Category: Fiction

Writing a book in 365 days – 191

Day 191

Is writing a solitary experience?

…

I can see how it is that a writer’s life can be a lonely one.  That’s why, I guess, so many writers have an animal as a pet, someone to talk to, or just feel as though you are not alone in this quest.

I’m often sitting in front of the computer screen, or in a large lounge chair with my trusty tablet computer, writing the words, or staring into space!

Sometimes the words don’t make any sense, sometimes the thoughts leading to those words don’t make any sense.

Sometimes the most sensible person in the room is the cat.

I’m sure his thoughts are not vague or scrambled, or wrestling with the ploys of several stories on the go, getting locations right, getting characters to think and do their thing with a fair degree of continuity.

The cat’s world is one of which chair to lie on, where is that elusive mouse, be it real or otherwise, and is this fool going to feed me, and please, please, don’t let it be the lasagna.  I am not that cat!

Unlike other professions, there is no 9 to 5, no overtime, no point where you can switch off and move into leisure time.  Not while you are writing that next masterpiece.  It’s a steady, sometimes frustrating slog where you can’t just walk away, have a great time, and come back and pick up where you left off.

Then there are those moments when you are staring off into space, contemplating the loneliness of it all.

Except you’re not.

There are what I call the sounds of silence, which for some reason are much easier to hear than during the daylight hours.

The bark of a dog.

The rustle of leaves in the trees.

The soft pattering of rain on the roof.

The sound of a train or truck horn from a long way away.

The sound of a truck using its brakes on the highway, also a long way away.

The sound of people talking in the street.

The thing is, you are never quite as alone as you might think or try to be.

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction.  He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down.  He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup.  I stepped to the other side and so did he.  It was one of those situations.  Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic.  I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone.  I shrugged and looked at my watch.  It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk?  I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station.  What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’.  I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light.  As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini.  I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car.  It was that sort of car.  I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him.  I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on.  The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter.   Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure.  I was no longer in a hurry.

At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot.  A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring.  I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road.  I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar.   It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did.  There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me.  It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me.  As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man.  He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter.  I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in.  I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.

Just in case.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

newechocover5rs

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

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:

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

And the story:

It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.

The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.

He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent.  We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on.  Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.

Where was he going?

“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter.  He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing.  Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain.  He’s just sped up.”

“How far away?”

“A half-mile.  We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”

It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”

“Step on it.  Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do.  The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.

Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster.  We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.

Or so we thought.

Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility.  The car was empty, and no indication where he went.

Certainly not up the road.  It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit.  Up the mountainside from here, or down.

I looked up.  Nothing.

Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”

Then where did he go?

Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.

“Sorry,” he said quite calmly.  “Had to go if you know what I mean.”

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.

I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.

It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him.  It’s just a matter of time.”

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe”  available soon.

InspirationMaybe1v1

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 88

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 installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

We have a situation

…

Home wasn’t home anymore.

I stood inside the front door, as I had many times in the past, but this time it was different.

Maybe it was the near-death experience, maybe I hadn’t been there for a few days, maybe I had irrevocably changed in those few short days.

It seemed that I was someone else, that the old Sam had gone away, and a new version had replaced him.  Had I finally grown up, or was I still reeling from the ordeal and, more likely, mourning the loss of what had been my one true friend.

Right then, it felt like Boggs had never existed, and that Nadia had invaded that space.

Nadia.

Until now, right this moment, I hadn’t really thought about what I was about to do.  Since being in the hospital, every movement I’d made felt mechanical, and someone else was manipulating the controls.

Wanting to leave was a knee-jerk reaction, and one that failed to recognize others may have a role in what happened, like my mother.  I gad completely discounted her because of her association with Benderby, but what if that was no longer the case.

With Alex off the hook, they no longer had to worry about Nadia or what I might say or do, not that there was anything we could do.  I felt for Charlene who literally was between a rock and a hard place, having to compromise her principles to uphold justice and her disappointment in her father.

To be honest, his actions came as a surprise, despite the rumors of corruption.  It didn’t occur to me that it might have been the lesser of the evils, getting Vince off the streets, nobbling the Cossatinos, and to a lesser extent, using the situation as a bargaining chip with the Benderby’s.

But all of that was moot.  Another rumor circulating, according to the newspaper I’d seen at the hotel, was that a third term for the current sheriff was looking unlikely.  It was joined by an interview with Benderby on the construction of a new resort on the mall site.  Noticeably absent were any reports on Boggs, the treasure, or Cossatino.

I considered briefly whether I should go to the newspaper and tell them the whole story.  If he considered it had any element of truth, he’d publish it and be damned, but the thought of how his wife, an Ormiston, would take the news of finding her father, only for the body to disappear, would serve no purpose.  If there was a body, I would not hesitate.

But, now, it was enough to make a decision on what I would do next.  Pack a bag, tell my mother I was leaving, and call Nadia.

It was impossible to fit a lifetime into a bag.  It was fortunate, perhaps, that my situation had not afforded me the luxury of too many possessions, or anything of value.

Even so, what fitted wasn’t much.  I wanted to believe it was going to be a new start, but it seemed like I was just running away, that the problems I was running from would just come with me. 

And, then, there was Nadia.  I was today’s flavor of the month, but would I be in a month, or two? 

That thought was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.  I stepped onto the passage just as my mother closed the door.

“Sam.  Where have you been?  I’ve been calling, and leaving messages.”

She wasn’t angry, but there was an edge to her tone.  I should have at the very least sent a message to say I was OK.  It didn’t help my phone battery had died.  I’d put it in the recharge, and minutes later continually dinged with missed messages

“I had to get away.  Either that or I would have done something I regretted.  I thought you’d moved in with Benderby.”

“You thought wrong.  This business with Alex.  I remember you told me he was responsible for what happened to you and Nadia, and when I overheard him arguing with his father, I realised you were telling me the truth, and neither of them could be trusted.  I just told him I needed some time to sort out some issues.”

“You’re not going back?”

“No.  What are you going to do?”

“There’s nothing for me here.  I’m not going back to the warehouse, nor do I want to be here anymore.  Not while Alex is put and about.  It’s only a matter of time before he comes after Nadia and I.”

“Then you’re still going to Italy with her.”

“For a while, see how it works out.  You should come too, at least for a holiday, think about what you’re going to do.  Personally, I think you should also leave, start fresh somewhere else.”

“Maybe you’re…”

We both heard the screeching tires of a car coming to a sudden stop outside, followed by the slamming of doors.

Alex not waiting to clean up his mess?

A sudden pounding on the door revised that assessment, if anyone was here to do us harm they would have kicked the door down.

I moved my mother behind me, and the protection of the door as I opened it.

The sheriff.

“We have a situation,” he said in his most serious tone

Warning us the Benderby’s were coming for us?

When neither of us responded, he added, “Elsie Boggs has the Benderby’s at gunpoint at the Blue Circle, and she will only talk to you.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

Curious children find a curiosity

I am constantly reminded of how curious grandchildren can be when they are not asking you what it was like to live with dinosaurs!

The second eldest who is a rather clever 17-year-old considers it interesting that I’m a writer, and having just met a ‘real’ author who came to visit them at school, asked me a few questions, some of which sounded like those that had been asked of my ‘real’ counterpart.

Like, “how old were you when you first wrote a story, and what was that story about?”

I didn’t think it was when I was at school, but sometime after that, and after a lot of reading.  Perhaps it had been one of those moments when a light bulb goes on in your head, and I said to myself, I can write these stories too.

Of course, that wasn’t an answer, so she asked again, when did I start writing?

That required a little thought, and there were several triggers that gave me a date, where I lived at the time, the fact I used my mother’s old portable typewriter, and the fact I had not been long out of school.  I was, in fact, about 17.  It was 53 years ago; I’ll let you do the math!

What was it about; that I couldn’t tell her, but I said I had rescued a lot of old scribbling of mine and put them in a box to look at later when I had the time.

I guess that time had arrived.

And, yes, there was the book, the individually typed pages, some with corrections, unfinished.

The pages were brown with age.

The story, well, I read the first few pages, and it seems I’d started down the thriller path then, the story so far, an agent comes ashore from a trawler to a bleak and isolated village, perhaps on the Scottish coast.

Then there was the inevitable next question; “What was the first story you read that put you on the path to wanting to become a writer”.

That was easy, Alistair Maclean’s HMS Ulysses.  I showed her a copy of the book.

That led to, “but this is about the British Royal Navy in World War 2…”

Perhaps I didn’t answer that correctly, it was after reading about a dozen of his novels, most of which were precursors to the modern-day thriller, perhaps more along the lines of action adventures.

The next question, understandably; “What was the first book you ever finished?”

That was The Starburst Conspiracy, the manuscript of which was in the box along with another completed novel, and quite a few short stories.

Back in those days, I remembered that I had sent some of my stories off to various publishers, and had entered a number of short story competitions, all to no avail.  And for a number of years, until I because to old, used to write and enter a novel in the Vogel novel competition but never made it to the shortlist.

It’s probably why I gave up writing for a number of years, until I worked for an interesting company who had a rich history of phosphate mining in the Pacific and being given permission to look into the archives, began writing what could only be described a saga, and by the time I’d left, it was over 1200 closely typed pages long.

I showed the bulky manuscript to her, but by this time her interest had moved to something else.

For me, however, it seemed there was a lot of unfinished business.

“Trouble in Store” – Short Stories My Way:  The re-write – Part 10

Now that I’ve gone through the story and made quite a few changes, it’s time to look at the story

…

Jack had heard there were moments where, in a split second, your whole life flashed before your eyes.  His life up to that moment did, and what he saw he didn’t like.

But nor was he very happy about the fact he was nearly out the door before the policewoman on the other side crashed into him and sent both of them sprawling to the floor, and back into the path of danger.

That was about the same fraction of a second he heard the gun go off, twice, or so he thought and knew he was a dead man, waiting for the bullet.  A life-defining fraction of a second.

Another fraction of a second passed as the policewoman tried to unravel the mess they’d become, and in that moment in time he felt a tugging at his sleeve and then, as if in slow motion, the sound of the glass door disintegrating behind him.

What may have been milliseconds in reality seemed like half a lifetime in his mind.  That he was still alive at the end of it was, he thought, a sign.

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2024

Writing a book in 365 days – 189

Day 189

Writing exercise – Everybody called him Einstein, but long before he had made his last big mistake, people had forgotten why.

…

Some legends are spoken at gatherings around night fires, times when folks liked to talk about olden times, times when life was different.

There were signs of a different civilisation, almost lost in the vegetation, of people who had lived very different lives from what we have now.

Our settlements were near these ruins, taking advantage of facilities that had been created or repurposed, and our progress was based on what we found.

But there was one legend of a person known as Buck, or perhaps his name could have been longer. The relic we found was only a small part of something larger.

One of the elders of our clan said he had heard, when he was young, of a relic called a book, where there was writing in a language that was once spoken by those who lived long ago.

It was still our language, taught down through the generations, as a mark of respect to the people we believed were our ancestors.

This Buck, he said, was also compared to another, a man called Einstein, a great man who lived many centuries before, one of many who contributed to creating the means of destroying the world, and nearly everyone on the planet.

That legend had faded because no one wanted to remember the people who had made our world the way it was, scarred, with often warring clans, fighting over the little resources we had. 

It seemed silly that we had to spend more time and effort defending what we had rather than living our lives in peace, but that was something else we learned: not to be greedy and to covet other people’s property.  It was a pity that other clans did not.

My question had been, if this man Buck was so clever, why were we not more advanced?  The thing was, no one really knew why this Buck was so clever, why he was compared to that man called Einstein specifically, and no one really cared.

The day dawned, a fine day without winds or storms, and warm.  It had been progressively getting warmer, and now, in my twentieth year, the cold only lasted for four months of the year. 

It was my turn to go to the well and get the water.  It was a morning chore that had its advantages.  I got to meet up with the other younger people in the clan, and one in particular, a girl of my age, Anna.

If I did everything right, our families would eventually meet, and the bargaining for the marriage between us would commence.  Everything had a value in trade. There was no money, a strange concept from long ago, only what we had to trade.  Furs, food, timber, mud bricks, tools, weapons.

We did not fight each other, only the other clans, if we were attacked.  Such a thing as crime and an ancient concept was not tolerated, and if committed, the perpetrator was expelled into the wastelands.

I joined the line and waited for my turn.  There was a water monitor whose job was to make sure everyone got their fair share.  I collected our water and then waited to see if Anna came.

She did, collected her water, and then came over time where I was waiting.

“Guy, how are you?”

“Anna.  I am well.  How are you?”

“I am also well.  I trust your family is well.”

“They are.  Yours?”

“They are also well.  It looks like we will have more warm days this year.  My father says it will extend the crops so we will have more food to store for the cold times.”

“That is good.  We are hoping to have more cattle and sheep for meat and milk.”

“There are more people.  My father says we will have to start exploring again.”

“We he be leading the expedition?  I would like to go with him this time, if i can get permission.”

“I will ask.  Now I must go.  It was nice talking to you, Guy.”

“It was nice talking to you, Anna.”

My trips to the well were not only to meet Anna, but also the thrill of getting another clue to how we came to be.

Her father was one of the few elders trusted with the history of our clan, who organised expeditions beyond the boundary of our village, sometimes put into the expanse.
.
No one ever ventured there. It was uninhabitable with no water, no vegetation, and only ruins of a much older and advanced civilisation.  The people, he said, had destroyed themselves through greed and paranoia.

It was said he had seen things no man should ever want to see or should.

He did not share these revelations with his family, but sometimes Anna acquired an artefact and would tell me, in hushed tones, or other times slip me a piece of paper she had written on, with the note to burn it when read.

It was all very secretive.

I checked my pocket, and there was a piece of much-folded paper.  When I was alone and not to be interrupted, I carefully unfolded it.  It was not handwriting.  It was very neat letters, what she had called printing, where all the writing was elegant and easily readable.

We didn’t have books, and I don’t think any of us had ever seen one.  We knew about paper, though our paper wasn’t the same as the relics we were told existed.  This page I had could get me into trouble because it was a relic.

It was about a man named Albert Einstein, who lived many centuries ago, a man who developed the theory of relativity and contributed to the photoelectric effect, which is a phenomenon related to the interaction between light and matter. 

It was obvious to me that to be classed as brilliant, you had to use words no one else could understand.  I folded the page up and his it.  I would give it back next time I saw her.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 87

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 installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

I really am leaving, really

…

A lot can happen in a week.

After leaving the mall carpark, we drove past a scene that could have been right out of a movie, it seemed that surreal.  There were 6 police cars, lights flashing, and officers everywhere.

Cossatino was up against his car, with two officers standing over him.  Both the sheriff and Charlene were not far away, and I had no doubt Charlene’s career was about to take a huge leap, bringing down members of both crime families.

His two bodyguards were on the ground, looking like they’d just gone ten rounds against the reigning heavyweight boxing champion.

Nadia didn’t slow down when passing, and unless he recognized the car, Cossatino would not have seen us, so dense was the tint she had on the car windows.

One of the other cars had both Alex and Vince in the rear, both looking very forlorn.  At that moment in time, I felt like Boggs would get the justice he deserved, in a manner that didn’t require bloodshed, and had to admire the planning and forethought Nadia had put into the operation.

We didn’t go back to her hotel, she suspected the arrest of her father, brother and Alex would not go unnoticed, along with her part in it, despite Charlene assuring her she’d try to keep it under wraps.  Instead, we headed out of town to a small motel that few knew about, and an owner who wouldn’t recognize her, or me.

The room was dingy, with a musty aroma that comes from lack of use, but the sheets were clean, the water in the bathroom hot, and the company perfect.

We didn’t speak, there was no need to, and in the end, everything was just perfect.

Of course, expecting the serenity to last was a forlorn hope.

It wasn’t just the thunderstorm that passed through around midnight, but more a sense of foreboding left hanging in the air.

We were woken, firstly by the rhythmic sound of light rain on the roof, which in a way was quite soothing, but then by the sound of the TV news, part of an early morning show that I had only seen a few times, and disliked because of the presenters.

This morning they sounded positively garish, one reporting, in a tone that might have been used to report an end-of-world event,

“This morning we are waking to the news that the two largest crime families in the county have been finally brought to justice.”

It was a tag team event.

“Yes, John.  We are learning that the head of the Cossatino clan has been charged with conspiracy to murder and that his son Vincent, had been charged over the murder of a local boy, Anton Boggs.”

To the other presenter,

“Yes, Alice.  We understand that the Boggs family has a rather infamous connection to the search for Captain X, long believed to have stashed a large cache of his plunder somewhere along the coastline.  This treasure hunt was first started in earnest by another local identity, X Ormiston, who, like the victim’s father, disappeared mysteriously, some years ago.”

Back again,

“We also understand that the son of a businessman and long believed to be involved in a number of suspect activities, none of which have been proved, I might add, Alexander Benderby, has also been arrested as an accomplice in the murder of Anton Boggs.”

There was a momentary break, just enough time to turn to the TV in our room. As the picture came on, “Just a moment,” the man held a hand to his ear, no doubt listening to someone updating the situation or reporting something more important.

Then, “we have breaking news, and we’re crossing to the Sheriff’s office where he’s about to make an announcement.”

The picture changed, coming live from outside the sheriff’s office, with a row of microphones and more standing in front, waiting.

“This is not looking good,”  Nadia said.

I think she thought the same as I did, and exactly what I’d told Charlene a few days before, that money trumps justice.

“You think the sheriffs sold out and will recant the charges?”

“Given how much money both of them have funnelled one way or another his way, I wouldn’t be surprised.  I honestly thought that Charlene was different “

“She means well, but you have to remember she is subject to the will of the sheriff first, and her father second, though those lines may be blurred at times.  Had it been anyone else, justice would prevail.”

No time for any more discussion, the sheriff came out to address the media pack.

“At 5:45 am this morning, Vincent Cossatino was found deceased in his cell, along with a suicide note asking for absolution for his crimes.”

“Here it comes,” Nadia muttered.

“The note also stated that he alone was responsible for the death of Anton Boggs, that Alex Benderby had taken no part in it and therefore has been released from custody, innocent, and all charges dropped.”

Nadia turned off the TV.  “There’s no way in hell Vincent committed suicide or wrote such a note.  He was made the scapegoat so all the others could go free. Something had to be done about Vince, and this was Dad’s way of cleaning up the mess he left behind.  Bastard.”

Deals were done, there was no doubt about it.  I wondered what Charlene thought about it?

So did Nadia, who had her phone in her hand, and no doubt calling her.

If I were Charlene, I would not answer, but she did.

Nadia put it on speaker and put it between us.  “What the fuck was that all about?”

“I was taken off the case for obvious reasons.  Is Sam there?”

“Yes,” I said.

“You were right.  A deal was done last night, but I had no idea what the outcome was until the same time you just heard.  This isn’t justice.”

“Nor what we agreed,” Nadia said.

“And for that, I’m sorry, but I stupidly thought that the law was the law, but apparently it isn’t.  I’m about to hand in my resignation, but that won’t change anything.  Alex will get away with it, despite the confession.  Apparently, the recording was damaged when it came to anything he said.”

“Alex might like to think he has, but justice has a way of catching up with the guilty.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, Nadia.  They’ll be expecting you to do something.”

“Yes, I guess so.  Maybe Sam and I will just leave.  This place no longer has anything to keep me here.  I’m sure my father will get off with lesser charges, and seek to make my life hell for what he perceives as disloyalty.”

“Like I said, I was deliberately sidelined.  There’s not a lot I can do, and even if I tried, I’m sure they’d do something about it and then ruin my chances of getting another job.  I’m sorry.”

“It is what it is,” Nadia said, then disconnected the call.

She sat still for a minute, maybe more, before she looked at me.  “How long will it take you to pack a bag?”

“Italy?”

“Anywhere but here.  Unless you have a compelling reason to stay?”

I thought about it for all of a minute.  There was nothing.  If my mother were staying with Benderby, then she would be acquiring a new husband and losing a son.  There was no way I was going to be associated with the Benderby’s, and less so, a stepbrother to Alex.

“None that I can think of.  I just have to go home and collect a few things.”

“You do have a passport, don’t you?”

Since I had never travelled out of the country, and never looked like I ever would, a few months ago, the answer to that question would have been an emphatic no.  But my mother had floated the idea of going to England, where her ancestors came from, and, having mentioned a recent death of a relative I had not heard of before, decided that we might take the first step, and get passports, essential items if one wanted to travel.

The plan had not been mentioned again, not since getting the job in the warehouse, and the treasure hunt started with Boggs, but the passport had arrived a few days before we disappeared, and she left it on my bedside table.

I was not sure how I was hoping to pay for my airfare, but that was a bridge to cross later.

“I do, as a matter of fact, all shiny and new.”

“Good.  I’ll pick you up at your place when you’re ready.  Just send me a text.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

First Dig Two Graves

A sequel to “The Devil You Don’t”

…

Revenge is a dish best served cold – or preferably so when everything goes right

Of course, it rarely does, as Alistair, Zoe’s handler, discovers to his peril. Enter a wildcard, John, and whatever Alistair’s plan for dealing with Zoe was dies with him.

It leaves Zoe in completely unfamiliar territory.

…

John’s idyllic romance with a woman who is utterly out of his comfort zone is on borrowed time. She is still trying to reconcile her ambivalence, after being so indifferent for so long.

They agree to take a break, during which she disappears. John, thinking she has left without saying goodbye, refuses to accept the inevitable, calls on an old friend for help in finding her.

After the mayhem and being briefly reunited, she recognises an inevitable truth: there is a price to pay for taking out Alistair; she must leave and find them first, and he would be wise to keep a low profile.

But keeping a low profile just isn’t possible, and enlisting another friend, a private detective and his sister, a deft computer hacker, they track her to the border between Austria and Hungary.

What John doesn’t realise is that another enemy is tracking him to find her too. It could have been a grand tour of Europe. Instead, it becomes a race against time before enemies old and new converge for what will be an inevitable showdown.

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 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 type of 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.

The was no car on the ground level, so I had to wait, watching, like several others, the guests untangling themselves at the entrance, and 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 was not the concierge, and instead 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 and then made a clunk 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 life lobby, only 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 the 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.

…

© Charles Heath – 2018-2025