Category: Books

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

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

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

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

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

Routine was the word she used.

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

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

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

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it had.

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

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

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

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

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

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 16

I thought since it is Winter here, we could do with a breath of fresh air and colour that comes with the change if season

Living in Queensland, Winter never quite seems to be as cold as it is in the southern states, which are closer to Antarctica.

We have had a relatively mild winter this year and I didn’t have to light the fire once, though we did use the reverse cycle sir conditioning.

But, from now the temperature will be rising as well as the humidity and will hang around until April next year.

Normally this would mean that a large proportion of the population would be planning their summer holidays, but with Covid restrictions, we may not be allowed to leave our state, or only visit states that have no or few cases like us, and definitely no overseas travel.

For people who like to travel, this is a bitter pill to swallow, and especially so for all those retirees who have worked all their lives, and decided to wait until retirement to see their own country and the world at large.

To me, the adage ‘don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today’ seemed appropriate and we decided once the kids were old enough, we would travel far and wide while we could.  It was a wise decision because neither of us are as agile as we used to be.

Seems we were the lucky ones.

Now we are content to see our own country which no doubt will be able to manage Covid to the extent that life might return to a form if normal sooner rather that later.

And if it doesn’t, then I have enough to amuse myself at home. I’m sure we are all familiar with the expression ‘spring cleaning’. We have decided to clean house, and do some renovating.

And it’s a surprise when cleaning out those cupboards, drawers, and boxes, the stuff you’ve accumulated over many, many years. Last I heard, we were taking about getting a large skip, so I suspect this culling is going to be savage.

But, just to be clear, no books will be thrown out!

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 33

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

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, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

Onboard the plane shortly after it took off, I watched Monroe go to each of the team and give them a folder with their role, and, no doubt, instructions on what they had to do, and to handle the equipment they were assigned.  The list I’d seen required a sound technician, a grip, a cameraman, his assistant, the director, the producer, which I took to be Monroe, and a few other production assistants.

None looked happy, and probably already knew what the cover story would be.  I didn’t see or hear any objections, each just took their folder and started on their homework.

She didn’t spend much time with Jacobi, just enough to tell him he was going to be the guide.  It was a role he was most suited to, and that of local liaison.  At least it would explain why he was with us.

After that, she came to see me.

“Was it your idea or Lallo’s?” I asked.  

“Lallo’s.  I’m as surprised as you, but you have to admit it’s a great cover story.”

“For a group who wouldn’t know one end of the camera from the other.”

“Plenty of time to learn.  You don’t have to worry.  All you have to do is be perennially bad-tempered and yell a lot.  I’m sure you can do that without having me tell you how to.”

“No. probably not.  Bamfield said it all the equipment worked.”

“When we take the C4, detonators, grenades, and a few other assorted armaments out it will.”

“You know where the other stuff is,” I said, hoping she understood that it was the diamonds I was talking about.

“Somewhere in one of the boxes.  It was best not to tell anyone, so if anything happens, we can’t give it away.  We can worry about that once we get past the border.  I suggest you get your head down.  At least one of us has to be sharp at the other end when we land.”

With that, she went back to her corner, ran her eye over the team now deep in their studies, then looked like she was going to get some sleep.

After a few hours, the enthusiasm to learn had died down, and each of the team members made themselves comfortable.  There would be more time to study on the other side of the fuel stop.  Everyone on board got what sleep they could, not that it was the best of places in the cargo hold of a C-130.  One destination we were all familiar with was that of Djibouti when we would set down to refuel at the airbase there.

It was a half-hour stop, and, as Monroe advised, we didn’t leave the plane.  It was best no one knew we were aboard or what we were doing, a feat I thought quite remarkable because if it was my airbase, I’d want to know.

But, as airbases went, it was the same as the rest.

Back in the air, we were heading for Uganda.  It was another 6 or 7 hours, so it was a good time to get some more rest before we landed.  I had no idea when the next time would be that there would be time for some shuteye.

I’d been keeping an eye on Monroe.  She appeared to be the liaison for everything, and had accompanied the pilot to the base tower, most likely to file the flight plan, one of several I imagine, and to report back to Bamfield.  It explained why the pilot returned without her, and she didn’t get back until 15 minutes before we were due to leave.

Should I be worried?  There wasn’t much point.

After an hour, I went up the back of the plane and sat next to Jacobi.  He had been ostracised by the rest of the team; an order given by Monroe for them to leave him alone.  He’d been escorted onto the plane by two burly military policemen, and his bag of equipment given to Monroe for safekeeping, so we were sure from the time he left the cell at the black site to getting on the plane he had communicated with anyone.

Even so, I was sure he had been in similar situations before, and he was still alive to tell about it.  If he had a plan, whatever that plan was, we would soon find out.

In the meantime, I thought he might have an interesting story to tell, and I had a few hours to kill.

He sullenly watched me come down the fuselage, and then sit next to him, loosely putting what passed as a seat belt on just in case we hit an air pocket.  The flight was not as smooth as it might be on a commercial airliner and was certainly a lot noisier.

“Have you spoken to the right people yet?” I almost had to yell in his ear.  

Lallo had said he was going to get Jacobi to call his friendly General in the Congo army to smooth the way, and it would be interesting to know under what circumstances Jacobi had explained our arrival at his border.  And another to tell the kidnappers we were on our way.  Monroe said he had made several supervised phone calls, but not exactly who to.

We had to pray that the General would be among those to also help us locate the targets and, once the exchange was made, assist us in our departure, for a small sum to compensate them for the inconvenience.

He knew why I’d come to see him.  “The captors know we are coming, and hopefully before the time limit has passed.  They will kill them this time if we don’t get there in time.”

“I’m sure they’d like us to think that, but you know as well as I do they need the ransom for their ongoing operations.  Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to plan f which is where they kill us, the hostages, and just take the ransom.  Either way, I hate to be the one who is only going to make things worse, but I don’t get to decide what’s right or wrong.”

“It’s how it works out there.  Everyone is available for a price.  If it wasn’t this lot, it’d be another or another.”

“Or the military, maybe, looking to cash in because the state doesn’t pay them enough.  That’s why we’re putting you at the head of the procession.  If we’re ambushed, you’ll be the first to go.”

“I admire your lack of faith in me.”

“You haven’t done anything to inspire faith, Jacobi.  But so long as you keep your word, and do everything right, I won’t have to shoot you.”

There was no horrified look.  He knew the score of being in the ‘Mr. In-Between’ business.  He would no doubt get a share of the diamonds for brokering the deal, on top of whatever Lallo offered him, and a cut of the General and his men’s fees for guaranteeing our safety.  I guess his business also had its hazards, wasn’t for the faint-hearted, and for those working all sides of the fence, a particularly exciting time.

Generals, soldiers, kidnappers, rebels, practically every man and his dog had an itchy trigger finger.

“It’s not me you have to worry about.”

“How so?”

“I didn’t betray them the last time, and that person was never identified.”

A good point.  “Then let’s hope no one else knows we’re coming, or what we’re bringing as ransom.”

He looked at me, a look that told me I thought he might just make a play for the diamonds himself and forget about the targets.  It was a very tempting ransom.

“You know how it is.  Spies are everywhere.”

“Just make sure you’re not one of them.”

I think I said it with just enough sincerity that he believed me.

“It’s not worth my while, I assure you.  Once you’re involved in a double-cross, you cease to be of worth to anyone.  I will not be the source of your problems if there are any.”

For a man who’d already been caught out in a raft of lies, there was nothing he could say that would make me trust him.  He was going to require an escort once we landed.

I had two perfect candidates for the job.  Williamson and Shurl.  From what I had observed on the ground before we boarded the plane, and in the plane, they stuck together.  I got the impression they knew each other.

After I left Jacobi, I told them what I wanted them to do.

It was the day for sullen responses.  They didn’t want to be babysitters.  Tough.

Next, I went and visited Mobley, sitting closer to the front of the plane, by himself.  Monroe had sat with him for an hour or so before we reached Djibouti, and it had raised a small flag.

I staggered towards him, the pilots deciding to take the rough path through the sky, and almost fell into the seat next to him.

He didn’t look at me the whole time, even when I’d sat down.  Was he pretending to ignore me, or had he decided he was above taking my orders?

“I’ve got a few hours to waste so if you think I’m going away forget it,” I said, loud enough to get his attention.

A slight flutter of an eyelid.  Not asleep.

“Monroe tells me you’re in charge of this motley crew,” he said, still not looking at me.

“Not because I want to be.  I’m not sure what your reason is to be here, and, frankly, I don’t care, but I really don’t want to be here.  I wasn’t given a choice.  I’m guessing you did from what I’ve been told.  We don’t have time to debate the issue.  What I want you to do is when we arrive at the base, is hang back, come up with whatever excuse will fly, and give us several hours head start.  You’ll be with one of Chiswick’s men.  What’s important is to check no one follows us.”

“You think someone might?”  A look of almost interest.

“I’m sure of it.  There’s no way we will get to the base in Uganda, no matter how far from civilization it is, and not be noticed, or worse, that someone already knows we’re coming.”

“What’s the ultimate rendezvous?”

“Over the border in the Congo.”  I passed him a hand-drawn map of the area, from the landing strip to the GPS co-ordinates of the exchange point in the Congo, but not the track that we would be taking, some of which I hoped might be by the river.  I think Monroe had given him as much detail of the job as she could, as she probably had all of them.

“Monroe in the loop?”

“She will be by the time we land.”

“Good.”

Eyes closed again; the conversation was over.

Time to have a talk to Monroe.

“Got some good news,” she said when I sat next to her.

“We’re turning around and going home?”

“Where is home?”

It was an interesting question.  I’d been bounced around so many airbases, I don’t think I’d had a permanent fixed address from the day I signed up.  Was it where I used to live?  No point going back, everyone I’d known back then had either moved on or died.  Technically I was now an orphan, and unlike others, I had no family of my own to go home to.

“No idea anymore, I’m afraid.  So, what’s this good news.”

“We have an exit strategy.  Bamfield told me to tell you everything is in place.  All we have to do is liberate a plane and we’re on our way home.  It’s the reason why Davies is on the mission, Bamfield says she can fly anything.”

“I’ve never heard of a plane called ‘anything’.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Any other details?”

“We’ll know exactly what the score is when we get there.  That’s all I know at the moment.”

“There’s more?”

“Hopefully through the pilot’s last contact with Bamfield.  Otherwise, it’s going to be just another boring day at the office.”

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

“The Enemy Within” – the editor’s second draft – Day 11

This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.

And so it begins…

…

Continuing on from yesterday…

…

The mentor is dead, the asset in the field is presumed dead, the agent sent in as backup has been shot at, shot up, and grazed, his baptism under fire.

Now he had to go back home and face the music. That music, of course, is the debriefing, a chore that can take many forms depending on what the interrogators are after.

But analysing the operation through each of the events causes our new agent to question what really happened because things just don’t add up. The line of questioning…

Well, that’s going to be a new part of the story, which feeds into later chapters.

Of course, debriefings are really another name for labelling blame, and you guessed it, who’s the sitting suck?

So much for the budding career in intelligence.

Searching for locations: Rome, Italy

Rome, Italy

We visited Rome in August

It was hot.

It was verrrry hot.

We flew into Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino airport after a rather bumpy flight from London.  Unlike most other airports the plane parked at a satellite terminal and after we disembarked we had to catch a train to the main terminal.

The most notable memory of this airport was my daughter’s discovery of a salami shop.

We had booked a transfer to take us to the hotel the Roma Corso Trieste Mercure in Via Gradisca from the airport.  It was a white air-conditioned van and so far we had avoided the heat.

One of the rooms had faulty air conditioning an absolute must as the rooms were very hot without it and necessitated a room change which was done quickly and efficiently.

The hotel was in the suburbs and without a car we were dependent on public transport.  According to the reception staff, there was a bus stop nearby, and a longer walk to the tram or light railway.  The bus seemed to be the best option as it would take us to the central terminal near the railway station, where all tour buses also operated from, and particularly the open-top buses that went to all the major tourist attractions.

That first day basically was given over to travelling, arriving by plane and settling into the hotel, thus we didn’t get to feel the force of the heat.  That came the next day.

After a walk around the hotel precinct to get our bearings and see what shops and restaurants were available, on returning to the hotel we were faced with limited choices of room service or to go out for dinner.

My daughter and l go for a long walk up Via Nomentana to find several shops and a restaurant.  We went into the restaurant and sat down.   We waited for 10 minutes and got no service nor did anyone come and ask us if we wanted to order food so instead we left somewhat disappointed and go next door to what seemed to be the Italian version of a delicatessen and ordered sandwiches and beer.   I bought a half dozen cans of Moretti beer two of which I drank on the way home.

It was still very hot even at eight at night and the sandwiches are delicious.  It just might be by that time we were starving and anything would have tasted great.

The next morning we are up and ready to chance the weather and some history.  Breakfast at the hotel is limited but very good.

We were going to use public transport and I’d studied up on the Internet.

Travelling on the bus required pre-purchase of tickets which could be bought in certain shops and locally when exploring the area near the hotel, l found a tobacconist.

Next, we needed to understand how to use the tickets. There was no one on the bus who could help so when l tried to scan the tickets and it failed, l gave up.  We had the same issue each day and in the end, the tickets never got used.

The trip to central Rome by bus took about 15 minutes.  In the morning it was reasonably cool and showed us a little of suburban Rome.  We also saw the trams but we would not be able to use them because our hotel not on a direct route.

That first full day we decided to go and see the Vatican.

Not understanding buses and which one we needed to get to the Vatican, we took a taxi.

Wow.  It was the metaphorical equivalent of driving over the edge of a cliff with a daredevil.  It was quite literally terrifying.

Or maybe we just didn’t know that this was probably the way people drove in Rome.

Shaken but delivered in one piece we found ourselves in the square opposite St Peters Basilica.

The square is impressive, with the statues atop a circular colonnaded walkway.  The church is incredible and took a few hours to take in and to top off the day we did a tour of the Vatican museum which took the rest of the afternoon.

Then it was back to the delicatessen for more sandwiches and beer, and an interesting discussion with several elderly Italian ladies, of which I did not understand one word.

On the second full day we decided to use one of the open-top bus tours and eventually decided on the hop-on hop-off tour simply because the bus was at the central transport terminal for trains and buses and it was getting hotter.

Our first stop was the Colosseum.  There were other monuments nearby, such as the Arch of Constantine, but as the heat factor increased we joined the queue to go into the Colosseum and gladly welcomed the shade once we got inside.

The queue was long and the wait equally so, but it was worth the wait.  It would be more interesting if they could restore part of it to its former glory so we could get a sense of the place as it once was.  But alas that may never happen, but even so, it is still magnificent as a ruin.

Outside in the heat, it was off to the ruins which were a longish walk from the Colosseum, taking Via Sacra, not far from the Arch of Constantine.  This day in the walkway there were a number of illegal vendors, selling knockoff goods such as handbags and watches, and who, at the first sight of the police, packed up their wares in a blanket and ran.

Included in these ruins were The Roman Forum, or just a few columns remaining, the Palatine Hill, Imperial Fori, including the Forum of Augustus, the Forum of Caesar, and more specifically the Forum of Trajan.  It was, unfortunately very hot and dusty in the ruins the day we visited.

We walked all the way to the Foro Romano and the Septimus Severo Arch at the other end of the ruins, past the Temple of Caesar.  I found it very difficult to picture what it was like when the buildings were intact, so I bought a guide to the ruins which showed the buildings as ruins and an overlay of how they would have looked.  The buildings, then, would be as amazing as the Colosseum, and it would have been interesting to have lived back then, though perhaps not as a Christian.

I lost count of the number of bottles of water we bought, but the word ‘frizzante’ was ringing in my ears by the end of the day.  Fortunately, the water did not cost a lot to buy.

At the end of the day, we caught the hop on hop off the bus at the Colosseum and decided not to get off and see any more monuments but observe them from the bus.  The only one I remember seeing was Circo Massimo.  Perhaps if we’d known it was going to be twice as hot on the bus, yes, there was no air-conditioning; we may have chosen another form of transport to get back to the hotel.

On the third and last day in Rome, we decided to go to the Trevi Fountain, see the pantheon and walk up the Spanish Steps.  We spent most of the morning in the cool of a café watching the tourists at the fountain.  By the time we reached the top of the Spanish Steps, we were finished.

Is it a problem to get lost in your make-believe world for a while?

It seems that we can be completely focused on a single task to the detriment of all else, and, when that task is complete, suddenly we feel totally drained.

That’s how I feel right now.

The current year is almost half over…  Where did the time go?

All I have to do is get past the publication of my next two books, take some time away from writing, and then I should be invigorated.  Perhaps COVID will have something to do with it because it will be more of the same, rather than a brave new world, we will be counteracting new surges and variations with resultant isolations, so it will be more of a case of head down, tail up, with nowhere to go, no travel to plan, and not able to go anywhere other than the shops, the doctor or the chemist.

This is despite our fearless leaders telling us that COVID is no longer a problem.  Sadly, for people with compromised immune systems, it is, and we are being thrown under the bus for the sake of getting the economy going again.  What are a few lives for the greater good, eh?

And for computer programmers who never leave their semi-darkened lair, ordering pizza and Coke, it must have been a Godsend.

Given that I prefer to be at home, working on any number of stories, it usually is for me too.

But, have I been working too hard, and it’s finally got to me.  I mean, you can only write so much before the brain starts to fry?

But, at the very least. I have been working on the two novels that needed to be completed, and they are finally there, and other than NaNoWriMo which saw another go through the mill I’m still writing a few pages a night, and another two that I have been working on here and there are now ready for the first edit.

This has all happened to the detriment of my episodic stories, which have lain idle since almost a year ago, but in recent weeks I picked up one or two and wrote two or three more episodes, just to keep it ticking over.  Another has five episodes I hope to publish soon.  The last I’ve finally finished and I am feeling pleased with myself.  My editor has it now.

Something else that pleases me, and is entirely unexpected, is that I have sold a number of copies of my books in the last few months or so.  I know I’m not about to be vying for the top of the bestseller list, but it’s still satisfying.

Searching for locations: Arezzo, Italy

There’s nothing like being a few days early or a few days late for a major festival.

We have the dubious honour of being able to do both without thinking. I guess this is why you should try to plan your holiday around events, if possible.

We love Italy.

We’ve been several times, but the last visit was the best. Of course, it was not without a lot of hiccups just getting there, but in the end, later than we expected, actually about five minutes before they closed Florence airport, we made it.

So, little did we know there was such a thing as Calcio Fiorentino an early form of football and rugby that originated in 16th-century Italy and is thought to have started in the Piazza Santa Croce in Florence. But we were in Florence, at the right time, and even got to see the procession through the streets of Florence.

You can read more about the game and rules at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calcio_Fiorentino

We were not so lucky in Siena where we were about a week early for the Palio di Siena which was to take place on 2nd July.

Nor were we in Arezzo at the right time for the Saracen Joust which was held on the penultimate Saturday in June. It is held at the Piazza Grande in the heart of Arezzo and is one of the most beautiful piazzas in Tuscany.

The Piazza Della Liberta and the Town Hall tower

The Piazza Grande, also known as Piazza Vasari, is said to be situated on the site of the ancient Roman Forum.  Here, it is being set up for the coming Joust.

A different view of Arezzo Cathedral | Cattedrale dei Santi Pietro e Donato

An excerpt from “Sunday in New York”

Now available on Amazon at:  https://amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.

We met the Blaine’s at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaine’s frequently visited, and had recommended.

Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’.  It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.

It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over.  It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.

Aside from the half frown half-smile, Alison was looking stunning.  It was months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary.  On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to.  She had adored it, and me, for a week or so after.

For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.

She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars got on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds silence, and many more gasps.

Even I had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room.  Once more I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me.  Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others ‘out there’ who were more appealing.

Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight.  She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.

More than once I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”

Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together.  It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement.  Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.

The battle lines were drawn.

Jimmy was looking fashionable, with the permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it.  Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.

The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out she had straightened it.  And took the moment to look deeply into my soul.  It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.

Then it was gone.

I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me.  A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.

When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.”  It was not a question, but a statement.

I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’ but I accepted it with good grace.  Sometimes Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand.  I guessed she was talking about the new job.  “It was supposed to be a secret.”

She smiled widely.  “There are no secrets between Al and I, are there Al?”

I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.

I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al.  I tried it once and was admonished.  But it was interesting her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not.  It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.

Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil.  As I understood it, the Blaine’s were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in.  I didn’t ask if the Blaine’s thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.

And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realized I was looking at both of them.  I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand.  And yet, apparently, Alison did.  I must have missed the memo.

“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”

No secrets.  Her look conveyed something else entirely.

The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us.  It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me.  We were going to need it.

Then, a toast.

To a new job and a new life.

“When did you decide?”  Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.

Alison had a strange expression on her face.  It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind.  Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.

Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realized it would be churlish, even silly if I made a scene.  I knew what I wanted to say.  I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine, or upsetting Alison.  This was not the time or the place.  Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.

Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing.  If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decide there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control.  “It’s the little things.  They all add up until one day …”  I shrugged.  “I guess that one day was today.”

I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real?  Or; I told you he’d come around.

I had no idea the two were so close.

“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me.  I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points.  It was all I could come up with at short notice.

“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted.  “Alison was off to get some study in with one of her friends.”

“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up, and immediately got the ‘shut up you fool’ look, that cut that line of conversation dead.  Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.

It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose.  Care to join me, Al?”

A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend.  “Yes.”

I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation.  I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.

I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.

There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show.  I was quite literally gob-smacked.

I drained my champagne glass gathering some courage and turned to him.  “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up.  You know Alison is doing her law degree.”

He looked startled when he realized I had spoken.  He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed.  Or perhaps it was deliberate.  She’d definitely had some enhancements done.

He dragged his eyes back to me.  “Yes.  Elaine said something or other about it.  But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week.  Perhaps I got it wrong.  I usually do.”

“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”  I shrugged, as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again.  “This week or next, what does it matter?”

Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart.  It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; it was possible she was now telling me lies.  If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?

We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”

“Trouble, I suspect.  Definitely more money, but less time at home.”

“Oh,” raised eyebrows.  Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details.  “You sure you want to do that?”

At last the voice of reason.  “Me?  No.”

“Yet you accepted the job.”

I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him.  Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him.  “Jimmy, between you and me I haven’t as yet decided one way or another.  To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”

“Barclay?”

“My boss.”

“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay that recently moved in the tower a block down from us.  I thought I recognized the name.”

“How did Elaine get the job?”

“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”

“When?”

“A couple of months ago.  Why?”

I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker.  I felt sick, faint, and wanting to die all at the same moment.  “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time.  Too busy with work I expect.  I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”

I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted and I knew I had to keep it together.  I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down.  I sucked in some deep breaths, and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.

And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown.  Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”

Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth.  It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction.  It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.

When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and I.  I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, it didn’t matter.  If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact I took over the dining engagement did.  She knew well enough the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket.  She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.

But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points.  Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine.  She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.

Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly.  I chose to ignore her, and pretend nothing had happened, instead of telling her how much I was enjoying the evening.

She had her ‘secrets’.  I had mine.

At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me.  It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, Jimmy came looking for me.  I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse.  When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was but neither made any comment.

It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which to a large degree it was for the other three.  But I had achieved what I set out to do, and that was to play them at their own game, watching the deception, once I knew there was a deception, as warily as a cat watches its prey.

I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree.  It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.

We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaine’s back to the Upper West Side.  But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer.  She showed concern for my health, asked me what was wrong.  It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.

She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it.  Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.

And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.

It left me confused and lost.

I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.

And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

Sunday In New York

“The Enemy Within” – the editor’s second draft – Day 11

This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.

And so it begins…

…

Continuing on from yesterday…

…

The mentor is dead, the asset in the field is presumed dead, the agent sent in as backup has been shot at, shot up, and grazed, his baptism under fire.

Now he had to go back home and face the music. That music, of course, is the debriefing, a chore that can take many forms depending on what the interrogators are after.

But analysing the operation through each of the events causes our new agent to question what really happened because things just don’t add up. The line of questioning…

Well, that’s going to be a new part of the story, which feeds into later chapters.

Of course, debriefings are really another name for labelling blame, and you guessed it, who’s the sitting suck?

So much for the budding career in intelligence.

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

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!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.