Category: Book

“Trouble in Store” – Short stories my way: Setting the scene

I used to like writing short stories, somewhere between two and five thousand words, but, in the end, it was too much hard work.

No chance of getting into stride with a location description, no real chance of giving a background to a character, it was simply a case of diving straight in.

But …

I’ve been thinking about writing a short story, starting it with a short succinct sentence that will set the tone.

Something like:  “Jack was staring down the barrel of a gun”

What then?

Should he start analyzing what sort of gun it was, did it have a light trigger, was the person holding it shaking, a man or a woman, or a child?

Location, in a house, a disused factory, a shop, a petrol station, the side of the road.

So, where was Jack?

Something like:  “He had gone down to the corner shop to get a pack of cigarettes.”

For himself or someone else?  Is it day, is it night, or somewhere in between?

Something like:  “He had to hustle because he knew the shopkeeper, Alphonse, liked to close at 11:00 pm sharp, and came through the door, the sound of the bell ringing loudly and the door bashed into it.”

So, Jack’s state of mind, he is in a hurry, careless coming through the door, not expecting anything out of the ordinary.

How would you react when you saw a gun, pointed at Alphonse until the sound of the door warning bell attracted the gunman’s attention?

Is it a gunman?

Something like:  “It took a second, perhaps three, to sum up the situation.  Young girl, about 16 or 17, scared, looking sideways at a man on the ground, Alphonse, and then Jack.  A Luger, German, a relic of WW2, perhaps her father’s souvenir, now pointing at him.”

The punch line:  Cigarettes can kill in more ways than one.

The revelation:  The corner store also supplied the local drug addicts.

The revised start is now:

Jack was staring down the barrel of a gun.

He had gone down to the corner shop to get a pack of cigarettes.

He had to hustle because he knew the shopkeeper, Alphonse, liked to close at 11:00 pm sharp.  His momentum propelled him through the door, causing the customer warning bell to ring loudly as the door bashed into it, and before the sound had died away, he knew he was in trouble.

It took a second, perhaps three, to sum up the situation. 

Young girl, about 16 or 17, scared, looking sideways at a man on the ground, then Alphonse, and then Jack.  He recognized the gun, a Luger, German, relic of WW2, perhaps her father’s souvenir, now pointing at him then Alphonse, then back to him.

Jack to another second or two to consider if he could disarm her.  No, the distance was too great.  He put his hands out where she could see them.  No sudden movements, try to remain calm, his heart rate up to the point of cardiac arrest.

Pointing with the gun, she said, “Come in, close the door, and move towards the counter.”

Everything but her hand steady as a rock.  The only telltale sign of stress, the bead of perspiration on her brow.  It was 40 degrees Fahrenheit in the shop.

Jack shivered and then did as he was told.  She was in an unpredictable category.

“What’s wrong with your friend?”  Jack tried the friendly approach, as he took several slow steps sideways towards the counter.

The shopkeeper, Alphonse, seemed calmer than usual, or the exact opposite spoke instead, “I suspect he’s an addict, looking for a score.  At the end of his tether, my guess, and came to the wrong place.” 

Wrong time, wrong place, in more ways than one Jack thought, now realizing he had walked into a very dangerous situation.  She didn’t look like a user.  The boy on the ground, he did, and he looked like he was going through the beginnings of withdrawal.

 “Simmo said you sell shit.  You wanna live, ante up.”  She was glaring at Alphonse. 

The language was not her own, she had been to a better class of school, a good girl going through a bad boy phase.

Nest time, point of view.

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2021

Writing a book in 365 days – 168

Day 168

Writing exercise

…

“Let me tell you a story you are not going to like.”

I remember like it was yesterday, the day my father came home from work earlier than usual, and instead of the usual greeting, shuffled from the front door to the study at the back of the house, shut the door, and didn’t come out until dinner time.

I remember my mother, after the exchange of looks as he went past, the slight nod of the head to say ‘not now’, and how it took her a minute before she resumed her pre-dinner chores.

I remember David, the youngest, Eloise, the middle, and me, Richard, the eldest son, watching briefly, and thinking nothing of it. We were too young to understand the way of the world outside grade school.

At dinner, that was the first thing my father said after we finished eating.

We didn’t understand what it meant, but we were disciplined enough to not question him.

“I had this speech all worked out, how to put the whole situation into perspective, but I forgot one very important element. You guys will have no idea what I’m talking about. I guess, to a certain degree, I don’t either. I come from a time where it wasn’t expedient pr possible to get a good enough education, not like what people need these days to just get out the door. We needed everyone working, and school was just a luxury we couldn’t.

“Then we got through the worst times, got better, employers retrained their employees, and it was full steam ahead. In prosperous times, everyone is looked after; in downturns, like the one we have been drifting into for several years, people are not so lucky.

“People like me. The problem, I was told today, by people who know much more about these things than I do, and in fact a lot of us at the factory, is that Americans are no longer buying American-made, and are buying cheaper imports from Asian countries.

“That forces the companies, like the one I work for, to try and cut costs to compete. They tried, they said, and I have been lucky in avoiding the last three sets of layoffs, but now they’ve decided to close the factory. It is no longer profitable. I’m not the only one affected. This factory sustained this town; it’s been the lifeblood of everyone who lives here.”

My mother had tears in her eyes. She knew what his words meant. “When?”

“Two weeks. We’ll get a severance check, but it will only sustain us for a few months, if we’re lucky.”

I figured something bad had happened at the factory because our teacher had said the whole town had been living on a knife edge, a curious expression that I asked him about, and he had said was like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel, which I sort of understood, and thought
I’d ask a practical question.

“Does that mean we won’t have to go to school anymore?”

“No. You will all be at school until we work out what we’re going to do.”

“Well, that’s probably not as difficult as it sounds. My parents said I could come back anytime I wanted, and this might be the time.”

What might have been suggested as a practical solution might have received a hearing, but given the conversation my father had with my mother’s father the last time they visited, about a year ago, still indelibly etched in my mind, I doubted he would want to hear it.

“We spoke about that when things were fine, and I accepted it. You know, and I know, I consciously made a decision when we were married that we would live here and I wouldn’t have to work. I wanted that, and here we are.”

“You know what happened the last time you worked for your father.”

That conversation I overheard didn’t sound like she worked for him; it sounded like she had been his personal slave, or so my father said, and it would be over his dead body that she would come back.

Words were said that couldn’t be taken back. It’s why her parents, our grandparents, had never returned, and it was something that annoyed my mother. No one would tell her the reason why. Of course, she could have asked me.

I guess that was the problem with being a kid. Everyone thought you should be seen and not heard. And people just pretended you were not there. That wasn’t the only conversation that I had overheard between my father and others, and between my mother and others.

“This time it would be different. I’m a lot older and much more resilient.”

“He hasn’t changed. People like him never change.”

I could see the looks exchanged between them were headed for an argument where one of the others would say something awful and storm out, and we would be living in what the three of us children called hell. It was fear, of course, because lately, the mood turned to the latent threat of violence. We had talked about it at school, the fact that sometimes fathers and mothers got angry, and sometimes they took that anger out on each other, or worse, their children. It had led to one of the kids in my class saying he had seen his father hitting his mother, and the sheriff had been called in. Violence like that, we were told, was not acceptable.

“Well,” I said, “I have a thought. I read it in a story, in a book we had to read in class. It was about a family whose house had burned to the ground. They were not able to pay their insurance premiums, but what that had to do with anything is not the point. The point is, they lost everything. Or at least they thought they had, until someone pointed out they still had each other. Come to think of it, the preacher down at the church is always telling us that no matter what happens, we still have each other, which is strange in a sense because he doesn’t have anyone else. But we’re all here. Isn’t that a good thing?”

Both of them glared at me. Time to consider an exit strategy.

Then my mother laughed. Was it hysteria? I’d seen her laugh once before and then burst into tears.

“Maybe Richie has a point, Doug.”

“We still have to live.” Not so hostile now.

“But the thing is, like ot or not, we have options. Most of those at the factory, except the University types and the bosses, have nothing. As much as it sounds like the end of the world, and for a moment there I thought it was, it isn’t. We’re just forgetting what’s important.”

Then she turned to me. “You’re right about the preacher, but he would tell you he has his flock, which is his family. And he does go on about stuff, doesn’t he?”

…

That was the summer when a once-thriving town turned into a ghost town. It was where, when
I was much older and, as my father called it, properly educated, when I discovered it was all part of fitting into the global economy. I had dreamed of becoming an accountant, like my mother, but in the end decided to become a bookshop owner, if only to make sure there was at least one place in the world where people could buy real books.

We went back to New York and spent a few years with my mother’s parents, where my father got a job that he liked and my mother toiled autonomously from her father, making enough money to get us a nice place in the country where she and my father could retire, and I could have my bookshop in the town, by the sea.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 64

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.

…

The Ormiston’s from the papers

…

The Ormiston story and that of the thousand or so acres between the sea and the mountains are now known as Patterson’s reach, but once called The Grove, began in 1865 when the original Henrich Ormiston arrived from Germany.

Originally intending to go to Australia to grow grapes in South Australia, instead, his fate turned West to the Americas, and, eventually, this part of Florida.  He started out with the intention of growing grapes, but when that failed to materialize, he moved on to Oranges, hence the name, The Grove.

He had married before leaving Germany and had two children, Marta and Gunter before leaving, and Friedrich after he arrived in 1866.  That Friedrich died, according to the gravestone, in 1924.  Neither Marta nor Gunter stayed, leaving Friedrich to carry on the business, have an only child which he named after his father, Heinrich, born in 1899 and who died in 1976.  He in turn had a single son, which he named Friedrich, the infamous person with who Boggs father had a tempestuous business relationship.

Friedrich was born in 1932, during the depression, and it was about that time that the notion there might be buried treasure, somewhere along that coastal area of Florida, floated by a university professor, Emil Stravinsky, who specialized in old pirates.  He had published a book that basically speculated where treasure might be found, and one of those areas was right smack bang in the middle of The Grove.

This information was plucked from the paper’s births, death, and marriages column around the specified dates, the death notices giving some light on the respective Ormiston’s life and toils on their land.

Heinrich, Friedrich’s father, fell for the story hook line and sinker, and with a promise to share the proceeds of an estimated multimillion-dollar trove, invested a fair chunk of the savings he’d amassed over the years in the first of many treasure hunts.  The name Stravinsky rang a bell in my head.

A quick look forward to the most recent editions showed it was the man who had died on Rico’s boat, who was, in fact, a third-generation relative of the original professor, an archaeologist in his own right, and digging a bit further into the story, the paper had published a dozen or so extracts from the professor’s book, hinting their subject matter had been derived from a particular pirate’s log, and from notes made over the years of research by the professor.  It sounded like there was a diary.

I was going to have to find a copy of the professor’s book, which, if it had been published nearly 90 years ago, would now be out of print.

When the father, Heinrich had failed to locate the treasure, the son Friedrich continued the search, only he put more time and effort into more meticulous research rather than take the professor’s word of its whereabouts.

This was about the time Boggs’s father came into the picture.

He had lived and worked in the Caribbean and discovered quite by chance when a storm had blown his boat way off course on a weekend sailing run, the ruins of an encampment and hidden inlet on an uninhabited island where he believed the pirate had operated from.

While waiting to be rescued, the storm had damaged his boat, he took the time to explore, and although he hadn’t told anyone at the time of his rescue, he had discovered a box buried near where a building had once stood containing a map, several coins, a sextant, and a flag.  The news of those discoveries came some years later when it was revealed he’s struck a deal with Ormiston to renew the search for the treasure.

When the result of that expedition came to nothing, each of the partners blamed the other for the lack of success, with Ormiston all but telling anyone who would listen that Boggs had created the map himself for the purpose of extorting money under false pretenses.

Boggs then had to produce the map, where it was authenticated as a map that had been created at the time of the pirate’s reign, but no one could say whether it was just an invention of someone at the time, or it was real.  The fact nothing was found suggested the latter, and it marked to start of the feud between Boggs and Ormiston.

The question in my mind was whether Boggs had that particular map, and had he shown it briefly to me?  Certainly, one of the maps he had was quite old, but there were so many variations, and they all looked equally as old, it was hard to tell.

One point I was quite certain on, none of the maps I’d seen showed the treasure’s final resting place as being in a cave, and I got the impression just before when I’d run into Boggs, that it was exactly where he was going.

Had that been the clue his father had referred to?  Even with the so-called original map, if it showed the treasure hidden in a cave why did Boggs need Ormiston’s help?

Had Ormiston known that might be the final resting place of the treasure?

I would soon find out.  My next stop was the library.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

Searching for locations: Windsor Castle, London, England

A fine day, on this trip a rarity, we decided to take the train to Windsor and see the castle.

This is a real castle, and still in one piece, unlike a lot of castles.

Were we hoping to see the Queen, no, it was highly unlikely.

But there were a lot of planes flying overhead into Heathrow.  The wind must have been blowing the wrong day, and I’m sure, with one passing over every few minutes, it must annoy the Queen if she was looking for peace and quiet.

Good thing then, when it was built, it was an ideal spot, and not under the landing path.  I guess it was hard to predict what would happen 500 years in the future!

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I’m not sure if this was the front gate or back gate, but I was wary of any stray arrows coming out of those slits either side of the entrance.

You just never know!

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An excellent lawn for croquet.  This, I think, is the doorway, on the left, where dignitaries arrive by car.  The private apartments are across the back.

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The visitor’s apartments.  Not sure who that is on the horse.

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St George’s Chapel.  It’s a magnificent church for a private castle.  It’s been very busy the last few months with Royal weddings.

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The Round Tower, or the Keep.  It is the castle’s centerpiece.  Below it is the gardens.

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Those stairs are not for the faint-hearted, nor the Queen I suspect.  But I think quite a few royal children and their friends have been up and down them a few times.

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And well worth the effort to reach the bottom.

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Any faces peering out through the windows?

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service.  He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me.  But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you.  So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.”  I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not.  They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here.  There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here?  Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor.  I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first.  I have come, basically to ask you for a favour.  This situation has afforded us with an opportunity.  We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious.  What sort of opportunity was he talking about?  Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that.  “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do.  They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country.  I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him.  I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were.  And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done.  But.  There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal.  I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change.  “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can.  They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel.  I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home.  What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say.  Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex.  Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

Writing a book in 365 days – 168

Day 168

Writing exercise

…

“Let me tell you a story you are not going to like.”

I remember like it was yesterday, the day my father came home from work earlier than usual, and instead of the usual greeting, shuffled from the front door to the study at the back of the house, shut the door, and didn’t come out until dinner time.

I remember my mother, after the exchange of looks as he went past, the slight nod of the head to say ‘not now’, and how it took her a minute before she resumed her pre-dinner chores.

I remember David, the youngest, Eloise, the middle, and me, Richard, the eldest son, watching briefly, and thinking nothing of it. We were too young to understand the way of the world outside grade school.

At dinner, that was the first thing my father said after we finished eating.

We didn’t understand what it meant, but we were disciplined enough to not question him.

“I had this speech all worked out, how to put the whole situation into perspective, but I forgot one very important element. You guys will have no idea what I’m talking about. I guess, to a certain degree, I don’t either. I come from a time where it wasn’t expedient pr possible to get a good enough education, not like what people need these days to just get out the door. We needed everyone working, and school was just a luxury we couldn’t.

“Then we got through the worst times, got better, employers retrained their employees, and it was full steam ahead. In prosperous times, everyone is looked after; in downturns, like the one we have been drifting into for several years, people are not so lucky.

“People like me. The problem, I was told today, by people who know much more about these things than I do, and in fact a lot of us at the factory, is that Americans are no longer buying American-made, and are buying cheaper imports from Asian countries.

“That forces the companies, like the one I work for, to try and cut costs to compete. They tried, they said, and I have been lucky in avoiding the last three sets of layoffs, but now they’ve decided to close the factory. It is no longer profitable. I’m not the only one affected. This factory sustained this town; it’s been the lifeblood of everyone who lives here.”

My mother had tears in her eyes. She knew what his words meant. “When?”

“Two weeks. We’ll get a severance check, but it will only sustain us for a few months, if we’re lucky.”

I figured something bad had happened at the factory because our teacher had said the whole town had been living on a knife edge, a curious expression that I asked him about, and he had said was like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel, which I sort of understood, and thought
I’d ask a practical question.

“Does that mean we won’t have to go to school anymore?”

“No. You will all be at school until we work out what we’re going to do.”

“Well, that’s probably not as difficult as it sounds. My parents said I could come back anytime I wanted, and this might be the time.”

What might have been suggested as a practical solution might have received a hearing, but given the conversation my father had with my mother’s father the last time they visited, about a year ago, still indelibly etched in my mind, I doubted he would want to hear it.

“We spoke about that when things were fine, and I accepted it. You know, and I know, I consciously made a decision when we were married that we would live here and I wouldn’t have to work. I wanted that, and here we are.”

“You know what happened the last time you worked for your father.”

That conversation I overheard didn’t sound like she worked for him; it sounded like she had been his personal slave, or so my father said, and it would be over his dead body that she would come back.

Words were said that couldn’t be taken back. It’s why her parents, our grandparents, had never returned, and it was something that annoyed my mother. No one would tell her the reason why. Of course, she could have asked me.

I guess that was the problem with being a kid. Everyone thought you should be seen and not heard. And people just pretended you were not there. That wasn’t the only conversation that I had overheard between my father and others, and between my mother and others.

“This time it would be different. I’m a lot older and much more resilient.”

“He hasn’t changed. People like him never change.”

I could see the looks exchanged between them were headed for an argument where one of the others would say something awful and storm out, and we would be living in what the three of us children called hell. It was fear, of course, because lately, the mood turned to the latent threat of violence. We had talked about it at school, the fact that sometimes fathers and mothers got angry, and sometimes they took that anger out on each other, or worse, their children. It had led to one of the kids in my class saying he had seen his father hitting his mother, and the sheriff had been called in. Violence like that, we were told, was not acceptable.

“Well,” I said, “I have a thought. I read it in a story, in a book we had to read in class. It was about a family whose house had burned to the ground. They were not able to pay their insurance premiums, but what that had to do with anything is not the point. The point is, they lost everything. Or at least they thought they had, until someone pointed out they still had each other. Come to think of it, the preacher down at the church is always telling us that no matter what happens, we still have each other, which is strange in a sense because he doesn’t have anyone else. But we’re all here. Isn’t that a good thing?”

Both of them glared at me. Time to consider an exit strategy.

Then my mother laughed. Was it hysteria? I’d seen her laugh once before and then burst into tears.

“Maybe Richie has a point, Doug.”

“We still have to live.” Not so hostile now.

“But the thing is, like ot or not, we have options. Most of those at the factory, except the University types and the bosses, have nothing. As much as it sounds like the end of the world, and for a moment there I thought it was, it isn’t. We’re just forgetting what’s important.”

Then she turned to me. “You’re right about the preacher, but he would tell you he has his flock, which is his family. And he does go on about stuff, doesn’t he?”

…

That was the summer when a once-thriving town turned into a ghost town. It was where, when
I was much older and, as my father called it, properly educated, when I discovered it was all part of fitting into the global economy. I had dreamed of becoming an accountant, like my mother, but in the end decided to become a bookshop owner, if only to make sure there was at least one place in the world where people could buy real books.

We went back to New York and spent a few years with my mother’s parents, where my father got a job that he liked and my mother toiled autonomously from her father, making enough money to get us a nice place in the country where she and my father could retire, and I could have my bookshop in the town, by the sea.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

I am my own worst enemy, again!

I think most authors are.

Just when you think that the story is done, and you’re on the third re-read, just to make sure…

Damn!

I don’t like the way that chapter reads, and what’s worse, it’s about the tenth time I’ve looked at it.

It doesn’t matter the last three times you read it, it was just fine, or, the editor has read it and the chapter passed without any major comment.

I think the main problem I have is letting go.  For some odd reason, certain parts of a story sometimes seem to me as though they are not complete, or can be missing a vital clue or connection for the continuity of the story.

That, of course, happens when you rewrite a section that is earlier on in the story, and then have to make ongoing changes.

Yes, I hear the stern warnings, that I should have made a comprehensive outline at the beginning, but the trouble is, I can change the ending, as I’m writing it and then have to go back and add the hooks earlier on.  Not the best method, but isn’t that what an editor is for, to pick up the missed connections, and out of the blue events that happen for no reason?

I find that often after leaving a finished story for a month before the next reading, the whole picture must formulate itself in my head, so when I re-read, there was always a problem, one I didn’t want to think about until the re-read.

Even then it might survive a second pass.

I know the scene is in trouble when I get to it and alarm bells are going off.  I find anything else to do but look at it.

So, here I am, making major changes.

But, at least now I am satisfied with where it’s going.

Only 325 pages to go!

Writing a book in 365 days – 167

Day 167

Where banks store money in vaults, writers store snippets in journals

The most important item in the writer’s warehouse – the journal.

…

Quite often the journal could be mistaken for a diary. A lot of people keep diaries; in fact, it’s a staple plot item in a lot of movies, that when a character needs to have their life fleshed out, a diary will be found, and read, giving a detailed view of the life and times.

A lot of people keep a diary to write down significant things that happen, sometimes who they met, and if something or someone had an influence on their life.

I know I used to keep one that detailed the stories I was writing, or hoped to write one day, with progress, characters, plot lines and generally how the day worked out.

When I found that I did not have an hour to spare in the day to write it up, it went by the wayside. I used to have a series of diaries for about ten years, back in the old days when time was not at a premium, but they seemed to have got lost in the moves from before to just after I got married, and yes, became a father and lost all sense of time and perspective.

But..

The journal.

Yes, I have one, or perhaps I should say I have about five or six, one for each project I’m currently working on, and they quite often get an update at the end of the day. With children grown up and grandchildren almost past their teens, and in retirement, I have been able to go back to where I started 50 years ago.

If you want an opinion, start and maintain a journal. It helps.