Category: Creative Writing

Writing a book in 365 days – 105

Day 105

Write a story that has the line, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”

…

I looked down at the woman who called herself my mother and shook my head.

It was hard to reconcile the fact that over two hundred people turned out for the funeral, one hundred and ninety-nine of them I had never seen or met before.

Ten of them had stood up in front of the mourners and reminisced on the life of a woman that I had no idea was the person they were describing.

Kind, generous, loving, a friend to everyone…

… except her son.

The one I knew, her lawyer, who was overseeing the execution of her will.  That she would even remember me or put me in that will was a surprise.  I hadn’t seen her in forty years, the day her latest husband kicked a naive and very frightened fifteen-year-old out of ‘his’ house when she was away.

He had been just the latest of terrible men she had taken up with after the sudden death of my father, a year before.

I left and never came back.  I burned any letter that came from her until I eventually moved to the other side of the world and built a life of my own.

Until I got that fateful phone call.

My mother had died, and her last request was to find me.  I had changed names and disappeared several times, and yet I’d been found.

How?

The lawyer summed it up in a half dozen sentences.  She had a team of private investigators keep track of me.  Once she discovered what her latest ‘boyfriend’ had done, she had kicked him to the curb, an interesting expression for a lawyer, and set about finding me.  When I didn’t answer her letters, she didn’t lose interest. She just had them keep track of me, in case, one day, I changed my mind.

That I didn’t was her greatest sorrow.

I was of two minds whether to go back and attend the funeral, and nearly didn’t.  That was Noelle’s doing, insisting the lawyer pay for two first-class tickets, which he did.  That she said, spoke volumes, though not explaining what she meant.

Of course, Noelle knew the story.  Like everything about my life, she had wheedled and cajoled it out of me over a long period of time.  She knew when she met me, I was damaged goods, but I soon discovered she was everything I needed to heal.

I felt a hand slip into mine, and her aura enveloped me.  “She has passed Ian, and she can’t hurt you anymore.”

That was a matter of opinion because seeing her again dredged up a lot of very good memories after that kind, generous person they described until my father died.

It seemed odd to me that none of the other one hundred and ninety-nine attendees were very interested in me or why I was there.  But, then, nor was I interested in them.  They just seemed to melt away, leaving almost as if there were rented mourners.  Perhaps they were.

Ten minutes after the service, it was just the coffin, me, Noelle, and the lawyer, who had given me some time to be with her.  I was surprised that I hadn’t just left with everyone else.

“As I said earlier, Ian, there will be a reading of her will back in my office on Wednesday, and you are specifically requested to attend.”

“Is there any point.  I mean, after forty years, I hardly think we would ever remember she had a son.”

We’d had this same argument earlier, and he had no persuasive argument then.  This time, he had come prepared.  I could see an envelope in his hand.

“She knew that you might show some reluctance, so she wrote this letter,” he held up the envelope.  “I urge you to read it. It might explain a few things about her, or it may not.  I was not privy to the contents, only that I was given explicit instructions to give it to you at the funeral.”

He held it out.  I looked at it, then Noelle, who nodded.  I took it and put it in my coat pocket.

“Thank you, Ian.  I am very sorry for your loss, and I will leave you now.  Later, perhaps.”

He held out his hand, and I shook it.  It was my mother I hated, not him.

I remained there with her until the casket was closed and taken away for the cremation she had requested.

It was a silent drive back to the quaint hotel Noelle had found for us, and the room, she pointed out, a king back in the so-called dark ages, had stayed there. 

Given the modern look, I’d say that the King would not recognise the room now if he had stayed there, which was a remote possibility.  Just the same as an advertising hook to start there, it worked.

The letter was sitting on the table between two very comfortable leather chairs, and after dinner downstairs in the dining room, we had opened a bottle of champagne and sat in front of the fireplace, which we were told was used in winter.

It was cold but not that cold, but as I picked up the envelope, I shivered.

Her ghost?

“What did you think it said?”

“Perhaps a belated apology.  I don’t know.  She’s had forty years to think about it.”

“Are you going to read it?”

That was a question I had churned over in my mind the whole way from the church to the hotel.  Was there anything left to say, or anything she could say that would make a difference?

“Yes.”

The first few lines anyway.  I opened the envelope and pulled out several sheets of lined paper, and at first glance showed very neat and legible handwritten script, the sort that would take forever to write.  It was the sort of perfection she indulged in, and I remembered bringing with her when she used to write letters, being told at the same time that we should never lose the art of writing or communicating with others.

To her, a person who could not write or find a reason to write to someone else was not someone she would want to know.  I’m sure after I refused to write back, I fit into that category.

I unfolded the pages and steeled myself for what was to come.

My dear Ian,

If you are reading this, then I have passed.  It is regrettable that we did not speak again after you left in the spring of 1985, and sad that in the years that followed that you did not reply to my letters.

It took many months before I discovered what had happened in my absence, but it is no excuse to simply say it would not have happened in different circumstances.

In all likelihood, it would have happened anyway, then or later, because, in truth, after your father died, I stopped being your mother.  I have no excuse and offer none.  Nothing will ever make up for the injustice wrought upon you.

Though while you may have hated me, I never for one minute stopped loving you, and when I finally accepted you wanted nothing more to do with me, I asked some friends to keep an eye on you.  Although you may not have realised it, I have been able to help you in your endeavours, as a proud mother would in different circumstances.

I put the letter down for a moment and thought back over several key moments in my life, reflecting on how hard it had been to achieve certain milestones, against the odds and in the face of almost insurmountable obstacles.

Were they all that insurmountable if there was an invisible hand behind it?  Had I not achieved those milestones on my own?

Before you get all ‘het up’ over what you might consider interference, believe me when I tell you, you had achieved the unachievable all on your own, but sadly, your background was working against you.  I simply helped to level that so-called playing field.

I knew in my heart that if you wanted to reconnect with me, you would, and in that, I decided I would not interfere. Perhaps I will live to regret that, but it was never going to happen if I turned up on your doorstep.  And, believe me, there were many times I wanted to do just that.

I have said all that I wish to say about those matters.  What happened is what happened, and it can not be undone.  I hope you will see your way to come to my funeral.  It will be very strange with lots of people who will be very alien to you.

All they saw was the widow of a billionaire who was their benefactress, and hoping by paying their respects would continue to be so.  The same could not be said for you, you came because you wanted to, not because you to and for that I am very grateful.

Then, at the bottom of the page was, in a less tidy hand, the words, “If you knew better, you would stop reading this right now, but I know you won’t.”

Whatever followed was on the next page, except there wasn’t a next page.  I showed it to Noelle.

“What do you think of that?”

She read the words and turned the page over, thinking it might be on the back.  There was nothing on the back.  She looked at the page in the light, perhaps thinking there might be indentations, but there weren’t any.

“There was more, and it’s missing.  What do you think it said?”

“Something someone didn’t want me to read.  I guess we will be going to the reading of the will after all.”

“The game’s afoot?”

“Indeed.” 

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

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.

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

In a word: Tap

There is nothing worse than, when lying in bed unable to get to sleep, you hear every noise in the house and out, but none worse than a dripping tap.

It’s often not because someone forgot to turn the tap off, but because a washer is on its last legs.

There are taps for the fallen brave, but aside from the fact that is the name of a piece of music, I think it’s also the title of a film.  But taps itself is a bugle call at dusk, and also played at military funerals.

Then there’s that income stream that you can tap into, other than your next-door neighbour’s power supply.

But what would be far more interesting than to tap into a phone line and listen in?  Even though eavesdroppers never hear anything good about themselves, you could learn something you didn’t want to know.

Then we can go back to the 1930s and a series of films that starred one of my favourite actors Fred Astaire, who was, of course, a tap dancer, along with Ginger Rogers.

In fact, my middle granddaughter is quite a good tap dancer.

And, lastly, was that a tap on the door, or a tap in the window?

Inspiration, Maybe – Volume 2

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.

Perhaps it was.

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

Coming soon.  Find the above story and 49 others like it in:

What do these mean?

I’ve been reading the latest headlines and picked out a few:

The seems to be a currency war,

Oil prices are set to rise in line with a cut in production,

Some tankers will not be plying the Hormuz strait,

There was a massive power outage in the UK,

Gold prices are rising,

North Korea is shooting missiles into the sea

The USA needs more missiles,

There are Chinese survey vessels in the South China Sea,

In Russia there is an explosion on a secret base with nuclear implications, and,

There might be a global recession coming.

What do all these events mean?  Nothing really when taken individually, but when you start combining them, then the thriller writer in me starts to see all sorts of conspiracies and plotlines for stories.

For instance

Take that explosion in Russia, and the fact the word nuclear is attached to it, and then look at the massive power outage in the UK.  What if that site was a laboratory, working on small,  powerful bombs that can easily be carried, installed, in or around vital infrastructure, and in that quest for smaller and more powerful something goes wrong.

After all, isn’t that what testing is for?

And the fact there’s been one major event involving vital infrastructure, should we be looking for more?  Then there are a few problems with bombs being attached to tankers in the Hormuz Strait.  Does anyone see the potential for an apocalyptic event coming on?

Then the North Koreans are firing test missiles, and the US calling for more missiles to add to their arsenal.  Are they using North Korea as an excuse?  Or is there something more sinister going on with Chinese survey vessels in the South China Sea?  What if they’re not survey vessels?

Then there’s a small matter of rising oil prices.  Whilst the same report might say that the rise is due to OPEC cutting output, there could be other reasons, such as the currency war that’s about to erupt, and will this pre-emp a global recession.  A good indicator of impending disaster, wars, and other maladies is the rising price of gold.

The gold market goes into overdrive when currency starts to lose value, recessions are coming or have arrived, or there is about to be a war, or there is one.  The US and China are facing off, the US and half the middle east are a disaster waiting to happen, and, hang on, North Korea is being provocative, and in a late development, India and Pakistan are facing off over Kashmir.

Are we surprised people are turning to gold?

Maybe I should go back to doing the crossword, and ignoring the news.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 52

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the Second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

…

Carlo had returned, as promised, just over an hour later, and over the map, he showed where the explosives had been placed, under the tank, and where the men were camped.

They were set to go off in the early morning, giving them several hours before they had to assemble for the assault.  According to Carlo, the explosives would neutralise the tank and immobilise about 30 of the enemy.

That was only one problem.

The other was the men that the new commandant had sent out of the castle to presumably hunt down Atherton and whatever resistance was left.  They were noisy and failed to see Carlo following them, listening to their conversation.

It was obvious they were not trained for stealth.

The first mission was to take those men out of the equation.

Then there was a third problem, the last of the resistance in the castle, those left behind by Fernando, had taken all the prisoners out of the castle and executed them.

Carlo had then killed those men and left them with the bodies of the murdered defectors, and, unlike his German counterparts, he had undertaken it swiftly and silently.

Our force of eight moved quietly in the direction Carlo last saw the soldiers heading, he assumed towards the underground wine cellar where Martina had taken me after I had been captured.

We managed to hide Chiara in a spot where the enemy if they came to the church, would not find her.  The plan was to find them before they got to or left the cellar.

Of course, like any plan, it could always be guaranteed to go wrong.

The last time I went from the cellar to the church, it had been by an old truck, and by my estimation, it would take us about half an hour by foot.  It might, by the time we got there, and found them missing, make us late for the main event.

I looked at my watch about a dozen times on that trek, fretting about time which for some odd reason seemed to be passing faster than usual.

Then, Carlo was waving his hands, a signal I assumed was to tell us to stop.  We were not far from the cellar.  I recognised the landmark used to find it.  We formed up in a line just inside the thicket line, a bunch of overgrown bushes providing excellent cover.

Beyond that, we could see intermittent flashes of light from torches.  The soldiers were making no attempt to hide their presence.

Blinky was beside me.  “What the hell are they playing at?”

“Perhaps they thought if they made a bold attack we’d wilt under the surprise.”

“Or just shoot them.  Why are we waiting?”

“Carlo is ascertaining their position.”

“You trust this Carlo.  He could be leading us into a trap up at the castle.”

I was surprised he’d taken this long to express his reservations.  “Don’t be surprised if he kills everyone in the German squad himself.  His home was in that castle.  It was his life.  They killed his friends.  He is not forgiving.”

Jack chose that moment to return from wherever he’d gone soon after we reached the thicket.  He had come with me from the church, and I wondered if he knew just how dangerous it could be.  He flopped down beside me, waiting.

“What’s with the dog?”

“We found each other at an ambush.  Been with me ever since.  I have no idea if he’s German, or Italian, or if he understands English.  But there’s no questioning his loyalty, he helped me take down Jackerby.

“Well, just as long as I don’t trip over him in the fray of battle.”

We watched the German soldiers who remained on sentry duty when I thought the entrance to the cellar was, and I assumed the others were down in the cellar.

It was what Carlo said was the case when he returned.

Ten in the cellar, two on guard, though I would not call what they were doing sentry duty.  They were smoking and talking, guns leaning up against a tree.

Easy shots for our sniper who at this moment had both in his sights.

Carlo kneeled beside me and said, “Cover your ears, pass it on.”

I did, and thirty seconds later there was a huge explosion followed by a storm of soil particles falling on his.  The sniper, in the instance following the boom, shot the two sentries.

German forces were eliminated.

The only issue was the castle was now alerted to our presence, so our arrival at the castle was going to be a little more difficult.

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2023

A to Z Blog Challenge – April 2025 – Z

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Z is for Zoo.  It seemed that who’s who in the zoo was about to be very much a statement.

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There’s the easy way and the convoluted way to go to jail. 

The first, the easy way, commit a crime, hand yourself in, plead guilty, and the justice department will be falling over themselves to frogmarch you to the front gate

The hard way, trying to create a foolproof backstory with official evidentiary documents, to take you seemingly from one jail to another without raising suspicion.

Of course, it was never my intention to become a felon, but people are sometimes so stupid they don’t know when to back off.  And, of course, we are trained never to ‘lose it’ under any circumstances, but I did.

In front of about a hundred other prisoners who made very reliable witnesses.  He was kind of popular, so that made my continued presence in that prison untenable.

Hence the move.  No trial, an extra twenty years, I should see the world outside again when I was too old to enjoy it.

I would have time to contemplate the mistakes of the past for a long time.  Or not.  The prison I was going to was notorious for chewing up and spitting out newbies in their system.

I had a name, Louie.  It’s best not to call him that, I was told.  He was the one to look out for.  There were another hundred or so, all varying degrees of Louie-like danger, so my hands would be full for a while.

Along with six other new prisoners, we were taken inside.  There we were given the once over by the warden, whose expression when he looked at me was the very definition of hatred.  Then he had three of the guards drag me into a room up the passage. Special treatment, he said with a smile, that told me it was not a special I was going to like.

Once onside with door shit, two professionals, the guards beat me with their batons.  Bruises, abrasions, and barely able to walk, I rejoined the others, who all looked the other way lest they incur the same wrath.

An hour in the dispensary, then taken to meet my new best friend, it was the greeting I expected.

The guard stopped me outside the two-bunk cells that I would get to call my Hilton hotel room.  My roomie was lying on his bed, odd since he should be out on the exercise yard with his friends, but I was guessing he was going to lay down the ground rules.

“Your new roomie, Dyson.”

He glanced over at me, then at the guard.  “I’m paying the single rate.”

“Not any more.”  The guard nodded at me to go in and shake a plain to the empty bed.

This is going to be interesting.

I took a step towards the bunk, and he was out of his bunk and standing in my way.

I looked him straight in the eye.  “This can go two ways, Dyson.  You keep standing there, and I get to stake a few weeks on solitary.  Since I’m used to it, it’s no skin off my nose.  But you, you might not walk again, or maybe this time I’ll see if I can rip your arm off and beat you with it.  Lasy guy, I tried to prove it could be done, but he died.  You know where I’m from, and you know why I’m here.”

I made it menacing enough.  Most of the men in this jail didn’t frighten easily.

Tyson looked at the guard. 

“My money is on the fact he’ll do it.  Plenty of you idiots who don’t know when to leave well alone.  I’ll turn around so I can say I didn’t see who started it.”

Which is what he did.

Tyson backed down and sat on his bunk.  “Louie isn’t going to be pleased.”

“Not trying to please or displease anyone.  All I want is a quiet contract and to be left alone.”

And knowing that was never going to happen.

“Get along, Dyson.” The guard said, just before he left.

After I threw everything on the bed, not that it amounted to much, and certainly nothing worth stealing, it was time to get some air.

The cell was quite stuffy, and Dyson wasn’t the cleanest of men.  I might tell him later, when he is a little more friendly.

“Which way to the exercise yard?”

“Follow the passage to the end and turn left.  You’ll see it.”

“Don’t like exercise?”

“Don’t like the inmates.  You’ll see.”

I’m sure I would.  As far as I was aware, Louie had my resume, and when I read it, it was impressive.  Mostly enemy soldiers, but there were also a few who were not.

I came out into the sunshine, and when the others out there realised who it was, they stopped and glared at me.  Not in a friendly manner.

There were two waiting by the entrance, ready for what? Were they expecting trouble?.  I could see the man called Louie on the other side, sitting on the bleachers, his acolytes around him.

The two men were almost beside me when they stopped.  One of the left, short, obese, and sweating badly, said, “You have an appointment.”

The one on the right looked menacing.  He was in trouble because he had his hand in his pocket, so there was a ship, knife or another weapon there.

Np point in giving him an excuse to get beat up.

I shrugged. “I don’t remember making one, but if you say so.”

He nodded in the direction of the man I thought was Louie.  I shrugged again and walked.  Slowly.  If things went south, I needed a strategy.

Of course, there was never enough time.  We were standing in front of him.  No matter.  He was intent on ignoring me because he could.  He was the boss.  I’m not sure how or why.

A minute passed, then two. 

Never the patient, man, I said, “Listen shit for brains, you make an appointment you keep it.  I’ll count to three, and if your head’s still up your ass, then I’m going over the other side.”  I waited a few seconds, then said, “One.”

He glanced at me.  To do otherwise would lessen his prestige.

“Two.”

He smiled, then turned.  “Have you noticed people are always in a hurry?”  He said it to no one in particular.

“To fie,” I said.  “Yes, they are. I’m sure you don’t want to be one of those, do you?”

The smile turned to a frown.  “You should be more respectful.”

“Respect us earned, not given or expected.”

I saw the imperceptible nod to the enforcer and was ready.  Disarmed and arm twisted out of its socket, he was no longer a threat.  I threw the shiv over the fence, outside.

The enforcer hadn’t made a sound short of a grunt, but he stayed down.  No one else moved.

“Sorry.  I needed to verify who you are, Stanson.  The best of the best now is the best of the worst?”

“Whatever.  You’ve had your fifteen minutes.  I’m going over there,” I pointed to the bench on the other side of the compound.  “And rest in peace.  I won’t be so kind to the next fool you send.”

“As you wish.  But we still have to have words.”

“Then call my secretary and make an appointment.”

A final look at the red spots growing on his cheeks, and I walked away.  No one followed me.  It was not a victory, just a minor delay before he came back.

There had been a plan, and when I heard it, I sat back and laughed.

It was anything but a plan, except if I wanted to die before one day had passed.

Everyone knew who ran that prison. 

Louie.

And to get what they wanted, which I didn’t know about, simply because if I did and was captured and tortured, they would discover who was behind this charade, they needed to neutralise Louie

And the three attempts so far had failed spectacularly, and in the process had alerted him to what they were trying to do.

I told them it was a mistake.

They then made me an impossible promise, one I knew they would never keep because they knew I would not see it through.

I was surprised I got to see Louie, so perhaps one aspect of this mission might be true. Louie was scared, not of me, but of someone else.

The question was, who?

I pondered all of these questions in that dank gold called solitary confinement.  I was there firstly for my protection, no other prisoners were allowed near me, and secondly, I could not be seen to get away with harming another prisoner.

Then I heard the outer door being unlocked.

An unscheduled visit. 

Could it be that there was someone else in the prison who was facilitating a host, and not a friendly one?

There was no hiding spot in the cell, so all I could do was be ready if the guard was hostile.  A figure loomed out of the darkness into the dull glow of the low-wattage globe illumination and space in front of my cell door.  It had been the only light I’d had for days.

“Good.  You’re awake.”

My contact in the jail, the one whom I was to go to, if I got into trouble.  Why was he here? He was not supposed to approach me.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“There’s an opportunity.  Louie has been taken to the infirmary.  He will be alone.  You have 30 minutes to do what you have to.”  He dropped a bag on the other side of the door, then opened it.  “Change of clothes and tools.”

“Afterwards?”

“You disappear.  As promised.”

There were so many holes in this plan. I didn’t know where to begin.  “Who put this on motion?”

“The same person who put Louie in the hospital.  You’re wasting time.”

Three minutes to freshen up and change, then along the passage and up to ground level.  Out one door and in the next, along another passage, and we were outside the infirmary.  Another four minutes.

A nurse was sitting at a desk, with monitors on three beds with prisoners.  The middle one was Louie.  My guard pointed to the middle door on the other side of the passage we were standing in.

The monitors blinked, the screens went fuzzy, and then came back on.  Replay, so my presence in his room would go unnoticed.

He knocked and went into the room with the nurse.  I didn’t wait to see what he was going to do.  I crossed to the door and listened, then went in.

He watched me warily as I closed the door.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

“Why?” I crossed to his bed.  Handcuffed.  Precautions.

“You’ve come from Alexander, haven’t you?”

Alexander was the crazy man who made promises he couldn’t keep.

“He is crazy.  I told him that.  And yet here I am.  You know why I’m here?”

“He blames me for Forrester’s death.  I had nothing to do with it.”

“Then why are you on a video, clear as day, shooting him in the back of the head.  An execution.  You said he was a traitor, and traitors get their just deserts.  To you, maybe, but not his country.”

“And you’re going to execute me?”

He didn’t deny it, which he strenuously did in court before they found the video.  There had been a camera, but it was broken.  Someone else had installed another, one not so obvious, and when we reviewed the recordings, it was clear why it was there and had led to a dozen other arrests.  The footage of my brother’s death was collateral damage.

“It was my first thought, but you need to suffer.”

“He didn’t if it’s any consolation.  Just what does it have to do with you?”

“My brother.”

“You look nothing like him.”

“Well, that’s as much I’m going to tell you.”  I pulled the hypodermic syringe that was also in the bag of clothes and jabbed it into his leg.

Less than a second.  Justice.

“What did you just do?” 

“Give you a lifetime to reflect on what you did.”

I gave him a last look, the serum starting to work, relaxing all of his muscles, and in about ten minutes would completely paralyse him.

If he was lucky, they would recognise what had happened and give him the other syringe sitting on the bedside table.  It wouldn’t unparalyse him, but it would make it so he could live, only with full-time care. He could not move or speak, but behind that mask, his mind would be active, and he could play over and over the actions that got him there.

Justice for murdering my brother.

And this prison was now free of his influence and threats.

Did that mean I could take over?

No.  It simply meant I’d repaid a debt and was now free. 

My prison contact returned, took me out the back way through an unknown passageway, built secretly at the time of the prison itself, there in case the warden and his family needed to escape, when a car was waiting.

To go anywhere I told them.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – 104

Day 104

Great are the days when writing flows easily, and bad are the days when it doesn’t flow at all. What you’re striving for is somewhere in the middle.

If that is at all possible.

Conditions have to be conducive, which means it doesn’t necessarily follow that you can write just anywhere.

That means you need, if it is at all possible, to set up a little, or big, nook someone in your residence where you can write.

It doesn’t necessarily have to be free of distractions, except, of course, the electronic kind.  Of course, if you are writing on a computer of any sort,t it would be better if it were not connected to the internet, where every few seconds there’s an alert, an email, a phone call, or breaking news headlines.

Nor do you really want to be near a phone, except if you’re expecting a call from your agent telling you you just got a multi-million dollar three-film contract.

OK, I’m projecting my own desires here…

But…

A writing room or nook would to me be a room with a view, my preference overlooking the ocean high on a cliff so that I could see the roiling ocean and dhimips battling against the odds.

Distraction.

Not necessarily, but on summery days it can provide the background for a lengthy piece of prose, or even a poem, an ode to days of leisure.

And to dream…

Yes inspired.

In such a computable and familiar place, it is possible to write without hindrance.  I do not have a room with a view, but I am surrounded by a thousand books, lounge chairs, and the tools to inspire me.

Writing isn’t difficult. It’s more about getting out there because the daily routine often gets in the way

But, my best writing happens at night after everyone has retired for the day, and the words come.  Often, it is no trouble to write a whole short story or several chapters of a novel.

But, then, having participated in the yearly A to Z blog month and twice yearly NANOWRIMO novel writing month has conditioned me to getting the job done. 

Searching for locations: The Kingston Flyer, Kingston, New Zealand

The Kingston Flyer was a vintage train that ran about 14km to Fairlight from Kingston, at the southern end of Lake Wakatipu, and back.

This tourist service was suspended in December 2012 because of locomotive issues.

However, before that, we managed to go on one of the tours, and it was a memorable trip.  Trying to drink a cup of tea from the restaurant car was very difficult, given how much the carriages moved around on the tracks.

The original Kingston Flyer ran between Kingston, Gore, Invercargill, and sometimes Dunedin, from the 1890s through to 1957.

There are two steam locomotives used for the Kingston Flyer service, the AB778 starting service in 1925, and the AB795 which started service in 1927.

The AB class locomotive was a 4-6-2 Pacific steam locomotive with a Vanderbilt tender, of which 141 were built between 1915 and 1927 some of which by New Zealand Railways Addington Workshops.

No 235 is the builder’s number for the AB778

There were seven wooden bodied passenger carriages, three passenger coaches, one passenger/refreshments carriage and two car/vans.  The is also a Birdcage gallery coach.  Each of the rolling stock was built between 1900 and 1923.  They were built at either of Addington, Petone, or Hillside.

I suspect the 2 on the side means second class

The passenger coach we traveled in was very comfortable.

This is one of the guard’s vans, and for transporting cargo.

The Kingston Railway Station

and cafe.

A poster sign advertising the Kingston Flyer

The running times for the tourist services, when it was running.

NANOWRIMO – April 2025 – Day 30

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The Fourth Son

…

The reporter

When the story is over, you realise you’ve forgotten a major chunk of it.

It’s one of those wakes in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, and screaming.

I was just looking at the first few chapters and realised, what about that horrid reporter that confronted them in the restaurant?

While Cherise dealt with the problem, it occurred to me later that she would be perfect for the new king to get an outsider, and a cynic at that, view.

Yes, he does get a little payback later on at the media conference at the Embassy when he arrives back from Ruth’s home.

So, now there’s a new chapter or section where the ambassador summons her editorial boss, and they put a proposal to both of them.

This will also then lead to an interview of sorts on the plane when they are coming home, where he has become King

I’m also including a new chapter where he meets with Archie, an old friend and the head of the principality’s only newspaper and TV station.

And there will be a revolving door of interaction with the media.