Ever had an itch you can’t scratch; that’s a part of what you’ve written, you have reservations, and you’re not sure what to write in its place.
For a few days now the start, or maybe the end, has been swirling around in my head. To be honest, I don’t like the start, and I can’t get a feel for it. I have about five different starting points, but none of them feels right.
I’ve been thinking of writing it from John’s perspective, but there are so many peripheral characters that need to be drawn in, people he doesn’t really know much about, or some who have a vested interest in his current girlfriend if she could be called that.
So I thought I’d throw a few words down and see how they sit:
…
You would not know by looking at MaryAnne that she was probably one of the best assassins in the world. You would be more inclined to consider she was just another spoilt American brat on the loose on holiday.
She was certainly one of the most beautiful women I’d ever met.
And she was certainly one of the most deadly. I could personally attest to that having seen her in action.
I could also attest to the fact that somewhere under that hard, conscienceless exterior, there was a heart, and sometimes it was visible. After all, I was a target, her target, once, and I’m still alive thanks to her.
It was a small detail I omitted when I introduced her to my parents, but that was one little step on a long road that I thought was going somewhere.
Perhaps, after all this time, I’d misinterpreted the signs, and I was wrong.
We were sitting on the balcony of our hotel room on the 45th floor of the hotel we were staying in downtown Surfer’s Paradise, a mecca for holidaymakers from the rest of Australia, and overseas.
It was perfect for tourists.
The champagne was cold, and although it was a hot 35 degrees Celsius out in the sunlight, the mood on the balcony was as decidedly cool as the champagne.
Today was the six-month anniversary of the first day we had spent together as, well, I was not sure, now, what we were.
She turned to look at me. She was nothing like the Zoe of old, and I had finally gotten used to Mary Anne. It was an amazing transformation, but with it, I had thought she had finally shrugged off the Zoe persona.
She hadn’t. That hardened expression that I had hoped would be gone forever, had returned.
“It’s time to go back home, John.”
It was also that tone, the one when she spoke, that sent shivers down my spine, not the good shivers, but the one that told me trouble was ahead. Deadly trouble.
“I need to do something. Don’t get me wrong, this had been a delightful rest, and I could not ask for a better companion, but it is time. We both knew this was going to happen.”
I noticed her features had softened a little when she mentioned my name, but the message was the same. We had talked about this moment at the outset. There was always going to be a use-by date on this adventure, for me at least.
It was also the time when she would, she said, decide where I would fit, if I fitted, in her future. When we originally spoke about it, she was still unsure of her feelings towards me. Over time, I had also hoped that they would be the same as mine for her.
Perhaps I had been expecting too much.
“When did you decide?”
“About thirty seconds ago. That’s when I realized it doesn’t matter where we are in the world, I still want to be with you. So, how do you like the idea of going into the assassination business?”
…
I’m not sure what John might think of this development, but I think you will agree with me, so long as he is with Zoe, he’s happy.
Huka Falls is located in the Wairakei Tourist Park about five minutes north of Taupo on the north island of New Zealand.
The Waikato River heading towards the gorge
The water heading down the gorge, gathering pace
until it crashes over the top of the waterfall at the rate of about 220,000 liters per second. It also makes a very loud noise, so that when you are close to it, hearing anything but the falls is impossible.
Well, when they too have the rug pulled out from under them, how much can they do?
Her best friend and fellow founding member of the charity, recently but no longer CEO, due to the new Chairman who had taken over during our main character’s incapacity, had been visiting her friend in hospital and relating the day-to-day events that had turned the running of their organisation into what she calls a circus
I’m going to give her a daughter who is a tenacious reporter and set her on the trail of a conspiracy, that of the so-called benevolent charities and the shady characters that manage to attach themselves to what she will call the charitable gravy train.
She also is the product of that echelon of people who are upper-class nobility, having resented from a young age being called Lady So and So, going to the privileged schools and being treated differently.
She is the rebel against her birthright, her parents, and everything they stand for.
And yet, as she gets older and sees the worth of those connections, those she had so willingly trashed for the sake of getting an editor to take her seriously, it’s going to be a tricky line she will have to walk if she is going to help her mother.
Perhaps her parents were not the monsters she believed they were.
McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.
He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.
There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.
This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.
I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.
In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.
The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.
With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.
A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.
“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.
He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.
“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.
While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.
“What’s the current situation?”
“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”
He looked in my direction.
“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.
“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”
McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.
“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”
It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.
The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.
In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.
I was hoping for the latter.
I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.
“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.
“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”
I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”
He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”
Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”
“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.
Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.
A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.
Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.
It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.
The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.
It was nerves more than the cold.
I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.
It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.
It added to the tension.
My plan was still to enter by the back door.
We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.
The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.
He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.
A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”
She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.
“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.
Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.
The fear factor increased exponentially.
I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?
Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.
At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.
To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.
We needed a distraction.
As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.
They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.
By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.
I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.
I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.
But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.
It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.
I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.
Mount Ngauruhoe is apparently still an active volcano, has been for 2,500 years or so, and last erupted on 19th February 1975, and reportedly has erupted around 70 times since 1839.
The mountain is usually climbed from the western side, from the Mangatepopo track.
This photo was taken in summer from the Chateau Tongariro carpark.
In late autumn, on one of our many visits to the area, the mountain was covered with a light sprinkling of snow and ice.
On our most recent visit, this year, in winter, it was fully covered in snow.
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And, the story:
Have you ever watched your hopes and dreams simply just fly away?
Everything I thought I wanted and needed had just left in an aeroplane, and although I said I was not going to, i came to the airport to see the plane leave. Not the person on it, that would have been far too difficult and emotional, but perhaps it was symbolic, the end of one life and the start of another.
But no matter what I thought or felt, we had both come to the right decision. She needed the opportunity to spread her wings. It was probably not the best idea for her to apply for the job without telling me, but I understood her reasons.
She was in a rut. Though her job was a very good one, it was not as demanding as she had expected, particularly after the last promotion, but with it came resentment from others on her level, that she, the youngest of the group would get the position.
It was something that had been weighing down of her for the last three months, and if noticed it, the late nights, the moodiness, sometimes a flash of temper. I knew she had one, no one could have such red hair and not, but she had always kept it in check.
And, then there was us, together, and after seven years, it felt like we were going nowhere. Perhaps that was down to my lack of ambition, and though she never said it, lack of sophistication. It hadn’t been an issue, well, not until her last promotion, and the fact she had to entertain more, and frankly I felt like an embarrassment to her.
So, there it was, three days ago, the beginning of the weekend, and we had planned to go away for a few days and take stock. We both acknowledged we needed to talk, but it never seemed the right time.
It was then she said she had quit her job and found a new one. Starting the following Monday.
Ok, that took me by surprise, not so much that it something I sort of guessed might happen, but that she would just blurt it out.
I think that right then, at that moment, I could feel her frustration with everything around her.
What surprised her was my reaction. None.
I simply asked where who, and when.
A world-class newspaper, in New York, and she had to be there in a week.
A week.
It was all the time I had left with her.
I remember I just shrugged and asked if the planned weekend away was off.
She stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, hands around a cup of coffee she had just poured, and that one thing I remembered was the lone tear that ran down her cheek.
Is that all you want to know?
I did, yes, but we had lost that intimacy we used to have when she would have told me what was happening, and we would have brainstormed solutions. I might be a cabinet maker but I still had a brain, was what I overheard her tell a friend once.
There’s not much to ask, I said. You’ve been desperately unhappy and haven’t been able to hide it all that well, you have been under a lot of pressure trying to deal with a group of troglodytes, and you’ve been leaning on Bentley’s shoulder instead of mine, and I get it, he’s got more experience in that place, and the politics that go with it, and is still an ally.
Her immediate superior and instrumental in her getting the position, but unlike some men in his position he had not taken advantage of a situation like some men would. And even if she had made a move, which I doubted, that was not the sort of woman she was, he would have politely declined.
One of the very few happily married men in that organisation, so I heard.
So, she said, you’re not just a pretty face.
Par for the course for a cabinet maker whose university degree is in psychology. It doesn’t take rocket science to see what was happening to you. I just didn’t think it was my place to jump in unless you asked me, and when you didn’t, well, that told me everything I needed to know.
Yes, our relationship had a use by date, and it was in the next few days.
I was thinking, she said, that you might come with me, you can make cabinets anywhere.
I could, but I think the real problem wasn’t just the job. It was everything around her and going with her, that would just be a constant reminder of what had been holding her back. I didn’t want that for her and said so.
Then the only question left was, what do we do now?
Go shopping for suitcases. Bags to pack, and places to go.
Getting on the roller coaster is easy. On the beginning, it’s a slow easy ride, followed by the slow climb to the top. It’s much like some relationships, they start out easy, they require a little work to get to the next level, follows by the adrenaline rush when it all comes together.
What most people forget is that what comes down must go back up, and life is pretty much a roller coaster with highs and lows.
Our roller coaster had just come or of the final turn and we were braking so that it stops at the station.
There was no question of going with her to New York. Yes, I promised I’d come over and visit her, but that was a promise with crossed fingers behind my back. After a few months in t the new job the last thing shed want was a reminder of what she left behind. New friends new life.
We packed her bags, three out everything she didn’t want, a free trips to the op shop with stiff she knew others would like to have, and basically, by the time she was ready to go, there was nothing left of her in the apartment, or anywhere.
Her friends would be seeing her off at the airport, and that’s when I told her I was not coming, that moment the taxi arrived to take her away forever. I remember standing there, watching the taxi go. It was going to be, and was, as hard as it was to watch the plane leave.
So, there I was, finally staring at the blank sky, around me a dozen other plane spotters, a rather motley crew of plane enthusiasts.
Already that morning there’s been 6 different types of plane depart, and I could hear another winding up its engines for take-off.
People coming, people going.
Maybe I would go to New York in a couple of months, not to see her, but just see what the attraction was. Or maybe I would drop in, just to see how she was.
As one of my friends told me when I gave him the news, the future is never written in stone, and it’s about time you broadened your horizons.
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.
…
In a day of going over old ground and making it new again, I have revisited Zoe’s residence in Paris at the time John called, and found it empty, except for some kid who was all ‘get lost or suffer the consequences.’
Who is he? We flesh that story out, and how it relates to Zoe and those early days in the story.
Similarly, I’m not happy still with how Worthington discovers Zoe, and this is going to need some more work, and definitely a rewrite.
In fact, I might have to revisit his whole appearance in the story and make it a little less bombastic and a little more subdued seething anger.
The whole Marseilles episode is good, it’s just the end and this discovery of who is behind Zoe’s abduction that needs a little work. This is where we sow the enigmatic sees of Romanov and his purpose for wanting Zoe if it is not revenge like it is assumed.
Similarly, that whole thing with the Russian Minister and Anton needs a lot more work because there appears to be a connection between him and Romanov, but there’s not. This is just Olga leaning on her connections to get a result.
Then Zoe takes off to find Romanov, or is it those seeking revenge, it’s not quite clear, and leaves John to contemplate his future. Perhaps a piece here between them that sets the tone for the relationship over the coming months would be good, and the trigger that sets John off on a quest to find her.
His excuses at the moment are wishy-washy at best.
Phew!!! Never knew self-criticism could be so harsh!
…
Today’s writing, with Zoe languishing in a dungeon waiting for a white knight, 0 words, for a total of 8,871.
It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.
John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.
So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?
That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.
What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.
He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.
The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.
All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.
Which, unfortunately, I do not have a lot of in my step.
At last, we have reached the end of the alphabet because I’m running out of zip to write these blogs.
So…
Zip is the sing, the energy, the spring we have in our step, that usually gets us from a to b quickly. Without this zest, we would need to take a bus, train, or cab.
Then comes the variations like …
Zip code, we all have one of these, though in some countries it is called a postcode.
Zip it up, meaning do not speak, especially if you’re about to spill a secret.
A zip, which is a part of some types of clothing, usually in trousers, jeans, and skirts to name a few. Some dresses have long zips, some short, all seem to get tangled at one time or another, or, in the most embarrassing of situations, split.
Then there is a colloquial use of the word zip, meaning nothing, zilch, zero, in other words, a basis for of z words.
And that’s about as much zeal I’m going to show for writing this blog, and I’m going to close the book on it.
Like many who endured their school years with one endgame in mind, to get as far away as possible from those and the people in it, as soon as I completed high school, I was going to be on the first bus out.
Unlike others, there was nothing to keep in there, my father had died in the last year and my mother had moved on to a new family, and it was evident in not so many words that I was not welcome to stay.
Nor were there very many employment opportunities because like many other rural towns and cities, unless you were from an agricultural background, a tradesman, or simply wanted a dead-end job, there was little reason to stay.
Of course, there was always one minor hiccup in what could have been a perfect getaway.
Mine was called Francine Macallister.
We became friends in elementary school, not by choice but from being thrown together by circumstances. Her parents had died in a car crash when she was twelve, and my mother, being a close friend of the family, took her in rather than let her be taken into foster care.
As an only child, I hated the fact that I had to share my parents’ affection, and then when it seemed she was given more consideration. When we argued or fought, it was always my fault. It seemed to me that after a while, they liked her more than me.
It was like having a real sister, and I hated her. She was popular with the boys and often found ways to make my life difficult, and on several occasions found myself in a fight which I preferred not to be involved. All it did was reinforce my resolve to get on that bus.
That decision to leave was not made in haste, nor was I making a leap into the unknown.
For several years, I had worked several jobs to save every cent I could because I knew I was going to need a stake in case I could not immediately find work. I had a room lined up where I was going to stay until something better came up.
I told no one of my intentions because I didn’t want to explain why I was going, which I thought was obvious, or where I was going. But there were people I had to deal with, and this was a small enough town for everyone to know everyone else’s business if they were that curious.
I didn’t think anyone would care
Then, finally, school was over. I woke up that Monday morning, knowing that within hours, I would be out of this house forever. All I had to do was contain my excitement.
I had already packed my travel bag and left it at the bus depot several days before. When I left, it would be as if I was going down to the library to study up on work opportunities in the area, a routine I had maintained over several weeks, mostly to get out of the house, and to keep away from Francine and her friends.
At the end of the school year, everyone was home and in the dining room. Only recently, my mother had begun a relationship with another man, a widower with three children under 10 of his own, which she seemed to end up caring for. They were as snarky as Francine, and it forced me to move up my plans to leave.
With any luck, it was going to be the last time I saw any of them again.
Francine was dressed, ready to go out, and was eating some vegan cereal, having decided not to eat meat, and looked up as I came into the room. I saw the others and stopped.
“You’re up late,” she said.
I wanted to be fully rested for what lay ahead. “No need to get up until I get a job.”
“Not considering going to college?”
I’d been told there was no money for me to go to college a year or so ago and decided that I’d probably never be in a position to go. “No. Grades weren’t good enough. Probably should have studied harder.”
My mother glared at me. “That’s because you’re as useless as your father. The quicker you get a job and can pay your way, the better.”
Thanks for the compliment, Mom.
“Exactly my thoughts. I’m working on it.”
Francine took her plate to the sink and then came back. “I can see you’re off to the library. Mind if I come with you?”
It was the last thing I wanted. She’d never bothered before, and it set off alarm bells. And that expression on her face, she was up to something.
“Why?” It came out blunter than I intended.
“Why not?”
“You’re not interested in getting a job. Didn’t you say you were going to college?”
She was only going because her current boyfriend, Bradley Scott, the eldest son of the town’s hardware and agricultural machinery dealership owner, the richest family in town, was going, and she was joining him. There was only one problem, funding.
“I might. Bradley’s going, and he wanted me to go too.”
“Then perhaps you should be looking into college life rather than pestering me.”
“But I like pestering you.”
“Take your sister with you, Sam, and stop being an ass.”
“I hate to break it to you Mom, she’s not my sister. Never was, and never will be. And as much as you don’t care, she’s done nothing but make my life miserable.”
I saw the expression on Francine’s face, and oddly, I thought it was one of hurt. It was hardly possible given the way she had treated me recently.
“That’s a terrible thing to say, Sam.” My mother stopped what she was doing and looked at me.
“What, you think it’s been all wine and roses since she moved in? Wow. What planet have you been on? You know what. I don’t want to deal with this anymore. You think what you like. I’ll find a job and get out of your hair.”
That said, I walked quickly to the front door, opened it, stepped out onto the patio, and closed it behind me. I was going to wait for the bus into town, but instead, I was so very angry. I decided to walk off my temper.
By the time I reached the next intersection, about fifty years from home I heard someone coming up behind me.
I turned to see Francine.
She was probably the only person who could derail my plans.
It would create an unnecessary problem if I ignored her, so I waited until she caught up.
“What are you doing,” I asked. “You have never been interested in anything to do with me unless it involved Bradley and his idiot friends beating me up.”
“You hate me that much?”
“Would it matter if I did or didn’t? You’ve detested me ever since the day my mother took you in. Whatever life I had before that was gone and replaced with what could be described as hell on earth. Hate isn’t a strong enough word.”
“Is that why you’re leaving town?”
I glared at her. There was no way she could know what I was doing.
“You’re as delusional as my mother. Go home and figure new ways to make me miserable.”
I walked off, hoping she’d get the message.
Of course, she didn’t.
“Angie’s mother works at the bus depot. She said you got a ticket to New York. Didn’t say when you were going, but I’m guessing it’s soon.”
I shook my head. Of course, Francine would know someone with a mother who pried into other people’s business. They probably had a meeting of busybodies every Wednesday at city hall.
“Where would I get the notion I could do anything that smart or have the money. You heard my mother, I’m a good for nothing. You’ve even said so yourself. If anyone was leaving this dump, it would be Bradley and you. Prom Queen and King. You were ordained as the couple who were most likely to succeed.”
It came as no surprise that she and Bradley were given the money his father donated to the school.
She grabbed my shoulder and stopped me.
“You know, I’ve always had a notion that you liked me, Sam. I could never work out why you always simply ignored me. Just now, I can see why. If nothing had happened to my parents, we might have become more than friends over time. What you said back home, that the day I moved in it was the day your life ended. You meant your life with me, didn’t you?”
I had worked so hard to suppress any feelings I had for her. It would have seemed utterly wrong to suggest that I had. In a sense, she was right. Until the day she moved in, our lives together had been perfect. Now, it was reduced to just watching her make a fool of herself with others.
“It doesn’t matter what you think I think or thought or cared about. You have a life. I have a version of purgatory. I can’t live in that house, and my mother has made it perfectly clear. I’m not wanted with that new gaggle she’s invited in. Sleeping rough in the park is infinitely more preferable.”
“I treated you badly because I didn’t think you liked me anymore. I just suffered the loss of my parents, and then I lost my best friend in the world. Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“You know why.”
“We’re not related like you said. I was never your sister, and I never will be.”
“It’s not how the busybodies of this place will see it. You should be concentrating on landing the town’s biggest fish. He had rough edges, but I’m sure time and a big stick will sort them out. Now, whatever you think this was, it wasn’t. Go home, be happy. Forget I ever existed. My mother has.”
“You’re wrong. About a lot of things. But whatever. I won’t tell anyone. I don’t want to part ways with you thinking I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you.”
With that, she turned and headed back home.
At least she had one to go to.
I nearly changed my mind a dozen times during the day.
I spent a lot of time going over the words of that last conversation and realised that, at the time, I had been so wrapped up in my own self-pity that I hadn’t really listened.
Then, in a moment of clarity, I realised she said she believed I liked her? But was that at the beginning, during, or at the end? Certainly, I had been very much in love with her by the time she arrived at our house and at a time when I had been hoping it might go further.
The thing is, I had always liked her, but I never dared to tell her how I felt. That I was planning to do, and that’s when timing became my enemy. It was just before her parents had died.
It was that first brash moment of our teens when feelings ran high and every little nuance of a relationship could cause instant joy or utter despair. I had the feeling she felt the same as I did and was going to tell her.
Then, it all fell apart.
When she moved in, my instant joy quite literally turned to utter despair. There was no possible way I could ever contemplate a romantic relationship with the girl that everyone labelled my sister.
Society’s expectations did not include a romantic relationship between a brother and sister even if we were quite clearly not.
So, we became another of society’s expectations between a brother and sister. We began to fight like cats and dogs.
At first, I thought she was surprised, but my recollection of that time was scant because I was battling a broken heart and another of those teenage angst, getting through teens and being bullied at school.
Whatever happened, I did what I had to to keep the thoughts of her out of my head. I tried being the brother I thought she would expect to want and instead found her finding ways to make my life miserable. What was the saying? No good deed goes unpunished.
It didn’t matter in the end, whether I liked her or not or whether she liked me, which I seriously doubted. I couldn’t wait to get on that bus and leave town. Forever.
That walk from the library to the bus depot was the longest of my life. Still, the thoughts were swirling about the effect it would have on my mother and perhaps Francine. I was still telling myself neither cared what happened to me.
But what was worse, with everything that had happened in the last 24 hours, she was once again in my thoughts in a way she shouldn’t be. I had to get my head in the right space. Otherwise, I was going to be just as miserable. Only the view out the window would be different.
I picked a night when there would be more activity at the bus depot because being the only person I would stand out.
I was planning to leave unnoticed, and so far, half a dozen other passengers were sitting along the seats. One thing I’d noticed every time I’d come to check it out, no one came to see anyone off and rarely was anyone there to greet arrivals.
Perhaps no one cared if you left and perhaps arrivals didn’t want people to know they’ve returned. Whatever the reasons, it suited my stealthy departure.
My thoughts were interrupted by an announcement that the bus was running ten minutes late, then by another passenger who was leaving, sitting two seats up from me.
I turned to glance in her direction and recognised her immediately. Francine.
“What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“I’m leaving this town. There’s nothing here for me anymore.”
“You have a family, a home, and people who care about you.”
I gave her my best, incredulous look. “What planet are you from, and what have you done with the real Francine?”
“Why are you really leaving?”
“It doesn’t matter. Go home and forget about me.”
It was her turn to look incredulously at me. “That would be difficult, Sam. Had you asked me this morning how I felt about you, we might not be here.”
“It would not. No matter what I feel or what you feel, it can’t be.”
“Because we’re brother and sister. Even though this morning, I was never your sister. I wondered about that statement and initially thought it meant that I’d never acted like one, even though I know you tried to be a brother. Then I realised, later, what you meant. We had been friends before I moved in. I had hopes that we might be special friends, I liked you that much, and perhaps at that time, it was the first pangs of love. I thought you felt the same.
“I was disappointed that events turned out the way they did, but it was better than going into the foster system. It ruined any chance we had of taking our relationship further. Bradley used to say that you were in love with me. I think you came to the conclusion, that our new situation would never allow our feelings for each other, long before that, simply because we were, in his and everyone else’s eyes, brother and sister.
“You were right, of course. We’re not. It was the reason why I stayed within the foster system and kept my name. I refused to be adopted or change my name to yours. I had this silly notion that eventually you’d get out of your funk, and we could run away together. I wanted to leave too, but like you, I couldn’t until I was eighteen.
“Well, this morning I told your mother I was leaving. I thanked her for the five years she put up with me. She asked if you were going with me? It was a curious question, and I said no. She simply shrugged and handed me an envelope with a bus ticket and an address where I could find a friend of hers. The ticket is for this bus. Your bus. And I suspect the friend’s address is yours. Your mother is no fool, Sam. She’s known the anguish you’ve suffered. Once I realised how much you loved me, the last five years made complete sense.
“You could have told me at any time. You might have saved yourself a lot of anguish. But men are all the same, trying to be the strong, uncomplaining silent type.” She shook her head. “You’d better be a lot more communicative from now on.”
She stood and held out her hand. The bus was pulling into the bay. Three others getting on were moving towards the gate.
I took it in mine, and all the grief of the last five years melted away. She smiled that beautiful smile that could light up a room and a smile that had been missing for so long. A tear ran down her left cheek.
“And don’t ever make me give another of those speeches ever again. Ever, you hear.”
“I promise. Hey, what about Bradley. You two seemed very cosy together.”
“That. That was just to make you mad. It seemed it worked almost too well.”
“Then don’t do it again.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
The ticket collector was waiting impatiently by the door waiting for us. We crossed to the door, gave him the tickets which he punched, and then got on the bus.
There were two seats side by side about the middle. She sat in the window seat, not that there would be much to see. I got comfortable and then took her hand in mine. She smiled when I looked at her.
“Ready?”
“I am.”
She squeezed my hand, the door closed, and the bus moved away from the bay. For better or worse, we were on our way. A last glance back, I momentarily wondered if either of us would ever come back.
