The cinema of my dreams – It all started in Venice – Episode 1

When you least expect it

…

I was minding my own business, as the saying goes.

Having made my mark on the world, I had retired from a world that I hardly recognized as what had once been.

Pandemics, political games, countries on the brink of disaster, and what could be called a world gone mad seemed to be the new normal, though it was hard to say what the old normal was.

So, I let all flow on past me, like water under the bridge, much the same that I was now standing on, overlooking the Grand Canal in Venice, the second to last whistle-stop on what had been a long respite from the real world.

I’d also been lamenting the death of the only woman I’d ever loved and for a long time the only thing that made sense.

She was with me always, in life and in death, reminding me that she would not want me to simply give up on life. Sometimes those words fell on deaf ears, but today was a good day.

She had always loved Venice and we always came for the Carnival, but this was the first year I’d missed it. It would not be the same without her.

After a while I moved on, over the bridge, heading back to the apartment, one of several in the major cities we traveled to often, Paris, London, Istanbul, and Vienna to name a few.

I stopped at a Cafe, one we often did when Violetta was alive, and the owner served me himself. It was, coincidentally, where Violetta and I first met, a story in itself

Then it was back home.

There were certain instincts I had, acquired when I lived in another world, and one was telling me something was not right.

I looked up and down the street but everything seemed normal. It was part of the city where cars were permitted, though I chose not to have one.

I shrugged. Perhaps my instincts were wrong, after all, it had been a long time since I’d needed them.

As I approached the front door to the building, I could see a man come from the opposite side of the street, heading towards the same doorway. He’d timed it to arrive at the same time.

Normally it wouldn’t bother me, but he did not look like a resident or a visitor.

“Mr. Wallace?”

As I went to put the key in the lock, he called out, his timing not quite getting him to the front door. Perhaps that was because I’d quickened my pace.

I was going to ignore him, but something told me not to. He seemed familiar.

I turned, just as he reached me.

“Mr. Wallace?”

“Who wants to Know?”

“Alfie Simkins. Who I work for is irrelevant, but we need to have a short discussion.”

OK, the irrelevant reference told me everything I needed to know. It was my past, coming back to haunt me.

“About what?”

“Nothing I would care to utter in the street.”

I gave him one of those long hard stares, the one known to unnerve even the hardest of opponents, but he didn’t flinch.

I knew his sort, and he was the last person I wanted to talk to. But just to make sure he was who he was intimating he was…

“Who sent you?”

“Rodby.”

And there it was. That blast from the past, a name I had hoped I’d never hear again.

I opened the door and he followed me in, then up the elevator to the third floor. At the time I could not afford the top floor, but it was comfortable enough, even if the view was somewhat limited.

He’d barely made it through the door before I asked, “I need some proof…”

“That I’m not an assassin, he said you’d require it. Two words, Alan McWhirter.”

There was a name I hadn’t heard in a long time, almost twenty years, my original name, lost after becoming so many different people. There had been times when I hardly knew who I was myself.

Now it was only a matter of what Rodby wanted, usually the impossible.

“How is he? He must be about a hundred years old by now.” He was close to that when I first met him, oh so long ago.

“Still comes into the office every day, still sharp as a tack as they say.”

The man would never die or lose his marbles.

“So, what’s this about?”

“A recording a surveillance team made and which they thought held no significance.”

“But Rodby did.”

“One of the analysts, you might remember her, Wendy Tucker, thought it might be relevant so she raised a flag.”

I did remember her, and by now she would be as old as I was and probably the only surviving member of the old team. But my memories of her were for other reasons.

“Yes, and I’m surprised she’s still there.”

“She heard your name, and another, but perhaps I should play the recording and then comment on it.”

He put his phone on the bench and played it.

A male voice accented, eastern European I thought, spoke first. “I’m told you knew a man named Egan Watts.”

“There’s a name I never expected to hear again.” A female voice and one I thought I recognized.

“Then you did know him?”

“Briefly, and not all that well. He and I went to an industry function once after we met in rather unusual circumstances, but whatever it was, it didn’t last long. He put work before anything else, so we parted.”

“Amicably?”

“Yes. For a while after we crossed paths, had dinner, you know.”

It had been a time when I’d been in recovery and retraining and had time for such a relationship. Nothing permanent, but just fun. She hadn’t been looking for anything permanent either.

“So you would know him now?”

“God no. It’s been a long time, and last I heard, he was married and traveling the world.”

“His wife died. Now he’s in Venice. We’d like you to pick up where you left off.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” she said. “Chances are he’s moved on and forgotten all about me.”

“Be that as it may, this isn’t a request. We ask you to do, or there will be consequences.”

Silence, perhaps a moment to reflect on exactly what those consequences might be, then, “What for?”

“That’s none of your concern. All you are required to do is rekindle your relationship. How you do it is your business, but you better go and pack for a long stay.”

Juliet Ambrose.

I remembered the voice, and the distinctiveness of its soft Irish accent, almost mesmerizing.

She had been one of the doctors supervising my recovery and she seemed to be out of sorts, so I’d asked her out to dinner, and talk if she wanted to. She didn’t, but one thing led to another…

That’s where Alfie stopped the recording.

“Good to know then,” I said, ” it’s time to leave Venice and move on.” The expression on Alfie’s face told me that was not what was going to happen. “Or…”

“The man in the conversation is Larry Pomisor, a key figure in the Waterville organization.”

That said, it all came back to me in a flood. An assignment that specifically targeted Larry’s brother Andre, and how spectacularly it failed. Andre had been killed, which was the mission objective, but so had his wife and children, which was not, and Larry had sworn to find his killer.

Apparently, he now had.

“Then if he regards me as the perpetrator, then you and Rodby both know Larry is going to honor a promise he made. Surely this is all Rodby needs to put him behind bars.” I knew Rodby could not have Larry ‘removed’ like he could once.

“It’s not that straightforward. If we were to go in with what we know, it would burn our source, so for the time being Rodby wants you to play along, find out what he intends to do, and we’ll swoop in and round them all up.”

The man had enthusiasm, I’ll give him that, but no idea what might happen if it all went wrong; that there will be a lot of pain and suffering involved. Larry was not a man to miss hitting the first time.

“All good intentions I’m sure, but both of you seem to forget I don’t work for him, or the government, anymore.”

“He never rescinded your file. As far as anyone knows you’re still on the active list. It’s just for a short time until we make all the connections. Clearly, while the girl is courting you nothing is going to happen, and we’ll have eyes on all the major players. All he’s asking is for you to play a role.”

It seemed to me my whole life had been one long screenplay. And it was never that simple.

“If I say no?”

“Then I’m sure he’ll arrive on your doorstep and personally ask you to return the favor”

Yes, I’d expected that. He may have agreed very reluctantly to my retirement, but it had always come with a caveat.

“Just this once then.” There would be no getting around it.

“Of course. I assume that we have permission to install eyes and ears here?”

An inconvenience, but necessary. I nodded. “But I am considering going to Paris, and then to New York. She might ask to come with me.”

“Wouldn’t you simply stay put and make them come to you? Besides, why would you take anyone actively assisting in a plan to kill you anywhere?”

Good point. “Perhaps we’ll see what happens, I have to get back home sometime.”

“Then give us the addresses and we’ll take care of the rest. Oh, and the plane. Just in case.”

I shook my head. I guess I could say goodbye to privacy for the next few weeks.

…

NaNoWriMo – April – 2026 – Day 14

Distractions, distractions…

You guessed it, the Maple Leafs are playing the New York Islanders, and it’s not going to be pretty.

It’s made worse by the fact that Chester has decided to barrack for the Islanders.

Turncoat!

But, it gives me an idea to dig myself out of a plot hole, and there’s more scribbling before I go to the master plan, now on the computer, and I can easily move things around.

I was writing yesterday, and somehow my mind took the story off on a tangent.

Sleeping on it, it led to another part, and then it will neatly fold back into the master plan later on. It’s a twist no one will see coming, simply because I didn’t, at first.

As of last night, my word count is sitting at 25,044 words, which is good and gives me a buffer in case I get a blockage of some sort.

Today’s word count looks like it will be about 1,400 words.

The Maple Leafs are 2 to 0 down, and I think I’ll change the channel to a repeat of Murdoch Mysteries.

All I have to do is get the channel changer out from under the cat.

Maybe not.

A to Z – April – 2026 – L

L is for – The last laugh

…

Sitting around the table in the lawyer’s conference room were seven very eager faces, and, at the other end, opposite Blanding, my parents’ lawyer.

It was time for the reading of the will.

The seven seated at the other end were, in age order, eldest to youngest: Jacob, John, Jesse, Julian, Judy, Jessica, and Jennifer.

Me, I was named Ferdinand. Yes, that apparently was a name, but I usually used my middle name of Aloysius, or more often than not, the short form, Al.

There was a reason why I was sitting away from the others. Technically, I was not a brother, but the only child of my stepfather’s brother, adopted by him after my parents died a year after I was born.

It had remained a well-kept secret until the day my stepmother, who died a few hours earlier than my stepfather, was conscious long enough to tell the eldest son of my adoption.

From that moment, I became persona non grata with nearly all the other siblings. It went from thirty-five years of harmonious sibling rivalry to me instantly becoming an outcast. I don’t think it was what the mother had intended, but then she hadn’t realised just how greedy and insecure her children were.

I had, though it had taken time. The two eldest boys thought I was different, not just the fact that my name didn’t start with a j, but the fact that I had red hair and that I had slightly different characteristics.

While the parents were alive, no one really questioned it. After they died and there was a fortune at stake, it came down to being one less to divvy up the pot of gold.

But here’s the thing. None but one, Jennifer and I stayed to look after them in their home when neither could look after each other or themselves. The others left home as soon as they could and only came back for handouts to save them from their stupidity.

For them, the memories of what happened in that house were a stark reminder of everything they should have become. They had been given every opportunity, but none seemed to like the idea of having to work for it.

Jennifer and I both got the intended message and understood. I remember the number of times the father had said, if only the others had been like Al. He made a point of it. The others blamed me when the father started rejecting their demands for assistance, saying that I had made their lives impossible. Nothing in that house, as far as they were concerned, had led anywhere for any of them except to catastrophe.

In turn, I never understood them. From a very young age, they all believed they would be looked after, which is why work or tried to make their mark when, in the end, there would be a fortune waiting for each of them.

Or perhaps I did. Their parents spoiled and indulged all of them. Not me. Perhaps that was the indication I should have seen that I was not really one of them. The father never gave me anything, often telling me that he expected me to make something of myself, as his brother had.

I never understood what he had meant by that until the mother’s revelation. Then everything made sense.

More than once, he had said, privately to me, that I was not one of them, that I did not have to be like them, that they, meaning the eldest two boys, would never amount to anything.

He was right.

But it was his fault they turned out that way. His and their mother.

Now, a greater catastrophe was likely to befall them if the father had carried out his threat to cut them all off.

I was there when he told them they had six months to turn their lives around, during which time they would not be getting their usual allowances.

As far as he was concerned, it was time for all of them to sort themselves out. His ultimatum had been met with stunned silence and disbelief. I don’t think any of them had considered the well might run dry.

The fact that the parents died in an accident raised a few questions in my mind, so soon after the ultimatum, and the thought, however unbelievable or insidious, was whether one of them, or all of them together, had ‘arranged’ for their deaths.

Jennifer was more inclined to believe they had. None had a story that would stand deeper probing. Each was vouching for the others, alibis were shaky, and as far as she was concerned, the police had closed the case too quickly. As far as they were concerned, it was an accident.

I looked at Blanding and caught his eye. He had his inscrutable face on. It was time to begin

…

“Right,” he said after clearing his throat. “Shall we start?”

He looked around the table at all the expectant faces. No one could tell whether he was about to deliver good news or bad. Even I didn’t know.

All I had was a phone call from the lawyer’s office, a request to be there. The others tried to have me excluded, but Blanding would have none of it. He simply told them that the reading could only progress if all eight of us attended, an explicit condition stipulated by both parents.

The room went silent.

“Now that the investigation into the untimely deaths of your parents has been concluded and a result of death by misadventure recorded, the will can now be read. It doesn’t necessarily mean that any benefits will automatically be payable at the conclusion of this reading. There are formalities, and these will take time.”

Eldest son: “How much time?”

“As long as it takes.” That was it. No more. Blanding took the will document out of the folder in front of him and removed the first page. The good stuff presumably started on the next.

The eldest son was going to ask another question, but then decided against it. I got the impression he was kicked in the shin under the table.

Blanding continued. “Your mother’s will has been read and wishes executed. She died before your father, and her wish was for everything to go to her husband and several annuities for friends. She never thought of her domestics as servants but friends.”

Eldest son: “But she didn’t leave anything directly to any of us, not even the girls.”

“No. Her intention was always to leave it to your father. Had she, in fact, survived him, there was a small lump sum payment of approximately a thousand pounds each and the annuities.”

“What about the estate, the holiday houses, the apartments overseas?”

Yes, the eldest son had been doing his homework, listing all the places we went to, not realising that the property portfolio was largely smoke and mirrors. I discovered the true nature of what they owned and what they rented, and it didn’t surprise me.

The father had been very clever to hide the fact that they were not as wealthy as most people believed, and having ready cash to give the children meant a gradual depletion of assets over time.

Being who they were didn’t mean they were filthy rich. The trick their father had told me once is to appear rich without anyone guessing what your true financial situation is.

Blanding put down the document and took off his glasses. I thought he was going to massage his forehead like a person trying to assuage the pain of an oncoming headache.

Maybe he had one already.

He massaged the bridge of his nose. Maybe the glasses were new and weren’t sitting right.

Then he looked at Jacob. “I’m sure you’ve been compiling a list of everything you believe should be in the estate. Did you think to also compile a list of the sums of money you borrowed from your father?”

“Borrow?” Jacobs’s expression changed. “We did nothing of the sort. He gave us…”

He stopped abruptly when he heard, rather than watched, a thick folder land on the desk with a thud, perhaps more for effect than emphasis.

“Every time your father loaned each of you money, you had to sign a document to say that at the end of a specific period, you would either repay the loan in full or start paying the interest. I daresay you didn’t read the fine print or look at or listen to anything but simply thought your father would never expect anything in return. So, back to my original question, did you compile a list of all your borrowings?”

“Of course we didn’t. Are you stupid? The man is dead. There’s no one to pay it back to.” John had the logic all worked out.

“Well, there’s the thing. It became repayable when he died. It’s stated very clearly in the documents, very legal documents, I might add. But just for the sake of clarity, the aggregate sums borrowed by each child are: Jacob, 18 million, John, 9 million, Jesse, 6 million, Julian, 4 million, Judy, 15 million, Jessica, 7 million, Jennifer, zero, and Al, zero. That’s close to 60 million pounds. Where do you think that lot came from?”

The siblings were looking at each other, but mostly at Jacob and Judy. I thought I heard a muttered, “What the hell did you do with 18 million, Jacob?” If they asked me if would tell them. Gambling.

“The old man was loaded. Inherited wealth, he said.”

“I’m sure he said a lot of things to which you chose not to hear. Giving you all you asked for over the years cost a lot, so much so, he was forced to sell all of the properties, including, in the end, the manor house. There wasn’t much in the rest, the paintings of forebears were worthless, the furniture and fittings were all very old but not worth a fortune old. The manor house has been given to the new owner, who was gracious enough to allow your parents to remain in it rent-free until they decided to move on. It was always going to revert back to him. So, scratch any property off your list of assets.”

“Cash, shares, bonds?” The confidence in the tone before had gone as the realisation of what had happen sunk on.

It wouldn’t be long before the others turned on Jacob and Judy, even though all of them together caused the problem.

“You know the answer to that question, Jacob,” I said

He turned to me. I could feel the hostility. “How come you didn’t get anything. Bet he knew you weren’t one of us and was never going to give you a penny.”

Jennifer rounded on him. “Like me, he didn’t seek to burden your father because staying home and looking after him, we knew exactly what the financial situation was. You all should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Jacob jumped to his feet. “If that’s all?”

“There is the matter of repayment of the loans.”

Jacob laughed. “Good luck with that old man.” Then he left. The others quickly followed him out the door.

Blanding sighed. “Well, that went better than I thought it would.”

Were you serious about the loans?” I asked.

“Your father was. We could take them all to court, but they don’t have anything, so it would be a meaningless exercise. But at least they have no more opportunity to get anything more. They have to make their own way now. But, now for the rest of the will.”

“I thought all that was left was the three thousand odd pounds,” Jennifer said.

“After the sales of a few bonds, we found in the bottom drawer of your father’s desk. No, that’s what your father left you two. He was very glad you stayed to help. Both of them were. It was always his intention to leave the manor house to you, and the proceeds from the sale of a half dozen paintings that used to hang in the Paris apartment, about 40 million pounds. He set up trust funds for the two of you, so you have somewhere to live, and enough to keep you going.”

“And if the others find out?”

“They can contest it, even get a slice of the proceeds, but the estate has first lien on the money in repayment of their debts, and the proceeds would barely cover the repayments. No. There’s no point, and no legal firm would take the case. Now go and enjoy it.”

He put two sets of keys to the manor house on the table; the same two we’d given him when we arrived.

We shook his hand, and he left the room. I may have been mistaken, but I think he had a smile on his face. Jennifer was looking down the street, and I joined her. Both of us saw the six other siblings exit onto the street, just as the heavens opened and dumped a heavy shower of rain on them.

“I think,” Jennifer said, “Mum and dad just got the last laugh.”

…

365 Days of writing, 2026 – My Second Story 13

More about my second novel

…

Yesterday, there was a moment where I went back over the plot, and whilst that exercise was a success in a way, it also got me thinking, and like always, I couldn’t sleep, thinking about how the timeline was working, but the narrative wasn’t.

Yes, I made the fatal mistake of considering editing in the middle of a writing marathon.

What brought this self-destructive mood on? A movie. No relevance at all to my story, but it was a study in interactions between disparate people, which is what I have going on between John and Zoe.

It works in the first story because they are thrown together and everything is new and crazy.

In the second, the premise is that the novelty of the thing they had is wearing off.

Zoe needs to keep occupied and doing something other than all she’s ever known, which is not exactly on her to-do list.

Of course, that’s all put on hold because she is now a target because of the death of Alistair, and it’s a problem she has to take care of. Alone.

I realise now there needs to be some discussion around this, and the way the story starts does not set the scene.

Similarly, there should be more definition of the relationship as it stands, or not as the case may be, and reasons why John decides to go after her, if only to get the truth, because he believes she is using the people seeking revenge as an excuse to keep him at arm’s length.

And, from her perspective, it’s not so much that she doesn’t want to be with him; it’s because she doesn’t want him to end up dead, given the sort of people she was up against. Not being able to articulate her feelings, as it’s not something she really knew how to do, there’s bound to be some confusion.

Inevitably, he is going to find her, and when they do, the reasons why they are together are clear, but there are still many reasons why he shouldn’t be there. Her life is not the sort of life he would want, by choice, and it’s not going to improve, so where is this thing going to take them?

I haven’t thought it through, so I’m going to take some time out to sort it out. I’m 47,000 odd words into the narrative, so I have a day, two at the most, to review, and perhaps rewrite to get the missing perspective I’m looking for

“More or less…” – A short story

It was meant to be time to reacquaint as brothers.

Louis and I had not seen each other for decades, and when he returned, about a week before, I got the impression there was more than just ‘missing his brother’ going on.

But that was Louis. He was never one to say what or how he felt about anything, preferring to be the strong silent type, and it had not fared well for him transitioning from teenager to adult.

As for me, when our parents split up, Louis went with our father, and I stayed with our mother, and, given the amount of acrimony there was attached to the split, it was no surprise to anyone that Louis and I had effectively become estranged.

In fact, when I had tried to find them, about two years after the split and our mother had died suddenly, all I found were loose ends. They had effectively vanished.

With that part of my life effectively over, I had married, had children and watched 30 years disappear before Louis suddenly popped up. He simply knocked on the front door one afternoon, Helen answered it, and within minutes they were the best of friends. I’d had that rapport, once, many years before, but life and circumstances had all but ruined that.

Or perhaps that was just me, worn down by that same life and circumstances we were all supposed to take on the chin.

His arrival was a welcome distraction, and when, after a week, he suggested that he and I go on a hike, the sort our father used to take us on when we were a family, I agreed. Helen was happy to be rid of me, and I guess a week without our arguing would suit everyone.

It was probably fortuitous timing. Helen and I had finally got to the point where divorce lawyers were about to be called in. The children had all moved on and had children and problems of their own, and we, as parents just didn’t gel anymore.

Besides, I said, just before I joined Louis in the truck, ready to embark for the wilderness, it would be time to clear my head.

And by day two, my head was clear, and Louis, taking the lead, led us along the ridgeline, a trek he said, that would take us about seven hours. We’d stopped the previous night in a base camp and then headed out the next morning. We were the only two, it being early in the season with snow still on the ground.

Above was the clear cloudless blue sky and in front of us, trees and mountains. There was snow on the ground but it was not solid and showed no signs of human footsteps, only animals. The air was fresh, and it was good to be away from the city and its pressures.

Approaching noon, I’d asked him if we were about halfway. I knew he was holding back, being the fitter of us.

“More or less.”

“More or less what, more closer or less close than we should be.”

I watched him do a 360-degree turn, scoping out our position. It was a maneuver I was familiar with from my time with the National Guard. I’d used my backcountry experience that I’d learned from my father, as a skill I thought they might be able to, and eventually did, use. I got the feeling Louis was looking for something.

“You get the impression we’re not alone?” I asked. I had that nagging feeling something was not right, not from about two miles back in the forest. It was like my sixth sense being switched on.

“Doesn’t seem so, though there have been a few animals lurking behind us, probably surprised anyone’s about this time of the year. It’s been a while, so I’m just getting a feel for the trail. This is, for now, our mountain.”

There was a time, from a time when we were kids, that I could tell when he was lying. He was better at covering it, but it was still there.

Where we’d stopped was a small clearing, a staging point that would be used by other trekkers, still overgrown because of lack of trekkers. Ahead there were the signs of a trail, and after six months, it would become clear again. In places, as we had made our way from the base camp, sections of the distinctive trail had all but disappeared, but Louis seemed to know where he was going, and it was not long before we had picked up the trail again. This spot was a lookout, giving a spectacular view of the valley below, and a fast running river through it.

I walked to the edge and looked up and down the valley, and at the trail that ran along the cliff for a short distance. I looked down, not the wisest of things to do, but it was long enough to catch sight of several charred pieces of wood. On top of the snow. The thing is, someone had been along this trail before us, and recently, something I thought wise to keep to myself.

Back at the log, I sat for a moment and drank some water, while Louis stood patiently, but impatiently, for me to join him.

“You look like you’ve got somewhere to be.” Probably not the wisest thing to say but it was out before I could stop it.

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, then it was gone. “If we stop too long, joints will freeze up, especially when it gets colder.”

“Sorry.” I put the container back in the pack and joined him. “Let’s go. The cold and I don’t get along very well, and it’s been a long time since the last time I ventured into the great unknown.”

“Helen said you gave up trekking when you married her.”

“She wasn’t a trekker, Robbie. We all have to give up something, sooner or later.”

Another hour, feeling rather weary, we’d come to another small clearing and a place where I could sit down.

“You always were the weak link, Robbie. Admittedly you were younger, but you never seemed to grasp the concept of exercise and fitness.”

I looked up at him and could see my father, the exact stance, the exact words, the exact same sneer in his voice. It all came rushing back as if it was yesterday, the reasons why I chose to go with our mother, that another day with his bullying would be one too many. And he was a bully. And, in an instant, I could see the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

“Out of shape after languishing in an office, perhaps,” I said, “but I was never the disappointment our father always considered me.”

“You didn’t join the army, follow in his footsteps, as he wanted us to do. I did. Proudly served, too.”

I could see it. Like father, like son. No surprise Robbie had followed in his father’s footsteps. And it was a clue as to what Robbie had been doing since I saw him last.

“So, tell me about it.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“No, I probably wouldn’t. Let’s push on.”

I’d also thought, along the way, he might ask questions, delve further into the problems that Helen and I were having, but I knew she had told him all he needed to know. I’d been held up at the office, and had rung to ask her to take him to dinner, get to know him, she might get to learn something of my life before I met her, details of which I hadn’t told her other than that my mother was dead, my father had left and taken Robbie with him. My past, I’d told her from the outset, was not something I would talk about.

I didn’t ask what they talked about, but I could see a change in both of them. Perhaps she had succumbed to Robbie’s charm, back in school all the girls did, but they all soon learned he was not a nice person, not once you got to know him. I didn’t warn her, and perhaps that was regrettable on my part, but it reflected the state in which our relationship had reached.

I’d also tried, once or twice, to find out if our father was still alive, but he deflected it, changing the subject. That meant he was still alive, somewhere, perhaps annoyed at Robbie for coming to see me. If I was a betting man, I’d bet our father would have denied permission for
Robbie to do so, even if he was a grown man and capable of making his own decisions.

Odd, but not surprising. Even now I could remember my father had secrets, and those secrets had fed into the breakup of our parents.

“So, you’ve been dodging it for days now, but you still haven’t told me if dad is alive or dead. He’d be about seventy-odd now.”

He stopped and turned to face me. “Would it matter if he was alive? I doubt you’d want to see him after what mother must have said about him.”

Interesting that he would think so. “She never had a bad word for him, and wouldn’t hear of one spoken, by me or anyone. And I have wondered what became of him, and you. At least now I know you spent time in the Army. If I was to guess what happened, that would be high on my list.”

“No surprise then you became an office wanker.”

Blunt, but, to him, it was a fact. I’d used that expression when telling Helen one time after a very bad day.

“We can’t all be heroes, Robbie.”

I put my hand up. Alarm bells were going off in my head. “You can come out now,” I yelled.

Robbie looked puzzled.

“I know you’re there. You’ve been behind us for about a half-mile now.”

A few seconds passed before the cracking of a twig, and then a person in a camouflage kit came towards us.

He’d aged, hair and beard grey in places but almost white now, but the face was familiar.

“What brings you to this part of the woods, Dad. Or is it just an unlucky coincidence?”

—–

“Echoes From The Past”, the past doesn’t necessarily stay there

What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

…

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment, Will’s life slowly starts to unravel, and it’s obvious to him that it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule: don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved there is going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

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