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 them.
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!
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.
…
In a cave, Nadia is a surprise
…
Now the helicopter had gone, the sounds of the sea had returned, along with the muffled sound of the wind which had picked up, along with swirling clouds that looked like they would be bringing rain. I’d heard how the weather could change suddenly, and dangerously along this coastline.
I saw the lightning, and a minute or so later, the cracking of thunder. We were about to get very wet.
‘Look for the big A’. It had been there, heavily underscored in Ormiston’s notebooks. It had also been on the cliff face, crudely, but there.
“We need to go,” I heard Nadia say, over the ambient noise all around us.
Her words were being swept away by the wind, and I could barely hear her.
Another glance up at the cliff to confirm what I’d seen, and, yes, it was a big A, I went over to her.
“We can’t outrun it. And it will be treacherous on those rocks in a downpour.”
“We also have the tide to contend with.”
I could see the high-water line, and it didn’t leave much to the imagination. We needed higher ground. It was one of those situations where we might get caught by the tide. It was a pity there wasn’t room for two of us on the helicopter.
Back the way we’d come I remembered seeing an outcrop that looked like it might provide shelter from the rain. “We should go, there’s a spot a way back that might save us from getting too wet.”
It was about a hundred yards, not far from where the shore rocks started and would require climbing back up. At the very least, we could stay there until the tide dropped. We collected the metal detectors and made it to the base of the rocky outcrop just as the first drops of rain fell.
The overhang I’d seen turned out to be a shallow cave, going back into the rockface about 10 yards or so, carved out by the sea over a very long period.
Then the rain came, so heavy, we could not see through it. Every few minutes a gust of wind blew water into the cave, but standing back from the entrance basically kept us dry.
Nadia sat down and looked despondent. I’d never seen her like this, she was normally more cheerful.
I took a few minutes to explore inside using the torchlight on my phone. I could see the layers of sandstone compressed over the years, and if I had remembered more from the geology part of science at school I might have been able to make sense of it. Was I hoping for fossils, like from long-extinct dinosaurs?
Or perhaps I could imagine this was the entrance to Aladdin’s cave, also reputed to have hidden treasures, and briefly wondered if I’d found a lantern with a genie, what my three wishes might be?
“They’re only walls, Sam.” Nadia had come silently up behind me, and was just behind my left shoulder, the sound of her voice so near startling me.
Also noted, when my potential heart attack passed, she called me Sam, not Smidge. I was not going to write anything into it, she didn’t seem herself.
“You never know. If I say open sesame, or whatever the password is…”
It sounded lame.
I could hear rather than see her shake her head.
“What do you think Boggs was doing climbing up or down that particular rockface, and for that matter, poking around The Grove?”
I turned around to look at her. If I didn’t know her better, I might have said there was at that moment an angelic quality about her. It only reinforced the notion that she was very much out of my league, and whatever we seemed to have going, it was more in my head than hers.
“I think you can make as educated a guess as I can.”
“He thinks the treasure is here?”
“Somewhere in The Grove, yes. His approach might have been different from ours, but the conclusion is the same.”
“We didn’t find anything.”
“That doesn’t mean it didn’t come ashore somewhere near here, or somewhere along the coast despite the reefs because they might have once been navigable in an abnormally high tide. And those coins found near the old marina tells me that they landed somewhere there, but it was not the final resting place.”
I was going to say anything was possible.
“I can assure you my father and his cronies spent years turning over this whole property, one way or another, and found nothing.”
I believed her. Had he not won the bidding war for the property, sold by the remaining Ormiston’s to settle the debts racked up by successive treasure hunts, Benderby, or anyone else for that matter, would have done the same. Everyone was aware of the obsession, and the possibility of making a fortune.
But, my money was on the fact it was in The Grove, somewhere. The question was, would I be completely honest with her?
When I didn’t say anything, she added, “you think it’s still here, don’t you?”
I shrugged. “Why else would Boggs be here? I’m sure his deductions from the resources he has, and I’m sure he hadn’t told me everything for obvious reasons, told him when all else has been eliminated, the last possibility however improbable must be true.”
“Occam’s razor?”
“Ish. When we can get back to the cabin, I’ll go and see him, see what he has to say. If he wants to see me, that is.”
I could see her processing what I just said, and thought perhaps I could have said it better.
“He doesn’t trust you because of me?”
Again I shrugged. “I got that impression when I last spoke to him. I don’t think he quite understands the nature of our friendship. I’m assuming that’s what it is because I’m hardly the sort of boy your parents would consider suitable for you.”
“My parents have no idea what I want or care about. It’s why I left.”
“Why did you come back then?”
“My mother said she had cancer and wasn’t expected to live.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was a lie. Their whole life is a lie. I’ve always known about the family, I just chose to ignore it, even bask in some of the glory of it, until it got a friend of mine killed. Vince did it, I know he did, but they all lied. It’s just one of many reasons I wanted to getaway. I was going to go back to Italy until you popped up. I always liked you, you know.”
I didn’t. I thought I was just another pawn in a game of terror and ridicule she played on all of us boys.
“You had a funny way of showing it.”
“I was stupid back then, but that was no excuse. If it’s any consolation I’m sorry, but words never seem to be enough, and besides that, no one I’ve apologized to really believes me, and I get it. My name is a curse. That’s why when I go back I’m going to disappear, a whole change of identity. That’s how much I trust you, Sam, you’re the only one I’ve told.”
“You shouldn’t tell me anything. I’m sure if you disappear, I’ll be the first one your family will come after.”
I didn’t need to know, I certainly didn’t want to know. If she did disappear, I’m sure my doorstep would be the Cossatino’s first stop, and I’d easily fold under pressure.
“Maybe you could come with me, then you wouldn’t have to worry about them.”
Perhaps she could read my mind. Even so, it was an interesting thought, not that I could just up and leave my mother, or worry the Cossatino’s would come after her if I went missing.
“I don’t speak Italian.” Lame excuse.
“I could teach you. We could work in the vineyard, and live a simple life.”
It was hard to tell if she was serious or not. I had to think she wasn’t. I don’t think I could handle someone like her, that anyone could.
An invitation that sounds so innocuous, doesn’t it?
As accomplished as we can be at putting words on paper, what is it that makes it so difficult to sit in a chair with a camera on you, and saying words rather than writing them?
Er and um seem to crop up a lot in verbal speech.
OK, it was a simple question; “What motivates you to write?”
Damn.
My brain just turned to mush, and the words come out sounding like a drunken sailor after a night out on the town.
The written answer to the question is simple; “The idea that someone will read what I have written, and quite possibly enjoy it; that is motivation enough.”
It highlights the difficulties of the novice author.
Not only are there the constant demands of creating a ‘brand’ and building a ‘following’, but there is also the need to market oneself, and the interview is one of the more effective ways of doing this.
If only I can settle the nerves.
I mean, really, it is only my granddaughter who is conducting the interview, and the questions are relatively simple.
The trouble is, I’ve never had to do it before, well, perhaps in an interview for a job, but that is less daunting. Those usually stick to a predefined format.
Here the narrative can go in any direction. There are set questions, but the interviewer, in her inimitable manner, can sometimes slide a question in out of left field.
For instance, “Your character Zoe the assassin, is she based on someone you know, or an amalgam of other characters you’ve read about or seen in movies?”
That was an interesting question, and one that has several answers, but the one most relevant was; “It was the secret alter ego of one of the women I used to work with. I asked her one day if she wasn’t doing what she was, what she would like to do. And, surprisingly, I thought she would have made an excellent assassin, the last person you would expect.”
Of course, the next question was about what I wanted to be in an alter ego.
The Fear You Feel When You Write, It’s Normal: Embracing the Wisdom of Marguerite Duras
Every writer knows the moment.
The cursor blinks relentlessly on a blank, stark-white screen. The room is quiet, perhaps too quiet. Your chest tightens, a familiar knot twists in your stomach, and a voice whispers: This is terrible. Who do you think you are? You have nothing to say.
If you have ever felt this paralysing wave of anxiety before putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), take a deep breath. You are not failing as a writer; you are simply doing the work.
As the legendary French novelist and filmmaker Marguerite Duras famously observed, the fear you feel when you write is not a sign to stop. It is normal.
Let’s unpack this profound truth and explore why fear is actually the secret companion of every great writer.
Who Was Marguerite Duras and Why Did She Understand Writing’s Terror?
Marguerite Duras was a literary force of nature. Best known for her autobiographical novel The Lover (which won the prestigious Prix Goncourt), Duras wrote with a raw, uncompromising intensity that cut straight to the human soul. She didn’t write polite stories; she wrote about obsession, desire, memory, and the dark corners of the human psyche.
Because she mined such deep, vulnerable territory, Duras understood the cost of creation. She knew that to write authentically, one must court vulnerability. And vulnerability is terrifying.
Duras famously spoke about the solitude and the terror of the writing life. She suggested that writing is not a gentle hobby or a neat profession; it is an expedition into the unknown. When you sit down to write, you are venturing into a territory that does not yet exist, dragging ideas out of the ether and forcing them into reality. Of course it’s scary.
Why Does Writing Actually Scare Us?
If we want to overcome writing anxiety, we first have to understand its roots. Why does a harmless activity like arranging words on a page trigger a fight-or-flight response?
1. The Gap Between Taste and Talent
As Ira Glass famously noted, beginners (and even seasoned pros) suffer from a cruel paradox: our taste is refined enough to know when something isn’t working, but our execution often falls short of our vision. That gap—between the masterpiece in your head and the messy draft on your screen—is where fear lives.
2. The Fear of Exposure
Writing is an act of self-revelation. Even in fiction or copywriting, your worldview, your obsessions, and your fears bleed onto the page. To share your writing with the world is to stand naked in public. What if they judge you? What if they misunderstand you? What if they simply don’t care?
3. Confronting the Unknown
Unlike math or accounting, writing doesn’t have a definitive formula. When you start a piece, you rarely know exactly where it will end. You are stepping into a fog, trusting that the path will appear as you walk it. The human brain hates uncertainty, and it interprets that blank page as a survival threat.
How to Make Friends with Your Writing Fear
If fear is a normal, permanent resident of the writer’s house, how do we coexist with it? How do we write through the terror instead of running away from it?
1. Stop Waiting to Feel Confident
Many aspiring writers make the fatal mistake of waiting for the fear to go away before they start writing. They wait for inspiration, for the “right mood,” or for unshakeable confidence.
It never comes.
Professional writers don’t feel less fear than amateurs; they simply’ve learned to act in spite of it. As Duras understood, the fear is part of the process. Expect it. Greet it when you sit down at your desk: Ah, hello anxiety, I see you’re here. Let’s write anyway.
2. Lower the Stakes (Lower the Bar)
Perfectionism is fear in a fancy tuxedo. We get terrified because we put immense pressure on every single sentence to be brilliant.
Give yourself permission to write badly. As legendary humorist James Thurber put it: “Don’t get it right, get it written.” Your first draft is merely you telling the story to yourself. No one else has to see the mess.
3. Lean Into the Discomfort
If you feel a little sick to your stomach or nervous about a passage you are writing, pay attention. That discomfort is often a compass pointing directly toward truth. If a sentence makes you squirm, it usually means you’re touching on something real, raw, and powerful. Lean into it.
The Ultimate Takeaway
Writing is an act of courage. Every time you face the blank page and refuse to look away, you are engaging in a brave act of creation.
The next time that familiar knot forms in your stomach, remember the words and the spirit of Marguerite Duras. Remind yourself that the fear doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong; it means you’re doing it right. It means you care. It means you are treading on sacred, uncharted ground.
So, feel the fear. Acknowledge it. And then, open your document and type that first sentence anyway.
Are you struggling with writer’s block or creative fear? How do you push past the blank page anxiety? Let’s discuss in the comments below!
It would be very interesting if duelling was still allowed. There are a few people I’d like to stand toe to toe with, take ten paces, and then test my ability to shoot with an old-style flint duelling pistol.
What’s this got to do with anything?
It’s where our word of the day comes in. If I lose my nerve, or I know my opposite number is a better shot, my second would have to stand in my place.
It’s, if anything, an older use of the word.
Of course, it mainly means, on one hand, coming second in a race or a competition, not exactly the place you really want to be, simply because no one really remembers who came second.
It plays host to a plethora of statements using second as part of the saying, such as,
Second rate, second hand, even if it had more than one owner, second best.
But then there’s a few more that mean something else like a second look, mainly because you didn’t trust your eyes, second nature, it’s been drilled into you (a rather painful idiom if it truly was) and second sight, though this might not necessarily be a verifiable attribute.
And, of lesser note, I’m not necessarily sure I’m second to none.
On the other hand, and pardon the pun using this definition, it also describes a length of time, very short in fact, and it takes 60 of them to make a minute.
Hang on, it’ll only take a second. Yes, we often use the word in vain. I doubt there is any one of us who could do anything useful in a second.
John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.
Suddenly, he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.
If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.
At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.
That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.
Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.
The Fear You Feel When You Write, It’s Normal: Embracing the Wisdom of Marguerite Duras
Every writer knows the moment.
The cursor blinks relentlessly on a blank, stark-white screen. The room is quiet, perhaps too quiet. Your chest tightens, a familiar knot twists in your stomach, and a voice whispers: This is terrible. Who do you think you are? You have nothing to say.
If you have ever felt this paralysing wave of anxiety before putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), take a deep breath. You are not failing as a writer; you are simply doing the work.
As the legendary French novelist and filmmaker Marguerite Duras famously observed, the fear you feel when you write is not a sign to stop. It is normal.
Let’s unpack this profound truth and explore why fear is actually the secret companion of every great writer.
Who Was Marguerite Duras and Why Did She Understand Writing’s Terror?
Marguerite Duras was a literary force of nature. Best known for her autobiographical novel The Lover (which won the prestigious Prix Goncourt), Duras wrote with a raw, uncompromising intensity that cut straight to the human soul. She didn’t write polite stories; she wrote about obsession, desire, memory, and the dark corners of the human psyche.
Because she mined such deep, vulnerable territory, Duras understood the cost of creation. She knew that to write authentically, one must court vulnerability. And vulnerability is terrifying.
Duras famously spoke about the solitude and the terror of the writing life. She suggested that writing is not a gentle hobby or a neat profession; it is an expedition into the unknown. When you sit down to write, you are venturing into a territory that does not yet exist, dragging ideas out of the ether and forcing them into reality. Of course it’s scary.
Why Does Writing Actually Scare Us?
If we want to overcome writing anxiety, we first have to understand its roots. Why does a harmless activity like arranging words on a page trigger a fight-or-flight response?
1. The Gap Between Taste and Talent
As Ira Glass famously noted, beginners (and even seasoned pros) suffer from a cruel paradox: our taste is refined enough to know when something isn’t working, but our execution often falls short of our vision. That gap—between the masterpiece in your head and the messy draft on your screen—is where fear lives.
2. The Fear of Exposure
Writing is an act of self-revelation. Even in fiction or copywriting, your worldview, your obsessions, and your fears bleed onto the page. To share your writing with the world is to stand naked in public. What if they judge you? What if they misunderstand you? What if they simply don’t care?
3. Confronting the Unknown
Unlike math or accounting, writing doesn’t have a definitive formula. When you start a piece, you rarely know exactly where it will end. You are stepping into a fog, trusting that the path will appear as you walk it. The human brain hates uncertainty, and it interprets that blank page as a survival threat.
How to Make Friends with Your Writing Fear
If fear is a normal, permanent resident of the writer’s house, how do we coexist with it? How do we write through the terror instead of running away from it?
1. Stop Waiting to Feel Confident
Many aspiring writers make the fatal mistake of waiting for the fear to go away before they start writing. They wait for inspiration, for the “right mood,” or for unshakeable confidence.
It never comes.
Professional writers don’t feel less fear than amateurs; they simply’ve learned to act in spite of it. As Duras understood, the fear is part of the process. Expect it. Greet it when you sit down at your desk: Ah, hello anxiety, I see you’re here. Let’s write anyway.
2. Lower the Stakes (Lower the Bar)
Perfectionism is fear in a fancy tuxedo. We get terrified because we put immense pressure on every single sentence to be brilliant.
Give yourself permission to write badly. As legendary humorist James Thurber put it: “Don’t get it right, get it written.” Your first draft is merely you telling the story to yourself. No one else has to see the mess.
3. Lean Into the Discomfort
If you feel a little sick to your stomach or nervous about a passage you are writing, pay attention. That discomfort is often a compass pointing directly toward truth. If a sentence makes you squirm, it usually means you’re touching on something real, raw, and powerful. Lean into it.
The Ultimate Takeaway
Writing is an act of courage. Every time you face the blank page and refuse to look away, you are engaging in a brave act of creation.
The next time that familiar knot forms in your stomach, remember the words and the spirit of Marguerite Duras. Remind yourself that the fear doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong; it means you’re doing it right. It means you care. It means you are treading on sacred, uncharted ground.
So, feel the fear. Acknowledge it. And then, open your document and type that first sentence anyway.
Are you struggling with writer’s block or creative fear? How do you push past the blank page anxiety? Let’s discuss in the comments below!
It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.
On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.
She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.
It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.
I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.
When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.
“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”
“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”
It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”
“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”
It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”
Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”
Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?
“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.
“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”
“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”
And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.
She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”
“Yes, please.”
Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.
I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.
There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.
This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.
It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.
There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.
But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.
Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.
I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.
And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.
At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.
Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.
When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.
It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.
She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.
Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.
Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”
Maria nodded and left.
“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”
My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.
“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”
“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”
“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”
An apology was the last thing I expected.
“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”
“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.
“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”
It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.
Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”
“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”
“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”
That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”
“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”
“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”
“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”
“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”
I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.
Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.
She stood. “Last chance.”
“Forever?”
She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”
I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”
She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”
That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Was I working for a ghost?
Training sometimes was one of those things that went in one ear and came out the other. That accounted for the boring bits, but our instructors called it tradecraft.
I guess I should have taken more notice at the time.
Home was a bedsit in Bloomsbury, Not far from the Russell Square underground station, on the ground floor overlooking the small park. Sometimes, in summer I would sit there and watch the world go by, thinking there had to be more to life than waiting for an opportunity.
To do what, at the time, I didn’t know. But, when this opportunity presented itself, oddly as a rather strange ad in the help wanted pages of the newspaper, I guess the people who put it there were looking for the curious sort, with a sense of adventure.
My first impression of the job was that of a courier who would be required to travel a lot. It said, in part, “must be prepared to travel to different locations worldwide, understand the requirement of confidentiality, and must be able to respond to emergencies that might occur in the carrying out of your duties.”
To me, it spelled courier, though I rather hoped it wasn’t the briefcase handcuffed to a wrist sort and no guns.
After the first interview, I think I had guessed correctly, though, in subsequent training, the word tradecraft put a slightly different slant to the job. That, and the surveillance module, sold to us as “you need to know if you are being followed, recognise hostiles, and be able to deal with them.”
But, it was the notion that we should get out of any habits we had, those that made us predictable to an enemy, yes, they actually used the word, enemy. Like for instance, if we caught the same train, or bus, into the city. If we went to the same cafe for coffee, restaurant for lunch or dinner, met people in a pub on the same day, same time, each week.
Before all this, I found comfort in a regular schedule. I hated being late, except when the transport system let me down. I had a regular stop off on the way to the office for coffee, and usually went to the same cafe for lunch at the same time.
Inevitably I would leave home at the same time and quite often return home at the same time. OK, I was boring and predictable. Now it was a little different, with some variation in departure and arrival times, as well as the places I stopped for coffee, and lunch or dinner.
This day I was very late, after dark in fact, getting back to the flat.
I went in after checking for mail, not that anyone ever sent letters these days, unlocked my door, went in and switched on the light.
The whole of the living space had been trashed. Well, more to the point, someone had checked everywhere it was possible to hide anything, which I didn’t, and hadn’t bothered cleaning up after them.
Had they been interrupted?
If that had happened the landlady would be down in a flash the moment I walked in the door, not to commiserate on my bad luck, but to issue me with an eviction notice. Very little was tolerated in her establishment.
That she hadn’t told me that whoever did this had done it very quietly, and without anyone knowing. We had been taught the same procedures which is why I recognised the signs. This had to be done by my previous employers. The only question I had was why?
I had nothing they could possibly want.
I took a few minutes to clean up the mess so that instead of a thorough trashing, it just looked like the aftermath of a wild party, then went out to get a coffee and think about why this had happened.
Not far up the road was a cafe I went to for dinner if I wasn’t doing something else, and, lo and behold, the minute I walked in the door, there was Severin, sitting at the back half disguised by the evening newspaper.
Obviously, he’d been waiting for me.
Yes, now I understood the implications of being someone who did the same thing over and over.
There was no mistaking the invitation, and, after briefly considering ignoring him, realised that was not going to work. After seeing what happened to O’Connor at their hand, I didn’t want to join him.
I sat down. “I have to say this is an unexpected surprise.”
He put the paper down. “For both of us, I can assure you. I’ll get straight to the point. I want the USB.”
“What USB?”
“That your target was carrying, it wasn’t on him, so by elimination, not being anywhere at the crime scene, you must have it. He either gave it to you, or you took it from him. Where is it?”
I took a minute to process what he was saying. I had not seen a USB, not had he given me one, not was there one nearby. I would have seen it. No need to pretend to be surprised. I was.
“I haven’t got it.”
“He didn’t give you anything?”
“How could he, you were there just about the same time as I was. And after you shot him, he had nothing on him. Whatever you’re looking for, it must still be in the alley, or he hid it somewhere else. And since you shot him, I doubt whether you’ll ever find out.”
He shook his head and folded his paper. “If you’ve got it we’ll find out. and it will not bode well for you. And if you accidentally find it, here’s my card. Call me.”
He dropped a card on the table as he got up.
I picked it up just as he stopped and turned to give me a last look before walking out the door. There was no mistaking the intent, if they thought I had it, I’d be dead now.”
And it meant that the evidence O’Conner was referring to was on a USB. All I had to do was find it. Or Nobbin did.
Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?
…
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledgedthat something had happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive, she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realises is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 