The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 34

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

…

She 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 a 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.

…

Another excerpt from ‘Betrayal’; a work in progress

…

My next destination in the quest was the hotel we believed Anne Merriweather had stayed at.

I was, in a sense, flying blind because we had no concrete evidence she had been there, and the message she had left behind didn’t quite name the hotel or where Vladimir was going to take her.

Mindful of the fact that someone might have been following me, I checked to see if the person I’d assumed had followed me to Elizabeth’s apartment was still in place, but I couldn’t see him. Next, I made a mental note of seven different candidates and committed them to memory.

Then I set off to the hotel, hailing a taxi. There was the possibility that the cab driver was one of them, but perhaps I was slightly more paranoid than I should be. I’d been watching the queue, and there were two others before me.

The journey took about an hour, during which time I kept an eye out the back to see if anyone had been following us. If anyone was, I couldn’t see them.

I had the cab drop me off a block from the hotel and then spent the next hour doing a complete circuit of the block the hotel was on, checking the front and rear entrances, the cameras in place, and the siting of the driveway into the underground carpark. There was a camera over the entrance, and one we hadn’t checked for footage. I sent a text message to Fritz to look into it.

The hotel lobby was large and busy, which was exactly what you’d want if you wanted to come and go without standing out. It would be different later at night, but I could see her arriving about mid-afternoon, and anonymous among the clientele the hotel attracted.

I spent an hour sitting in various positions in the lobby simply observing. I had already ascertained where the elevator lobby for the rooms was, and the elevator down to the car park. Fortunately, it was not ‘guarded’, but there was a steady stream of concierge staff coming and going to the lower levels, and, just from time to time, guests.

Then, when there was a commotion at the front door, what seemed to be a collision of guests and free-wheeling bags, I saw one of the seven potential taggers sitting by the front door. Waiting for me to leave? Or were they wondering why I was spending so much time there?

Taking advantage of that confusion, I picked my moment to head for the elevators that went down to the car park, pressed the down button, and waited.

There was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and keeping an eye on my potential surveillance, still absorbed in the confusion.

The doors to the left car opened, and a concierge stepped out, gave me a quick look, then headed back to his desk. I stepped into the car, pressed the first level down, the level I expected cars to arrive on, and waited what seemed like a long time for the doors to close.

As they did, I was expecting to see a hand poke through the gap, a latecomer. Nothing happened, and I put it down to a television moment.

There were three basement levels, and for a moment, I let my imagination run wild and considered the possibility that there were more levels. Of course, there was no indication on the control panel that there were any other floors, and I’d yet to see anything like it in reality.

With a shake of my head to return to reality, the car arrived, the doors opened, and I stepped out.

A car pulled up, and the driver stepped out, went around to the rear of his car, and pulled out a case. I half expected him to throw me the keys, but the instant glance he gave me told him he was not the concierge, and instead he brushed past me like I wasn’t there.

He bashed the up button several times impatiently and cursed when the doors didn’t open immediately. Not a happy man.

Another car drove past on its way down to a lower level.

I looked up and saw the CCTV camera, pointing towards the entrance, visible in the distance. A gate that lifted up was just about back in position, then clunked when it finally closed. The footage from the camera would not prove much, even if it had been working, because it didn’t cover the lift lobby, only what was in the direction of the car entrance.

The doors to the other elevator car opened, and a man in a suit stepped out.

“Can I help you, sir? You seem lost.”

Security, or something else. “It seems that way. I went to the elevator lobby, got in, and it went down rather than up. I must have been in the wrong place.”

“Lost it is, then, sir.” I could hear the contempt for Americans in his tone. “If you will accompany me, please.”

He put out a hand ready to guide me back into the elevator. I was only too happy to oblige him. There had been a sign near the button panel that said the basement levels were only to be accessed by the guests.

Once inside, he turned a key and pressed the lobby button. The doors closed, and we went up. He stood, facing the door, not speaking. A few seconds later, he was ushering me out to the lobby.

“Now, sir, if you are a guest…”

“Actually, I’m looking for one. She called me and said she would be staying in this hotel and to come down and visit her. I was trying to get to the sixth floor.”

“Good. Let’s go over to the desk and see what we can do for you.”

I followed him over to the reception desk, where he signalled one of the clerks, a young woman who looked and acted very efficiently, and told her of my request, but then remained to oversee the proceeding.

“Name of guest, sir?”

“Merriweather, Anne. I’m her brother, Alexander.” I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my passport to prove that I was who I said I was. She glanced cursorily at it.

She typed the name into the computer, and then we waited a few seconds while it considered what to output. Then, she said, “That lady is not in the hotel, sir.”

Time to put on my best-confused look. “But she said she would be staying here for the week. I made a special trip to come here to see her.”

Another puzzled look from the clerk, then, “When did she call you?”

An interesting question to ask, and it set off a warning bell in my head. I couldn’t say today, it would have to be the day she was supposedly taken.

“Last Saturday, about four in the afternoon.”

Another look at the screen, then, “It appears she checked out Sunday morning. I’m afraid you have made a trip in vain.”

Indeed, I had. “Was she staying with anyone?”

I just managed to see the warning pass from the suited man to the clerk. I thought he had shown an interest when I mentioned the name, and now I had confirmation. He knew something about her disappearance. The trouble was, he wasn’t going to volunteer any information because he was more than just hotel security.

“No.”

“Odd,” I muttered. “I thought she told me she was staying with a man named Vladimir something or other. I’m not too good at pronouncing those Russian names. Are you sure?”

She didn’t look back at the screen. “Yes.”

“OK, now one thing I do know about staying in hotels is that you are required to ask guests with foreign passports their next destination, just in case they need to be found. Did she say where she was going next?” It was a long shot, but I thought I’d ask.

“Moscow. As I understand it, she lives in Moscow. That was the only address she gave us.”

I smiled. “Thank you. I know where that is. I probably should have gone there first.”

She didn’t answer; she didn’t have to, her expression did that perfectly.

The suited man spoke again, looking at the clerk. “Thank you.” He swivelled back to me. “I’m sorry we can’t help you.”

“No. You have more than you can know.”

“What was your name again, sir, just in case you still cannot find her?”

“Alexander Merriweather. Her brother. And if she is still missing, I will be posting a very large reward. At the moment, you can best contact me via the American Embassy.”

Money is always a great motivator, and that thoughtful expression on his face suggested he gave a moment’s thought to it.

I left him with that offer and left. If anything, the people who were holding her would know she had a brother, that her brother was looking for her, and equally that brother had money.

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 90

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

Mrs Boggs has a gun and will use it

…

The sheriff was looking at me.

“Don’t you have a negotiator?”

“Tried. We have fifteen minutes before she starts shooting them.”

“Given the circumstances, surely there is a more simple solution.”

“She’s not in a position where we could neutralize the problem.”

I could see the scene in my mind. Benderby’s passion for privacy was going to be his undoing.

“Why me?”

“She wants the truth about her son’s death.”

“I wasn’t there when he was killed.”

“You were when they confessed.”

“So were you?”

“The recording was inadmissible evidence, a confession gained under duress.”

“Then it doesn’t matter what I say, the same argument applies.”

“Just tell her what she wants to hear and get the gun. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“And if she shoots Sam in the process?” Finally, my mother decided to speak.

“I don’t think she will, but we will take precautions.”

“I’m not going to change her mind, but if it saves her life, I’ll try.”

I didn’t see how the bulletproof vest was going to help if her aim was off, a very genuine possibility. It made me feel like I was overweight, and it restricted movement.

A large crowd had formed outside the venue, and it was hard to tell what they were thinking, other than this was yet another random act of gun violence.

The deputies cleared a path, and we went into the large room that was usually full of diners. People within a six-table radius had moved away, leaving Benderby, and Alex, sitting somewhat stultified, glancing in the direction where Elsie Boggs was.

She was not visible from where we were standing, yet it appeared she could see us.

“That’s far enough, Sheriff. Just send Sam here, and back off.

As the sheriff backed away, I walked slowly towards the table where I could now clearly see Benderby and Alex, and then I felt a shiver. His first wife, rarely seen in public, and daughter, Alex’s younger sister were also at the table. She had left him long before Benderby had embarked on his questionable ventures.

Wrong place, wrong time, and possible collateral damage.

I stopped about fifteen feet from both Elsie Boggs and the Benderby’s. The two women were visibly terrified.

Elsie Boggs said nothing, which surprised me after asking for me.

“If you want justice for your son, this is not going to achieve it. At least consider letting some of these people leave. They have nothing to do with this.”

“No. They’re witnesses.”

“To what exactly?”

“Alex’s confession.”

“It isn’t a confession if it’s under duress. It won’t be admissible in a court of law, and you know as well as I do that Alex would confess to anything if he believed it would save himself.”

“It’s not him he’s going to save.”

I heard once the effective range of a handgun was about twenty feet, and in the hands of an amateur far less. I was not sure if Mrs. Boggs knew how to use it, but she was certainly holding it steady, using both hands, like I’d seen on TV.

I suspect the weapon was Rico’s, because Boggs had shown me a gun he had found hidden away in the closet in the spare bedroom where Rico had been staying before being arrested.

I remembered it had a safety lock, but I couldn’t see it from where I was standing.

But the threat was real, she was aiming the gun at Alex’s sister. That was not going to help her case when this was over. It also brought into focus her state of mind, which was more than likely all over the place after losing her son.

I had to try, and talk her out of this course of action.

“This is not the way to get things done. It’s a matter for the police, and I’m sure they will investigate any claims you make.”

She shook her head. “The sheriff is in Benderby’s pocket. There will be no investigation. Their minds are already made up.”

She was right of course, and without any real assurances the sheriff was going to do anything, regret seemed little point to stop her.

“Look…”

She raised the gun towards the roof, over the heads of the Benderby’s, and shot a round into the ornate plasterwork, breaking it and showering them with plaster dust and normal dust.

It caused three of them to cough.

Two distinct points were resolved at that moment, the safety was off, and she could shoot. Would distance be the only factor?

“You’re running out of time, Alex.”

I saw a slight movement in what would have been her peripheral vision, more armed police moving into several more accessible places, one improving the firing line for a marksman to eliminate the problem.

Unfortunately, she saw it too, and shot another round in that direction, hitting a female police officer who was one of three with weapons drawn.

Mrs. Boggs situation just went from bad to worse.

“I told you all to leave,” she yelled, “so whatever happens now is on you.”

The other two officers had to hold their fire because returning fire might hit one of the Benderby’s. I hadn’t realized until then that she had also positioned herself so the Benderby’s became shields.

And if she shot at me, she would have to take the Benderby’s out of her sights, which might give a quick-thinking, or quick moving officer a chance of a shot.

This was where I should come up with some calming words, but it was clear that the last foray by the sheriff’s people had rattled her. The gun was getting more unsteady in her hands.

“Alex,” she said, a tinge of hysteria on her tone, and an edge that indicated time was running out for someone at that table, “You’ve got five seconds.”

Alex was not the bravest of souls, but, sitting at that table with his father, maybe he feared being a failure in front of him, than losing a sister.

He turned towards her, and said, “Go to hell.”

Five seconds later it was over.

Mrs. Boggs changed the target and shot Alex in the head, changed aim, and shot Benderby, and before either body hit the floor, three officers shot Mrs. Boggs.

The moment Alex spoke his words, I dropped to the floor, only registering what had happened after the five shots, and watching Mrs. Boggs collapse to the floor. No husband, no son, Rico in jail, she had nothing left to live for.

…

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 244

Day 244 – Writing exercise

…

Life is a paradox.

You think that everything is great, that after all the drama, mishaps and disasters that were sent to try you were defeated, one by one, that the universe had finally decided you deserved a life together.

God knows we had been on the verge of going our separate ways more times than I could count.

But we were there.

Amelia had planned a dinner for two in the swankiest restaurant in the city, and I had just got changed at work and about to catch a cab.

Amelia was driving in from the suburbs, and we would be staying in an equally swank hotel for the weekend.

It was a plan we had made the day before our wedding, to do exactly one year after, on our first anniversary.

Today marked our fifth.

Just as I told the cabbie the address, my cell phone rang.

‘Private Number’

I was going to ignore it, but a strange sensation ran through me, the like of which I’d never felt before.

“Hello?”

“Is that Allen Jamieson?”

“Yes.” Tentative. A spear of pain ran through my heart, and I braced myself.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

That was the ‘Oh God’ moment, and I could feel my world slipping out from under me.

“Your wife, Amelia, has been in a serious car accident. She has been taken to hospital. I suggest you get there as soon as possible.”

At the word ‘accident,’ I think I stopped thinking.

He gave the address, I thanked him, and that was it. Seconds later he tested the address, knowing that I wouldn’t remember a word he said, except that one word, ‘accident’.

…

I arrived in a daze, sick with worry, thinking that I was too late, that the light of my life had been extinguished.

After everything else …

I made myself known at the front desk, and within a minute a nurse came to take me to her.

She was in the emergency room; just arrived, and yes, still alive but barely. The nurse didn’t say she was hanging by a thread, but I read between the lines.

We burst into chaos. Apparently she was not the only victim of what had been a minor earth tremor that had brought down an overpass.

From the front counter to the ER, I got the disjointed details: a hundred cars and five buses, most crushed, and Amelia was one of five who survived. I did not hear how many didn’t.

I wasn’t prepared for what I was about to see, and when the nurse pulled back the curtain, I simply fainted.

…

When I recovered, smelling salts were horrible, and I awoke confused. I was outside her cubicle, but it was now empty.

Another nurse was saying that she had been taken to the OR for emergency surgery, and in my mind I could see the bloodied and broken piece of what was, as early as that morning, a beautiful and graceful woman who had survived everything that could be thrown at her.

Now?

If she died, I had not taken the chance to tell her everything I wanted to. In that moment, I had not been strong – the man she needed to be by her side when it mattered the most.

Now, all I could do was wait.

…

Twelve hours.

Twelve hours during which I could not sleep, could not rest, got up, walked around, sat down, conversed with other family members of other victims who were equally as stultified as I was at the horrendudness of what had happened.

The news coverage was on the whole time, covering the disaster, the death toll in the hundreds, the rescue attempts, the survivors. I saw the car Amelia had been in, and how she survived was a miracle.

Then the news turned dark: a panel of experts dissecting the disaster, and the revelation that the contractors who built the flyover had scrimped on materials and, had it been built properly, it might not have happened.

Not helping.

Searching for someone to blame would never help the victims or the loved ones who lost them.

One by one, the family members left. Most of their loved ones died on the operating table. Three had not. Relief could be measured, and it could be felt.

Twelve hours.

It was my turn.

The doctor, or one of them, came out, a white coat over bloodied scrubs. Straight from the fires of hell.

“She is a survivor,” was the first thing he said, with just a touch of admiration in his tone. “We repaired the body; it will heal in time with few aftereffects. Her mind, that’s a different matter. We repaired the damage, but we cannot be sure what functions may or may not return. She will be herself, the woman you know. She just may not remember who you are, or who she is. It is usually only temporary, but…”

It was enough. God had found a new way to tear us apart. It was just another hurdle, one that may take a little time to get over.

And, for Amelia, I had all the time in the world

…

Five months.

Nearly half a year, and every day I sat in her room, a bright sunny aspect looking over the gardens which, even for late autumn, still looked delightful.

The external and internal injuries had recovered. Her arms healed, her legs healed, and all we could do was wait to see if her head healed. Looking at her, except for a few scars, she looked the same Amelia as she had before the accident.

I came in, sat down, said my piece about everything going on around us, and then read from the classics. Sometimes in English, sometimes in Greek or Italian or Latin.

I told her all about Latin and the fact it was not a dead language. She would have agreed with me. If we wanted to say something and not have people around us understand, we’d speak in Latin.

It was about three in the afternoon.

Birds were tweeting outside. The sky had filled with dark, ominous clouds, and there were streaks of lightning in the distance.

A storm was coming.

Fifteen minutes later it was on us. A bolt of lightning lit up the room, and then the crack of thunder, directly overhead.

I was holding her hand.

Just after the crack of thunder, she squeezed my hand and opened her eyes.

I could see fear in her eyes, but I had not known her to be scared of thunder.

She spoke, but nothing came out. She coughed and winced. Not completely healed.

Then, “Where am I?”

She realised I was holding her hand and slipped it out of my grip. Not a good sign.

“A convalescent hospital “

“Why?

“You were in an accident.”

“When?”

“Five months ago. You have been in a coma.”

“And you are?”

There it was. What I had been dreading for the past five months, the cruellest of outcomes. She would not remember who I was.

“Your husband Allen.”

“You could be anybody.”

“I could, but I have proof.” Sitting beside the bed was a photograph album. Started at our wedding, the one none of her relatives came to.

The people who had spent two years trying to stop her from marrying me. Her family had different plans for her, but she had not wanted that life.

Cinderella’s life was normal compared to what her family had put her through, including kidnapping, mind control, torture by any other name, and a life-and-death rescue.

No one believed the story, but every word of it was true. I still carried the scars and the bullet they had hoped would kill me. It probably would in time.

She dragged herself up into a sitting position, and I gave her the album. She leafed through the pages, taking the time to look at the photos and then at me.

At the end, she closed the album and let it rest on her knees.

“I don’t remember anything. Not yours, not my life, nothing.” Tears flowed.

The doctor came in; I had seen him outside waiting, perhaps to see if I had any effect on what he still maintained would be temporary amnesia.

He looked at me, and I nodded. If I thought the last five months had been hard, the next were going to be harder.

…

It took another two months to get her back to a semblance of her former self. Intensive therapy to get all her limbs working, eating, coping with all those normal things we take for granted.

She had lost weight, and the clothes I brought, her favourites, were too large, and according to her, ‘what person in their right mind would wear these?’

She wanted jeans and T-shirts, and sports shoes. What some might call the grungy teenager look. The thing is, she looked great in them.

What else had changed? Her attitude. Not towards me; she seemed to have settled the debate that I was someone of interest, but that element of smoothness she’d acquired from her parents was gone, replaced by a girl who wasn’t afraid to say ‘fuck you’ if you annoyed her.

She was feisty before; now she was fiestier, which would have come in handy a long time ago.

A final week of tests and instructions to ease her way back into life outside the hospital, virtually the only place she could remember.

Then I took her home.

Her eyes lit up when she saw the house, and I had hoped she would remember, but she didn’t. For some reason, she said it was like the house she always wanted to live in, but couldn’t say why.

I wanted to tell her she designed it, but I promised myself I wasn’t going to shove true facts down her throat so she’d remember. Her memory, if it returned, would be when she wanted it to.

She cleaned out her old life. We went shopping to accommodate her new look. We changed furniture, repainted walls, drank red wine, which before she never would, and ate Chinese.

This was someone I didn’t know.

We slept in different rooms. I could appreciate her reluctance and probably would have worried if she jumped into bed with what was, to her, a complete stranger. I think it had worried her from the outset that I might enforce conjugal rights, but that was the last thing on my mind.

Sex had never been her top priority, and not very often. She hated being naked in the light, and rarely exposed much of her body except when home. And then, she had a very conservative one-piece swimsuit.

I had thought it odd that she was hiding scars or worse, but it was just a thing with her. It had not changed in the new Amelia.

But we coexisted; she had no interest in going anywhere or seeing anyone. She wouldn’t remember them anyway.

…

She didn’t remember her family, the heinous brother who had caused her so much pain, the younger sister who was spoilt and treated her badly, and the father whom I suspected had been the cruellest of the three.

Her mother had killed herself to get away from them. She had tried to leave, but had been dragged back. Amelia had never forgiven them for that.

Amelia herself had tried to escape, and was also dragged back, and ‘taught a lesson’ by her brother. She had never told me what happened, but I assumed it was bad.

Their cruelty increased exponentially when she wanted to marry me; her family fought it, and the sister tried to kill me the first time at the wedding rehearsal.

We escaped; Amelia had her story splattered across the pages of a mass-circulation newspaper, which led to the arrests of her father and brother, charges laid, followed by what could only be described as a mock trial, where the judge allowed a restraining order against them, a committee service for the rest.

No justice had been served that day, except that, at last, they kept their distance, even though they kept up the harassment in other ways. They had not managed to get access after the accident, even when they tried to get a court order to have her returned to their home.

I knew they would be waiting in the wings somewhere, to take the opportunity to snatch her back. If they did, then it would be at our property, which, unbeknownst to them, was a veritable fortress.

It was a subject for discussion a few days after our arrival, and it was settled.

“I know I have brought up the subject before, but you do have a family. The thing is, they hurt you in several ways, and you had to get a restraining order to keep them away.”

“That bad.”

“Worse. You never told me what they did to you, not that I wanted to know, but they’re out there, and given your current circumstances, they might come after you. They never approved of me as your husband.”

“What did you do?”

An odd question, but logical considering her condition.

“To them, I was a lower-class slob, beneath your station in life. You didn’t think so, which set them all off. They fought the relationship, tried to stop the wedding, your sister tried to kill me. The list is endless.”

“Then thank God I don’t remember them.”

Thank God indeed.

Until…

Later that day, my cell phone rang, an unlisted number.

I answered it.

It was her brother.

“How did you get this number?” It was meant to be a burner phone.

“That’s irrelevant. We would like to see my sister.”

“You have a restraining order.”

I was waiting to hear his laughter and tell me the error of my interpretation of such matters. Restraining orders did not apply to the Magallans.

“You can invite us to visit. Brief, supervised. What harm could it do if she doesn’t remember us? Or are you afraid she might want to come with us?”

There was an element of truth to that supposition. If she couldn’t remember them, and they were nice to her, throwing money around like paper confetti, she might.

Seeing them again might jog her memory too. Though a shock as severe as that might have adverse effects on her recovery.

“I suggest you give up this obsession you have. She didn’t like you before, and I doubt that’s changed.”

“Except she had no memory of us, unless that’s just a lie. We’ll see you tomorrow morning.” He disconnected the call before I could reply.

When I told her later, she simply said, “Let them come. I will deal with them.”

“You remember them?”

“No. If they are as bad as you say they are, it’s no wonder my memory doesn’t want to return. The doctor said that a possible reason for this amnesia is because my mind is shutting out the pain it knows will return if I get my memory back.”

“It might be because of me too.”

“I don’t feel that you hurt me, only protected me. I have this strange feeling of contentment when I am with you. It’s the reason I’m here now. I would not have come with you otherwise.”

“And I will continue to protect you. I told them not to come. You have a restraining order against them. I could call the police.”

“No. I want to see them, see what they have to say for themselves.”

I shrugged. There was a gun in the case for just such emergencies. I hope I wouldn’t have to use it.

…

We lived on what used to be cattle grazing land, a hundred acres stretching from the coastline to the main road. Our house was back nearer the ocean, where it couldn’t be seen from the main road.

There were cameras and a high fence, so visitors had to identify themselves before entering. There were surveillance cameras everywhere, so they couldn’t arrive unannounced.

There were only two ways to get to the house. By the lane off the main road and through the front gate, and from the ocean. If you liked scaling cliffs.

They came via the front gate.

We were both in the kichen when the when the button was pressed. They had to ask us to open the gate.

There were four people in the car. A chauffeur, the borrower in the front seat, and the father and sister in the back. None of them looked comfortable.

The chauffeur, not suspecting we could see them, asked for permission to enter.

I gave Amelia one last chance to say no. She did not

I opened the gate.

We watched the car come along the track, the house being about a mile back from the main road, and completely secluded on all four sides.

We watched the car slowly drive along, getting closer and closer until it stopped next to my old battered Land Rover.

I was glancing at Amelia as she closely looked at each of them as the chauffeur opened the doors and each one got out, smoothing down the invisible wrinkles and waiting for the next.

A clear view of the chauffeur. A man who looked more like a battle-hardened mercenary than a driver. A red flag. Amelia’s expression didn’t change.

Once standing together, the son pulled out a cigarette, but before he could light it, his father yanked out of his mouth and threw it away, adding a few choice words that made lip reading easy.

No love lost between the two of them. The sister shook her head and started walking towards the door. The other two caught up.

“Don’t like them,” she said. “I don’t see how any of them could be my family, except by looks.”

“They once told me they weren’t in the business of being liked.” First time, and nearly the last time I met them.

“I’ll wait in here, give myself time to screw my courage to the sticking point.”

It was a phrase she had used a lot, when she was herself. Had seeing them jog a memory fragment?

A minute later there was pounding on the door. They’d completely overlooked using the button to ring the bell. Were they making a statement, or being the usual bullies?

I sucked several deep breaths, then answered the door.

Richard barked, “Where is the bitch. She’s faking it, you know.”

I stood back a foot after the verbal onslaught.

“It is usual to say hello before ranting, Richard, but then no one taught you any manners.”

“Just get out of the way.”

I thought about hitting him, but then there were two more waves of shock troops to fend off. I stood to the side, and he pushed his way past, almost knocking me over, while saying, “Where is she?”

Maybe not such a good idea to invite them.

The father and Elizabeth passed more sedately, but with scowls on their faces. It was clear they were not here with love in their hearts.

“I hope you left the kitchen knife set back home,” I muttered as she went past.

She simply smiled briefly, with an evil glint in her eyes, and kept going.

As I shut the door, I heard the father say, “What the hell…”

When I entered the room, I did not know what to expect. It wasn’t Richard squirming on the floor making strange noises.

Amelia was leaning against the dividing bench between the kitchen and the dining lounge, watching him and the others.

Just watching.

The father yelled, “What happened?” He was glaring furiously at his other daughter, Amelia.

“This person, whoever he is, came straight at me, and, of course, I had to defend myself.” She looked straight at her father, or perhaps through him. “Who is he, because I don’t have any animal friends that I know at that isn’t a man, its some rabid, out of control creature who should be put down.”

It was delivered almost as a conversational piece, far more frightening than if she screamed it at him like a banshee. It virtually stopped him in his tracks

“He is your older brother.”

“No. He isn’t. If I had a brother, he’d be more like me. Pleasant, docile, amenable. That creature,” she pointed at him, still writhing, “needs to be put down.”

Her sister sighed. “We are your family, Amelia, and we’ve come to take you home, where you belong.”

Amelia turned her eyes to her sister. The look on her face, I noticed, was hard, the sort people would say, if looks could kill.

“Who are you again?”

“Your younger sister, Patricia.”

Amelia smiled, humourless as she evaluated the woman before her.

“Impossible. Oversized ears, beady eyes, thin cruel lips, too much blusher, too bright red lipstick. You look like a cadaver from a Frankenstein movie. You’re nothing like me, so I don’t know who you are, and quite frankly, I don’t want to.”

“Don’t talk to your sister like that.” Her father finally found his voice and had dragged the hapless son off the floor.

I had no idea what Amelia had done to him, but it was clear he couldn’t stand up straight.

“Are you the sire of these creatures? Then you cannot be any better than they are. I have no idea why my husband thought I should meet you; in fact, if I remember rightly, just before you turned up at the front gate, he told me he didn’t, and the creature invited himself. The creature also said that I was faking my amnesia. About what you’d expect from a brainless creature. Now…”

She leaned back over the counter, picked something, and a few seconds later had a gun in her hand. The gun we kept in case of emergencies.

Something told me some part of her memory had returned.

“What are you doing?” Patricia looked terrified. Perhaps she too thought her sister’s memory had returned.

“You’re leaving my house. Dead or alive, it’s your choice. You have until I count to ten. Be very grateful it’s not three. One.”

“Let’s go,” Patricia said. “She’s clearly off her rocker.”

“This is ridiculous,” Richard muttered. “She’s not going to shoot anyone.” He took a step towards her, and she shot him; the force of the bullet pushed him back into her father and sent them both sprawling. She had aimed for the soft part of the shoulder.

This was not the Amelia I knew.

Richard screamed; realising it was not fatal, just agonising, he separated himself from his father, who scrambled to his feet, and backed away.

“This was a mistake. A big mistake. She has no idea who she is.” He looked at me. “You’ll be next; she’s clearly lost the plot.

She took a step forward and aimed the gun at his head. “Get up and get out. The next shot will end that pathetic life of yours, and these two as well. It’s a three-for-one deal.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice, awkwardly himself to his feet, groaning, then clutching at the wound. Blood stained a very expensive suit.

A last glare at Amelia, he went to say something, perhaps a threat, perhaps a curse, but thought the better of it.

They left.

Amelia followed them to the door.

“This is your one and only warning. I ever see any of you again, I will kill you. Very slowly and very painfully. Payback will be a bitch.”

That’s when they stopped in their tracks. Richard turned, then the other two.

“You remember?”

“The moment you walked into the room. What you did to me, I’ll never forget. Neither will you, because today is the first you, all of you, better start looking over your shoulder. You’re getting a day’s grace, then I’m coming after you, and I won’t stop until you’re dead. Now get off my property.”

Richard lingered. A bad mistake. She shot at Richard, scrambling for cover until there were no more bullets. Then, when he thought it was safe, she held up a new clip and rammed it home.

“You want to play games, Richie?”

I think he finally realised she was not joking.

They got in the car and left.

…

We waited until the car disappeared out of sight.

She sighed. “Jesus’s, that felt good.”

“Not remembering what he did to you.”

“All of them. No. But I wanted to kill him. I had to really restrain myself, but it was too easy. He’s going to die slowly and painfully.”

“Don’t you think you’ve made your point?” I’m as much for revenge as the next guy, but there had to be a better way.

“I did the lawyer thing, and they made a mockery out of it. We give them a week, and then we’ll go after them.”

“A week?”

“They’ll get their security team together, send a couple of scouts, and then decide what to do. The driver was one of their mercenaries; he was scoping the place for weaknesses. They’ll come by the cliffs. A week. A half dozen of their best mercenaries found dead; they’ll get the message.”

She turned around and smiled. “You were the only one I could trust. Through thick and thin.”

“I believed you’d lost your memory “

“I had. Richard tipped it all on its head. The voice, then the presence. What he did to me. It all came back. He came at me; I put him down. Self-defence, and gun club. Training. I was always going to get them. Are you in?”

“Do I get the shoot your sister?”

“After what she did to you, who am I to stop you? Come. Your training starts now.”

…

In a word: Bar

There’s more than one way … er, perhaps it’s better to say, there are many ways to use the word bar, which is not bad for a three-letter word.

Bar, the one you associate with drinks, in hotels, restaurants and we’ll, just bars.

Probably the best type of bar you might find me in is a Sports Bar, where you can snack on buffalo wings a tall glass of beer and watch with ice hockey in winter or baseball in summer.

It’s one I use from time to time when asked, what will we do, and the reply is often let’s go to a bar. The best bars are underground, dark and dingy, full of eclectic people, with a band playing almost passable music or better still jazz

Bar, as in the legal variety

There are so many legal references to using bar, that the one that I am most familiar with is being admitted to the bar which means that you can now practice law.

Raising the bar, if that’s possible, where the bar is that imaginary level which offers sinks very low. When someone says they’re going to try and raise the bar, you may be assured there will be a long battle ahead, simply because people generally find it hard to change.

Bar, as in we are not going to let you in here. Yes, this is the irksome one where you find yourself, often for reasons unknown, barred from somewhere or something. This may also be referred to by saying everyone may enter bar you.

Bar, as in an iron bar, the sort that is sometimes used as a blunt force object by villains to remind the victim they owe any one of a loan shark, bookie or the mafia. God help you if it is all three.

There are also iron bars of a different sort, those that are set in concrete outside a window most likely in a prison where the objective is to prevent escape.

It gives rise to an old expression, that person should be behind bars.

Then there is just a bar, such as a bar of gold, which I’m sure we’d all like to have stashed away, but not necessarily in the mattress, or the more common variety, a chocolate bar, which I have one now. What’s your favorite?

And just to add to the list of meanings you can always refer to sashes or stripes as bars.

Confused? Well, there’s still music, and the bane of yachtsmen, sand bars but I think we’ll leave it there.

Welcome to the English language

“Sunday in New York”, a romantic adventure that’s not a walk in the park!

“Sunday in New York” is ultimately a story about trust, and what happens when a marriage is stretched to its limits.

When Harry Steele attends a lunch with his manager, Barclay, to discuss a promotion that any junior executive would accept in a heartbeat, it is the fact that his wife, Alison, who previously professed her reservations about Barclay, also agreed to attend that casts a small element of doubt in his mind.

From that moment, his life, in the company, in deciding what to do, his marriage, his very life, spirals out of control.

There is no one big factor that can prove Harry’s worst fears, that his marriage is over, just several small, interconnecting events, when piled on top of each other, point to a cataclysmic end to everything he had believed in.

Trust is lost firstly in his best friend and mentor, Andy, who only hints at impending disaster, Sasha, a woman whom he saved, and who appears to have motives of her own, and then in his wife, Alison, as he discovers piece by piece, damning evidence that she is about to leave him for another man.

Can we trust what we see with our eyes or trust what we hear?

Haven’t we all jumped to conclusions at least once in our lives?

Can Alison, a woman whose self-belief and confidence are about to be put to the ultimate test, find a way of proving their relationship is as strong as it has ever been?

As they say in the classics, read on!

…

Purchase:

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“Echoes From The Past”, the past doesn’t necessarily stay there

What happens when your past finally catches up with you?

…

Christmas is just around the corner, a time to be with family. For Will Mason, an orphan since he was fourteen, it is a time for reflection on what his life could have been, and what it could be.

Until a chance encounter brings back to life the reasons for his twenty years of self-imposed exile from a life only normal people could have. From that moment, Will’s life slowly starts to unravel, and it’s obvious to him that it’s time to move on.

This time, however, there is more at stake.

Will has broken his number one rule: don’t get involved.

With his nemesis, Eddie Jamieson, suddenly within reach, and a blossoming relationship with an office colleague, Maria, about to change everything, Will has to make a choice. Quietly leave, or finally, make a stand.

But as Will soon discovers, when other people are involved, there are going to be terrible consequences no matter what choice he makes.

…

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