earlier.
About a dozen had chosen not to come or had something else to do, like Beth.
And after the sun went down and Beth or any of the others deigned not to come, it was the worst-case scenario. The silo boss sent a team out to find them.
Then the snow started.
The search party came back in half an hour. The cold was too intense.
That was what was going to happen.
After the snow, the earth was going to freeze.
It came and it didn’t go.
Everything froze unless protected.
Four months passed before the cold lifted to a point where we could go back outside.
By that time, we needed food, and I was charged with finding it, and took six volunteers.
We found food, and we found something else.
A place where those who believed that nothing was going to happen had frozen to death, dying as a result of their beliefs.
It was a terrible loss of life that could have been easily saved.
It was predicted that there would be a thaw, Mother Nature’s planet-wide reset.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 