Category: Creative Writing

An excerpt from “One Last Look”: Charlotte is no ordinary girl

This is currently available at Amazon here:  http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

…

I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense.  Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.

I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.

It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.

The boy was Alan.  He was about six or seven.  The girl was Louise, and she was five years old.  She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.

I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.

We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds.  I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.

We were so happy then.

Before the tragedy.

When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell.  Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.

It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children.  They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.

Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.

Until one day she couldn’t.

Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand.  She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it.  The damage done to her was too severe.

The doctors were wrong.

She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants.  It was enough to have them arrested.  It was not enough to have them convicted.

Justice would have to be served by other means.

I was outside the Bannister’s home.

I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die.  It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing.  I had murder in mind.  It was why I was holding an iron bar.

Skulking in the shadows.  It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.

I waited till Archie came out.  I knew he eventually would.  The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go.  I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.

I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.

“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me.  He knew what it was, and what it was for.

It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes.  He was alone.

“Justice.”

“For that slut of a sister of yours.  I had nuffing to do with it.”

“She said otherwise, Archie.”

“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.”  An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.

I held up the pipe.  It had blood on it.  Willy’s blood.  “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up.  He sang like a bird.  That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”

“He dunnit, not me.  Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.”  Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.

“No, Archie.  He didn’t.  I’m coming for you.  All of you Bannisters.  And everyone who touched my sister.”

It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.

I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries.  Those were the very worst few hours of my life.

She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late.  If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.

If only I’d not been late…

When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood.  The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.

At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told.  He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.

I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy.  There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.

He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone.  It was a half mile walk, through a park.  The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness.  He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.

He didn’t.

It took an hour and a half to get the names.  At first, when he saw me, he laughed.  He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.

When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list.  I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.

When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi.  The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me.  I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.

At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality.  The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.

Archie could help but rub it in my face.  He was invincible.

Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out.  He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged.  I didn’t care.

Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me.  I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.

I revisited Willy in the hospital.  He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come.  Suffocation was too good for him.

David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters.  His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful.  Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered.  A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.

He and I met in the pub.  We got along like old friends.  He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges.  We shook hands and parted as friends.

Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared.  I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me.  He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.

When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes.  I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it.  He told me he was just a spectator.

I’d read the coroner’s report.  They all had a turn.  He was a liar.

He took nineteen bullets to die.

Then came Archie.

The same factory only this time there were four seats.  Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities.  She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.

Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.

A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.

Archie’s mother cursed me.  I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.

Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily.  The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family.  I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.

He was a little more worried about his sister.

I told him it was confession time.

He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.

I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony.  I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes.  This time he did, it all poured out of him.

I went over to Emily.  He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm.  Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.

“Louise was my friend, Archie.  My friend.”

Then she shot him.  Six times.

To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this.  May God have mercy on your soul.”

Now I was in jail.  I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession.  Without my sister, my life was nothing.  I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.

They were not allowed to.

For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors.  I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.

Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.

Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”

When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone.  They ignored me.  I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.

I was beginning to think I was going mad.

I ignored him.

“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that.  You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”

Death sounded good.  I told him to go away.

He didn’t.  Persistent bugger.

I was handcuffed to the table.  The prison officers thought I was dangerous.  Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that.  McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.

“Why’d you do it?”

“You know why.”  Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.

“Your sister.  By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”

“It was murder just the same.  No difference between scum and proper people.”

“You like killing?”

“No-one does.”

“No, I dare say you’re right.  But you’re different, Alan.  As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen.  We can use a man like you.”

“We?”

“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”

I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him.  It looked like I didn’t have a choice.

Trained, cleared, and ready to go.

I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible.  People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.

People like me.

In a mall, I became a shopper.

In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.

On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.

At the airport, I became a pilot.  I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.

I had a passkey.

I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.

That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life.  Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.

Two pilots and a steward.  A team.  On the plane early before the rest of the crew.  A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.

Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.

Me.

Quick, clean, merciless.  Done.

I was now an operational field agent.

I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides.  It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.

I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.

It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.

Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.

Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.

I was Barry Gamble.

I was Lenny Buckman.

I was Jimmy Hosen.

I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.

That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision.  If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.

Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.

God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness.  Not that day.  Not any day.

New York, New Years Eve.

I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag.  They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.

This time I failed.

A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…

Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her.  It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.

I was done.

I’d had enough.

I gave her the gun.

I begged her to kill me.

She didn’t.

Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.

How could she?  No one could know what I’d been through.

I remembered her name after she had gone.

Amanda.

I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.

Someone else had the same imperfection.

I couldn’t remember who that was.

Not then.

I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it.  After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.

The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.

It was late.

People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks.  Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.

A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.

He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”

Two of his friends dragged him away.  He shrugged them off, squared up.

I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground.  I looked at his two friends.  “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”

They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk.  She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.

I looked around to see where her friends were.  The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.

She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.

I sat beside her.  “Where are your friends?”

“Dunno.”

“You need help?”

She looked up, and sideways at me.  She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state.  Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nobody.”  I was exactly how I felt.

“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care.  Just leave me here to rot.”

She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.

Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.

“Where are your friends?” I asked again.

“Got none.”

“Perhaps I should take you home.”

“I have no home.”

“You don’t look like a homeless person.  If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.”  I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.

She lifted her head and looked at me again.  “You a smart fucking arse are you?”

“I have my moments.”

“Have them somewhere else.”

She rested her head against my shoulder.  We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.

“Take me home,” she said suddenly.

“Where is your place?”

“Don’t have one.  Take me to your place.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m drunk.  What’s not to like until tomorrow.”

I helped her to her feet.  “You have a name?”

“Charlotte.”

The wedding was in a small church.  We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot.  Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.

On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.

I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.

Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.

And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age.  She arrived late and left early.

Aunt Agatha.

She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look.  “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.

“Likewise I’m sure,” I said.  It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte.  It was clear she feared this woman.

“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.

“You know why.”

Agatha looked at me.  “I like you.  Take care of my granddaughter.  You do not want me for an enemy.”

OK, now she officially scared me.

She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.

“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.

“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”

Charlotte never mentioned her again.

Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.

Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us.  Her husband was not with her this time.

Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother.  She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.

We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends.  For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.

I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother.  It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.

Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.

Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close.  I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness.  We were never close.

But…

This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head.  It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.

And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction.  “You seem distracted,” she said.

“I was just remembering my mother.  Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”

“Why now?”  I think she had a look of concern on her face.

“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.

Another look and I was wrong.  She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.

I was crying, tears streaming down my face.

I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.

It was like coming up for air.

It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life.  I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.

And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”

I could not speak, but I think I smiled.  It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye.  Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.

“Welcome back.”

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

onelastlookcoverfinal2

Searching for locations: Queenstown Gardens, Queenstown, New Zealand

Queenstown Gardens are not far from the center of Queenstown.  They are just down the hill from where we usually stay at Queenstown Mews.

More often than not we approach the Gardens from the lakeside during our morning walk from the apartment to the coffee shop.  You can walk alongside the lake, or walk through the Gardens, which, whether in summer or winter, is a very picturesque walk.

There’s a bowling club, and I’m afraid I will never be that sort of person to take it up (not enough patience) and an Ice Arena, where, in winter I have heard players practicing ice hockey.

I’m sure, at times, ice skating can also be done.

There is a stone bridge to walk across, and in Autumn/Winter the trees can add a splash of color.

There is a large water feature with fountain, and plenty of seating around the edge of the lake, to sit and absorb the tranquility, or to have a picnic.

There are ducks in the pond

and out of the pond

and plenty of grassed areas with flower beds which are more colorful in summer.  I have also seen the lawns covered in snow, and the fir trees that line the lake side of the gardens hang heavy with icicles.

First Dig Two Graves – the editor’s second draft – Day 27

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.

…

It’s the final battle.

Never trust anyone else to do the job you should have done yourself in the first place.

It’s an interesting premise, but somehow encapsulates the ethos of this story.

Who is Romanov?  Zoe, Irina, whatever you want to call her, he’s her father.

But…

The notion that anonymously putting out a finder’s fee on his daughter’s head, coupled with the ire of Olga over the death of her son, sent everyone from the Minister in the Kremlin down into a tailspin.

The first effort, had the kidnappers just followed the rules, would have got an enormous payday, and everything would have been resolved there and then, in Marseilles.

No, people got greedy.

So did all the others, getting wind of what was at stake, enough to retire, or continue to retire in style.

Dominica, Yuri, and even Olga had she been smart.

She was not.

People didn’t have to die.  Zoe could have been spared a killing spree, and John some maybe quality time with Olga.  It’s a mistake Olga won’t make again.

And John, now with a father-in-law, well it’s just another surprise in a long list of surprises.

…

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

In a word: Prize

What you win, first prize in a raffle, though I don’t think I’ve ever won first prize.  Second maybe.  But, aren’t all raffles rigged?  

But despite my unfortunate run of luck, a prize is generally given to someone who works hard or wins a race

Or I could have been a prize fighter but lacked the size and the strength, and out of curiosity how many prize fighters didn’t win a prize?

And if I had been a pirate, I could have sailed the seven seas to find a prize, namely a ship to attack and take as my own.

And as a prime example, a Chelsea supporter walking into a bar full of Manchester United fans could be called a prize idiot.

This is not to be confused with the word prise

Don’t relatives prise the last dollar out of a dying man’s hand?

Or prise the truth out of a witness, or a perpetrator

Or prise a window open like thieves do when we forget to lock them properly?

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta readers view

There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?

A retired spy, well not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.

But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.

And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.

Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest.  Then, inexplicably, she disappears.  That might have been the end to it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum, find her or come back to work.

Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!

A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.

When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.

I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.

Bring it on!

…

The book can be purchased here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

…

A to Z Blog Challenge – April 2024 – B is for Bad things happen

…

Bad things happen to good people.

It was the mantra my mother used all the time to lament our bad luck; that it was always someone else’s fault.

Like the family cutting her off when she married my father, like when my father left when my brother and I were very young, like my mother’s choice of partners after he left.

Like when our mother died, we were sent to the orphanage.  Like when I was allotted to a family and my brother was kept in the orphanage because of his so-called bad behaviour.

I was probably too young to understand because he had been his normal self to me, except perhaps when he was protecting me from other children, and some of the supervisors, but that was what big brothers did.  I wanted to stay with him, but he told me to go, to get away as far as I could, and never look back.

He promised he could come and find me sooner rather than later, and I trusted him.

But for some reason, I did not hear from him again. He did not answer my letters, and twice I tried to go back to the orphanage, only to be taken home again.  My foster parents, as nice as they were, refused to take me there, but in the end, they agreed to send someone to investigate.

Many months later, they showed me a letter from the head of the orphanage advising that Jake, my brother, had found a suitable situation with a family on the other side of the country.  No other details were forthcoming, just that he was no longer there.

It didn’t seem right, but as a twelve-year-old there was little I could do, and although my foster parents were sympathetic and said they would do what they could to find out more, they hired a private detective to see what he could find; and after a year, the report had very little detail, he had simply disappeared. He said, as time passed, the trail, as they called it, had gone cold.

A dozen more years passed and although I hadn’t forgotten Jake, I told myself he had been as lucky as I was, in a home where he was loved and treated with kindness, something that had been lacking in the orphanage. 

But in that time, memories of what happened during that time I was there came back, memories that I was too young at the time to process, memories that pointed to what could only be described as a house of horrors.

When the psychiatrist I’d been seeing had worked out exactly what had happened to me, he had alerted the police to what was happening there.  It wasn’t a revelation that I was not the only child that had been put through hell.

But by the time everyone realised what that place was, it was too late.

I did my time at school, followed in the footsteps of my adoptive parents by studying law, and came out the other end with offers from some very prestigious law firms.

I spoke to the one I wanted to accept, advising them there would be one condition that I wanted to find my brother.  They set a limit of three months, and I believed, at that time, it would take less.

That was until I arrived in the town where the orphanage was located and discovered it was now a city, and worse still, where there was once a church, orphanage and farm, it was now the site of a half-finished shopping mall, and there was nothing left behind.

One of the foremen saw me standing near the gate and came over.

“Can I help you?”

“There used to be an orphanage and church here?”

“They pulled it down a year ago.  Property developers snapped it up, and we’re building a shopping mall and a thousand houses, give or take.”

“Where did the records go?”

He shrugged.  “I just build stuff.  What happens before I get here is someone else’s problem.  I did hear a rumour bad stuff went on here, and the state shut it down a few years back.  Perhaps you should go to the county records office and talk to them.  They’d know more.”

“Thanks.”

When I didn’t move and stood there with glistening eyes reliving a bad moment, he asked, “What’s your interest in this place?  Are you a reporter?  There’s been a few over the last month or so.”

I shook off the memory and looked at him, “My brother and I were sent here.  They found us homes to go to but not the same one.  I’m trying to find him.”

He didn’t answer, and I got the feeling he knew more about what happened here but was reluctant to talk about it.  He walked off, and I got out of the way of a cement truck, one of three that had passed through the gates while I’d been there.

I spent a few minutes staring at where the main orphanage building had been, and the memories that had laid dormant for many years suddenly came flooding back. I shuddered. This place was cursed.

He’d mentioned reporters, and they only came when there was news.  My first stop should be the newspaper office.  They’d know the story of what happened.

The sign across the top of the large window said, ‘The Sentinel’, and I got the feeling something was missing.  The city name, perhaps.  A shopfront could not be the home of such a newspaper, but perhaps in the internet age, papers had lost their dominance.

I know I read my news from my cell phone.

I had also considered running a search on the orphanage but when it came back with several billion hits, I thought it better to see if I could find someone with first-hand knowledge.

Then, finally, in the place where I could get some answers, there was something about the truth I didn’t think I wanted to know.  It was what was stopping me from going through that door because deep down, I knew whatever I learned, it was not going to be good.

For a while now, after I discovered some of the stuff that went on in that place, I think deep down I knew that Jake didn’t survive, that Jake being Jake, he would have put himself in harm’s way to save someone who was not able to help themselves as he had done for me.

And I was here, now, because of him.

Again, someone noticed I was hanging around outside, and instead of calling the police, they came out to ask if I had a problem.

I didn’t but I said I wanted some information.

Inside, it looked nothing like what I imagined a newspaper office would look like, just a half dozen people sitting at desks, and one of three offices with a man in shirt sleeves and a harassed look.

The person who came out was Naomi. She was the events reporter.  She took me to a desk that had the name Robert Rand. He was, she said, the investigative reporter and worked on the orphanage story.  He was just out doing the coffee run.  Five minutes later he came back.  It was a face that seemed familiar.  He was not much older than I was,

He stood in front of me for a minute, then said, “You’re Jake’s little brother, aren’t you?”

And then I saw a tear in his eyes.

“Are you alright?”

“No.  But I will be.  Look, give me a minute to sort out the work, and we can talk in the meeting room.  I won’t be long.” 

He pointed to the room and I walked over and sat down.  I was in two minds whether I wanted to know the truth, and in the end, I decided to let him tell me what he wanted.

 He was more composed when he finally joined me.  “He was our hero, nnn.  I was so glad he got you out of there.  He saved at least fifty of us and if you like, I can put you in touch with all of them.  They would be so grateful to meet you.  It’s sort of like a survivor’s club.”

“I would like that, yes.  These people knew my brother?”

“We did.  He knew what those people were doing, and he fought them, at great cost to himself.  One by one, he got us out of there, and when we eventually convinced the authorities about the bad things that were happening, he was gone.  We were told he had been sent away in a placement, but we believed he was killed, the fate of quite a few others who fought back, and buried somewhere on that plot.  No one is quite sure what happened, it was so hectic in the last few months, certainly, once the police started investigating, all of the children, some two hundred and thirty were transferred out and the place shut down.”

“Does anyone have the records?”

“They tried to burn everything, but we managed to rescue a lot of the paperwork.  Enough to find out that at least four thousand children went through that place, nearly a thousand simply disappeared, another thousand placed, and the rest were molested, some quite horrifically.  And it wasn’t just the priests who were the perpetrators, some of the staff, the townspeople who worked there, were just as bad, people you would not expect.  This place will never be the same.  Not for us, anyway.  How did you go after you left?”

“I had the two best foster parents a child could get.  I was lucky.  I wanted to know what happened to Jake, they tried to find out, but they couldn’t.  Not even a private detective had any luck.”

“No one could.  They had everyone on their side, either paying them off or admitting them to their inner circle.  At first, no one would believe us, you know, who would believe a child over a grown responsible adult?  It was how they got away with it.  Then as more and more children came forward, they had to believe us.”

I came back to the part of the conversation where he said he believed Jake might be buried there.  “Who would know?”

“The head priest, Father Wollmer.  He was the worst of them all.  He knows where the bodies are buried, but he’ll never tell.”

“Is he still alive?”

“Yes.  In the county jail, maximum security.  And away from the other prisoners.  They would kill him if they saw him.  Even the other prisons, no matter how bad they are, do not like people like him.”

“Do you think I would be able to see him?”

“You don’t want to.  He is evil personified, nnnn.  The devil incarnate, the prosecutor said.  He had an excuse and a reason for everything he did. The Lord’s work was his excuse, over and over, and he honestly believed he did nothing wrong.”

“Just the same, I would like to see him.”

“I’ll see what I can do, but don’t get your hopes up. I doubt they’ll let one of his victims in to see him.”

Three weeks later, after several court appearances, and many hurdles crossed, not the least of which were put up by the priest himself, I found myself sitting in a room with a lawyer on one side and Rober Rand on the other.

This was going to be an interesting follow-up story, though it had the potential of being very distressing all over again for both of us.

I wasn’t sure how I would feel, or react to seeing that monster again, and continually told myself it was all about Jake, that my feelings or hatred or disgust was not to get in the way of finding out where he was.

We waited a half hour and then following several thunks of locks being opened and the squeaking of an opening door, the man I had come to dread came into the room.

He was no longer the figure in my nightmares; he was just this dishevelled old man who was nothing like the man he once pretended to be.  No cassock, just ill-fitting prison clothes, battered and bruised.  He looked like he’d been hit by a bus.

He was basically dragged to the chair and shoved into it.  Both guards stood on either side of him.

His head was bowed, not looking at me.  Nor had he, other than a brief glance, to see who it was.

“You can continue to ignore me, but I’m not going anywhere until you tell me where my brother is.”

A mousy little voice returned, “I have no idea who you are talking about.”

“Look at me,” I said with a calmness that belied what I was feeling.

I could feel the anger building in me, and I knew I had to quell it.  I wanted to get out of my chair, go over to him, and just keep hitting him over and over and over.

He didn’t lift his head, so one of the guards grabbed him by the hair and jerked his head up.  “Look at him, or there will be consequences.”

The so-called priest opened his eyes and looked at me.

“You know exactly who I am.  I know who you are and what you did to me and others until Jake stopped you.  What did you do to him?”

“I sent him away.”

“You did not,”  Robert spoke.  “I was there too.  A dozen of us know you punished him when he tried to help us, that you held him up as an example of what we should not be doing, but you never sent him away.”

“He was a troublemaker.  He needed to be punished.”

“Where is he?” I asked again.

He just stared at me with a look of defiance.  He knew exactly what I was asking.  He knew where the bodies were buried.

I looked at one of the guards.  “I know that look.  I spent enough time with this animal to know everything there is to know.  He trusted me with his secrets.”

His head shot up and glared at me.  “You know nothing.”

Bad dreams or nightmares of not only the awful things he did to me and others, but there were also times when he fell asleep before sending us back to our dormitories.

I got as far away as I could, hiding in a corner where I couldn’t see him.  But it came to be not so much about seeing him, about what he did to us. It was having his voice in our heads, hearing him talk in his sleep.

It was where, over time, I and others learned about a tormented childhood, the hold his mother had over him, and what she put him through.  It was exactly what he did to us.  It was not an excuse, it was not a reason for that behaviour, it was like it was ingrained into his soul and done without thought of consequences.

Because I was too young at the time, a lot of it made no sense at the time, but when I grew up and the nightmares returned, so did the whole story.  Everything he had done he had done for his mother, and she was out there enjoying her life of luxury off the backs of us children.

“I know everything.  And I’m going to give you one chance to tell me where Jake is.  Otherwise, I will go to the authorities and tell them the whole story, and particularly that of Isobel Mackenzie.  It’s the one name that never came up in the investigation.  You can’t protect her.”

It got the reaction I wanted.  He tried very hard to get out of that chair and get me, with such ferocity and screaming the foulest language about what he’d do to me when he clothes his hands on me, the guards had to virtually beat him back down on the chair.

It scared the hell out of me and Robert.

I waited until he was quiet and then asked, “Where is Jake?””

After a minute, he lifted his head and looked at me.  He was deranged, there was no question about it, and to me, it looked like the demon had taken over his body and mind.

“He’s in a place where you will never find him.  He’s with Mary Magdalene now, who has forgiven his sins, and he is now and will forever be resting in peace.  As for anything else you think you might know, you don’t, and it’s not a path you want to take.  Your brother gave up his freedom and his life to save you, Nnnn, don’t throw away that gift.  No go, and never come back.  I will answer no more of your questions, now or ever.”

And that was basically it.  He didn’t answer any more questions.  He didn’t do much of anything after that final speech because the exertion of trying to get to me had caused him to have a stroke, and three days later, he died.

It didn’t give me closure when I was told of his passing.  There was no absolution, there was no forgiveness, and my only thought was that he should now be in a special kind of hell for all eternity.

It didn’t get me any further in my quest, and having hit a brick wall, it was time to go back home, get myself together, and concentrate on living the rest of my life.

The psychiatrist had continually emphasised that I had to concentrate on moving on from the past and not let that define who I was.  It was now all about the future.  What made it hard was not knowing what happened to Jake or where he was now.

Woolmer had said he was dead.  I had to believe him.  I had to believe he was in a better place, and I would put in a prayer for him every night.

Bags packed. I had one last stop before getting on the bus.  I wanted to say goodbye to Robert and thank him for all of his help.  He was going to give me the names of other victims so we could talk because, for him and a lot of other victims, it was part of the healing process.

He was at his desk when I arrived, looking at photographs of the orphanage grounds.  I was standing behind him as he slowly scrolled through them, a historical montage of hell on earth.

Some would argue that it would be better if they were destroyed so that they could not remind people of the terrible events that had taken place there.  I would argue that the world needed to be reminded that this was only the tip of the iceberg.

Whatever it was, for a few minutes, it took me back, and for once, it did not reduce me to a quivering emotional mess.  I was stronger now, a survivor, and one of the lucky people.  There were a lot who got past the horror.

Then I noticed the hedge.  We all thought that hedge was part of the wall that surrounded the property, with a single gate, one we had thought might be the route to freedom.

No one had gotten it open, and no one had ever seen it open.  No one knew what was on the other side.  Once we went into the orphanage, we never left unless we were placed in a foster home.

“Did anyone find out what was on the other side?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact, yes.  A garden.  It had a fountain with a statue in the middle, and going out in concentric circles, rose and flower beds, and lawn pathways.  It was quite large.”

He showed the next three photographs of the garden that had fallen into disrepair s lot of the roses overgrown and the lawns just tall weeds.

The fountain was broken and slimy and the statue covered over with ivy.  The next two were after someone had cleared away the overgrowth and it showed the statue to be that of a woman.

Then Robert simply said, “Fuck,” which seemed to me to be an entirely inappropriate response.  “You know who that is, that statue.  They were always banging in about the mother of Jesus.  Mary Magdalene.  That’s a statue of Mary Magdalene.”

And in that exact moment, we both know the significance of what Woolmer had said, believing that the development company would have bulldozed everything and therefore erased it from memory.  It was probably one of the conditions of sale.

“The rose bushes were markers.  Buried under the careful watch of Mary Magdalene.”

I did not make a friend with the construction supervisor because the moment Robert spoke to the sheriff, all work stopped on the site.

The garden was now a carpark, one of the first parts of the site to be completed, where the site officers were located, and the workers parked their cars.

The garden site was painstakingly measured our and then the concrete was removed.  Then, the forensic archaeologists moved in, and over the next six months, the bones of 146 children and 45 adults were found, one of whom was identified as Jake through a DNA match.  He had been dead for at least five years.

A year after that, he was given a proper burial after a service that was attended by nearly 400 of the victims all of whom knew him or knew of him, a lot thankful that he had sacrificed so much that they may live.

I was reminded at the end that bad things happened to good people, but the memory of their deeds will live on forever.

In contrast, bad things also happened to bad people, and in their case, no one cared what happened to them.  Woolmer disappeared, no one knew where the body was buried, and no one cared. 

…

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 84

As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some years ago.

Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

 

cat-1

This is Chester.  He is looking out the door at the rain.

After a long spell of heat and humidity that was practically unbearable, we now have rain and cold.

I’m standing at the back door watching the near torrential downpour, and both of us are watching the river of water flowing from the back yard down the side of the house.

Chester looks at me.  Is that the look that’s asking me to let him outside.,

I’m toying with the idea.

He turns his head and looks up at me.  Is that an imploring look to stay in or go out.

The hell with it, I open the door.  If he wants to go out in the rain, that’s his business.

He stands up and turns his head to look at me.

OK, I get it.  When you know I can’t go out, you let me out.  That’s just not right.

What’s stopping you?

You know exactly what the problem is.  Water.  You know I hate water.

That’s every other cat.  A while back you convinced you were not like the other cats.  Fearless, you said, able to take on any challenge.

Open door, it’s an invitation to paradise.

He takes two tentative steps towards freedom.  The rain comes down harder as if someone up there is playing a mean joke on him.

Another step, just about through the door.

The wind blows and we both catch a spray of water.

He jumps and scuttles back inside so fast, and I’m left alone at the door.  I close it again.

We will be discussing invincibility sometime soon, I yell out.  But, he’s gone.

I shrug and go back inside.  I will savor this victory for the next few minutes.

Or for along as he’ll let me.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 33

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 prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Chasing leads, maybe

 

Monica, from the last interrogation, had brought a file.  It looked the same as the last one she brought with her, the one with my name on it.

This time it was thicker.

Intelligence gathering at its finest.  There’d be stuff in there that even I didn’t know about me.

She didn’t open it, just looked at me.

“What have you been doing?”

“Working?”

“For whom?”

“Nobbin, of course.  I am now assigned to his section.  Did you do that?”

“He did.  He tells me you’re working on the O’Connell investigation.”

“Is that what it’s called.  He never told me that.  And I had to find out where I’d been assigned by logging onto a computer.  An email or letter would have made my life a little easier.”

“You’re just lucky you’re still working here.  Now, tell me more about this Severin character.”

“I told you everything I knew the last time you spoke to me.  Apparently, you seemed to know who it was.  Perhaps you might tell me, too.”

“It’s…”

“And,” I interrupted, “don’t tell me it’s above my pay grade.  I was potentially working for traitors and could have finished up in jail for treason.”

“You might still get there.”

Then why hadn’t she had me arrested and thrown in a dungeon the last time we met?  There was an easy answer to that question.  She needed me out in the field.  Nobbin needed me in the field.  They presumably needed me to remain available to Severin for whatever reason.

“What do you want?”

She opened the file, turned a few pages, and stopped at a yellow sheet of paper.  I wasn’t able to read it upside down, but it had very small spidery writing on it.

Then she looked at me again.

“Some secret documents appear to have gone missing.  We believe that is to say Director Dobbin thinks these may have been on a USB drive that was in the possession of O’Connell at the time of his death.  You were there at the time of his death.  You can see where this is going…”

No matter which answers I gave it was the wrong one, which led to do not pass go and do not collect two hundred dollars, or pounds as the case may be.

“I haven’t got it, and he didn’t tell me where it was, and I saw him die.”

“If you say so.”  She went back to the file and turned some more pagers.

“What do you mean?”

She looked up.  “So far, there’s no body been recovered, or any evidence there was a shooting where you said it was.”

“Are you trying to tell me he’s alive, because if you are, then I must be a very poor judge of people who have no pulse.  He was not about to get up and walk away.”

“Did you see the body removed?”

Now there’s an interesting point.  I had done as I was told and left when told to.  I assumed Severin would sort the problem out, in fact, hadn’t he called in the cleaners?  I saw a white van.

Actually, when I thought about it, I had no idea what happened after I left.  And, now that I remember, I didn’t see anyone get out of the white van.

Could bodies get up and walk?

I was beginning to think they could.

© Charles Heath 2020

First Dig Two Graves – the editor’s second draft – Day 28

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.

…

So, what happened really happened to Worthington?

Did John get reunited with his mother in the hospital?

What of Rupert and Isobel?  Did she get to meet the elusive and enigmatic Tsar?

These are all questions that will be answered in due course.

There is also the matter of what happens when John and Zoe/Irina finally meet up after he learns that she regarded him as expendable, and knowing her as he did, didn’t doubt for a minute she meant it.

Is it the folly of falling in love with an assassin?

Once again we end up at the grandmother’s residence in Sorrento, languishing sans Zoe, contemplating the future, a future that might not have Zoe in it.

His idea of setting up an investigation bureau is alive and well, run by Rupert, staffed by people who have the skills but not the confidence of others who had employed them.  Rupert is the master of picking lame ducks and turning them into swans.

Isobel, on the other hand, does not improve with age or being in a somewhat iffy, long-range, possible romance, thing.

Does Zoe return, does she call, can she drag herself away from her recently rediscovered father?

Again, you’ll have to read the book.

…

There’s no word count at the moment because everything is in outline awaiting writing. That will happen, I hope, tomorrow.