Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect them.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half-brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 45

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…

——

A second report from Blinky’s surveillance of the castle had Leonardo on the move, and a second shadowy person following them.

It had to be Jackerby, Atherton thought. Jackerby would be the only one who didn’t trust anyone, or, perhaps, he had more murderous intentions. Maybe he had worked out that Leonardo was rapidly becoming a liability.

Or he had some other agenda.

“How many of resistance are waiting at the barn?” Atherton asked the soldier.

“Four. The fifth went to find them.”

“OK. Carlo, take some of the soldiers and stop them.”

He grinned. At last.

“I’ll deal with the other man.” I whistled and Jack came over. “We have a job to do, Jack.” He had no idea what I was saying, but his enthusiasm was obvious.

“Taking any prisoners,” Blinky asked.

“If the situation warrants it, but if the fire on us, we fire back.”

“And, once that’s done?”

“We retake the castle.”

“Sounds a bit like a story out of a Boys Own annual.”

“It does. It’ll certainly make a good story to tell your grandchildren one day.”

“If we make it back.”

“We will. If we’re careful and don’t take unnecessary risks. I won’t be bringing a prisoner back. If it’s Jackerby, I have a score to settle with him.”

“Don’t let revenge cloud your judgment.”

“I won’t. See you soon.”

When we reached the woods, on the opposite side of the castle, I planned to come at Jackaby from an angle he would not be expecting anyone.

From the moment we entered the woods, Jack went into what I would call stealth mode as if he was hunting. In a sense he was, and perhaps he knew instinctively what we were looking for.

It took about a half-hour of carefully moving through the woods to get to a point where I could just see Jackerby, sitting beside a tree, watching the barn. I moved a little closer, and the change of angle brought Leonardo and two other men of the resistance, sitting behind the barn, and one of sentry duty, waiting for the fifth to return.

I turned back to see where Jack was, but he had gone off. A rabbit perhaps, or something else.

I moved closer; Jackerby’s attention was fully on the resistance members, so he would not hear me coming.

What was he doing? He was taking an enormous risk coming out of the castle alone or did he think that if I was clever enough to have the castle under surveillance, he could assume I might be stupid enough to follow him.

It was an interesting thought, broken by the sudden rustling through the undergrowth, and then a yelp, as Jack launched himself at Jackerby, taking him completely by surprise, then, when Jackeby tried to get a gun in hand, Jack attacked that hand.

Long enough for me to get there, gun in hand. “Stop resisting, or I’m sure Jack will do some serious damage to that hand.”

It looked serious enough to me.

“So, this is where you’re hiding?”

“Enough, Jack.”

Curiously, the dog stopped, but remained menacingly close, growling.

“I should have shot that dog when I had the chance.”

Jack moved forward and growled in his face, baring his teeth, and Jackerby shrank back.

“Don’t upset him. He obviously doesn’t like you.”

Our attention was interrupted by gunfire, and a glance over to the barn saw two men with their hands up against the wall, and the two on the ground, including Leonardo. Carlo was in the process of ‘interrogating’ the other two.

“Carlo is not a happy man, Jackerby. And I promised him five minutes alone with you.”

Another glance over at the barn, Carlo was kicking one of the men who had fallen on the ground, with enthusiasm. I didn’t rate the man’s chances of surviving. “You really shouldn’t have let Leonardo mistreat Chiara or Martina, wherever you’ve got her.”

“She is still alive. We can do a deal here, Atherton.”

“The trouble I have with anything you say is that I can’t believe you. I’m sure you’d say or do anything to stay alive and renege the moment you got back to the castle.”

“I give you my word as an officer. We are, like you, men of honor.”

I shook my head. “You’re Gestapo, or worse, Jackerby. And they, as far as I’m concerned, are the lowest of the low, little more than murderous thugs. No.”

I aimed the gun and pulled the trigger.

The only way Jackerby was leaving the woods was as dead weight.

——-

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 46

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.

…

Aside from working on what I was going to tell my mother, and Boggs for that matter, where I’d been all night, the last thing I could say was that I spent the night with Nadia.

It had a curious ring to it when I said to myself, I slept with Nadia. Most people would take it the wrong way, but, by a quirk of fate, it was true. I guess that little gem of truth would have to stay locked away in my head.

One the other hand, if I told my mother I was out doing reconnaissance work for Boggs, she would get very angry, messing around in Boggs’ fantasies. She had no time for people who didn’t want to get a job, and work hard for a living.

At least I’d gone up in her estimation when I started working for the Benderby’s.

But the reconnaissance line would work with Boggs, and all I had to do was come up with a plausible set of circumstances he would believe. At the moment, all I had was Alex going to the mall, and that I waited to see when he came out. The question I would pose, what was he doing in there for four or five hours.

All I had to do was hope Alex had been out of town and Boggs hadn’t seen him. Always a chance of coming unstuck. Perhaps I should just not volunteer anything.

As for my mother, I couldn’t say I was working overtime for Benderby. She was likely to call him and tell him off for making me work so hard.

I was still no further advanced on that point when I got to the library.

It was a familiar place for me, and I had spent a lot of my time there escaping the real world, and of course, being able to keep away from Alex and Vince.

The librarian, Gwen, had been there for a hundred years or more, or so they said, and she should have retired about 20 years ago.

Pity the poor mayor who got the job of telling her to leave. Three had tried, and three had failed. The current incumbent was smarter than that. He just hired an assistant and told her that she had no problems handing over the reins when she was ready.

That woman, Winifred Pankhurst, no relation to the suffragette, was quiet, polite but firm in doing her duties and dealing with the public. She and I had butted heads a few times, especially when Gwen wasn’t in, but today was not going to be one of those days.

I could see Gwen in her office, and headed straight there, under Winnie’s watchful eye. And no, I didn’t dare call her Winnie. Her name, she said, was Miss Pankhurst thank you very much.

Gwen looked up as I knocked on the door, and she smiled.

“Long time no see.”

It had been several weeks. The job and everything else had made it less of a priority to get there,

“New job, crazy hours. Never thought I’d become a working stiff.”

“About time. All that talent being wasted.”

I came in and sat down opposite her.

“How are you?”

“Getting old.”

For her to admit that was a worry. She was, last time I checked, somewhere between 93 and 95. She never quite told anyone her actual date of birth, not even the Mayor’s office who employed her. And she didn’t look a day over 80. Good, clean living she said.

“Isn’t that inevitable?”

“For some of us. Now, enough of being maudlin, what can I do for you?”

“What makes you think I want something?”

“That expression. A cat’s curiosity.”

She could still see through me. The only other people who could was my English teacher in the final year at school and my mother.

“What do you know about the Ormiston’s.”

A change in expression on her face told me it was not a surprise I was asking. Alex’s thug had been here earlier, had someone else?

“They’re popular this week. Young Elmer was in here a few days ago asking the same question. I suspect he was working for Alex Benderby.”

The way she said his name, it was with the usual venom used for him. She had a run in with Benderby a long time ago, and she’d never forgotten. Or ever will. That’s why Alex would never get anything from her about anything.

“He was.”

“Is this in relation to the treasure you and that lad Boggs are searching for?”

Of course, she’d know who and what was going on in this town. No one could keep a secret from her. Or her extensive network of old ladies in the knitting club.

“Boggs seems to think he had some idea of where it might be, though I’m not so sure. I just go along for the ride, it balances out the depressive life we have to live living here.”

“Oh, come now. It’s not all that bad.”

“Perhaps not, now that I have a job. What can you tell me, if there’s anything to tell?”

“Ormiston was as bad if not worse than the Boggs, father and son alike. He had the treasure bug too. Obsessed. In the end drove away his wife and family, eventually ran out of money after mounting six different search operations, and then, when that happened, sold the land to the Navy. Quite an extensive area, about 100 square miles or so, from the coast back to the fault line. Used to be a lake, once, now it’s just a dustbowl.”

A fault line? This was something Boggs didn’t know about, and it could be significant. But just how significant?

…

What I learned about writing – The Zero Draft – that old devil in the ointment, Writer’s block

The Tricksy Zero Draft: Taming the Beast of Writer’s Block

Writer’s block – that mythical monster that lurks in the deepest recesses of our minds, waiting to pounce and paralyse our creative output. Many a writer has fallen prey to its insidious grasp, staring blankly at a blinking cursor or a stack of pristine paper, unable to conjure even a single inspired sentence.

Among the most formidable foes in this battle is the Zero Draft. This elusive entity is the antithesis of progress, a paltry, unformed mass that masquerades as a first draft. It’s the when-in-Rome, throw-every-idea-against-the-wall, see-what-sticks approach that can leave even the most seasoned writers floundering in a sea of confusion and self-doubt.

So, how do you vanquish this devious demon and finally break free from its stranglehold on your writing muse? Here are a few battle-tested strategies to help you rise triumphant over the Zero Draft:

Lower Your Expectations: Recognise that your first pass at a piece of writing will rarely, if ever, be perfect. It’s the rough blueprint, the scaffolding upon which you’ll build something more substantial later on. Don’t expect to craft a masterpiece in a single, inspired burst; instead, focus on getting words on the page, no matter how messy or imperfect they may be.
Set a Timer and Write Drunk: Inspired by the famous Ernest Hemingway anecdote, this technique involves setting a timer for a fixed interval (20-30 minutes works well) and writing as freely and uninhibitedly as possible during that time. The resulting output may be chaotic, but it’s often a rich source of raw material to mine for later polishing and refinement.
Change Your Environment: Sometimes, a change of scenery can work wonders for sparking creativity and banishing the Zero Draft. Try writing in a different location, or at a different time of day. Even a simple rearrangement of your usual writing space can help jumpstart your imagination.
Collaborate with a Writing Buddy: The old adage “misery loves company” holds true when it comes to writer’s block. Having a fellow writer to share the struggle with can provide a much-needed motivational boost. Set a regular writing schedule with your partner and hold each other accountable for making progress, no matter how small.
Reward Progress, Not Perfection: Give yourself small rewards for reaching certain milestones, even if your writing is still far from polished. This could be something as simple as a favourite meal, a walk in the park, or an extra hour of reading time. By focusing on the journey rather than the destination, you can maintain a sense of momentum and purpose even when the words aren’t flowing as freely as you’d like.

In the end, the Zero Draft is merely a challenge to be overcome, a hurdle on the path to crafting something truly remarkable. By adopting these strategies and maintaining a stubborn commitment to the writing process, even the most intractable blocks can be breached

365 Days of Writing, 2026 – 199/200

Days 199 and 200 – Writing Exercise

…

Trouble rarely knocks on the front door and announces itself. It always comes disguised as something else.

I learned this first-hand early one morning when my older brother, Joey, knocked on the front door at 2:30 am, something he had never done before, and when I opened the door, he fell down and said four words: “it wasn’t my fault,” then bled to death on the doorstep before I could get an ambulance.

What wasn’t his fault?

That I learned about ten minutes after I called emergency services. A police car and a black sedan arrived out the front of our house.

I’d seen enough police TV shows to realise the black car was most likely the FBI, and my brother had been into some serious crime.

Or my father had finally stepped over that invisible line, but what did that have to do with Joey?

In Joey’s case, he had always maintained no one was getting hurt; it was just the redistribution of wealth. He was dumb enough to believe what he was told.

I thought it was too good to be true.

After calling 000, I went next door to Dr Rogers’ house and pounded on the door. He was used to people in our neighbourhood doing that because he took only a minute to answer.

Now it would be to tend a dead brother lying lifeless half in and out of the doorway. And that I was home alone.

We could hear the sirens on the cold night air. All he said was, “Where is he?”

It was not the first time I had to call on him for my brother.

“I think he’s dead.”

He reached back to get his bag, and we walked quickly to our. He shook his head when he saw the body and that it was not moving.

The harsh orange coloured light from the overhead porch light cast an ethereal glow over what could be described as a macabre scene out of a horror movie.

He checked the usual places for a pulse and then saw the bullet wounds in his back. “He’s lucky he made it to here. You didn’t hear any gunshots”?

It sounded matter-of-fact, but I knew it was hurting him. He had delivered all of us children and had watched us grow up.

“I only heard the pounding in the door.”

The doctor stood and looked at the decking around the body, and then followed a trail of blood coming from the street. I followed the doc.

He stopped by the pole that had a street light barely illuminating the ground below. Pooled blood. Someone had brought him home and helped him to the door.

Then left him to die. Someone who Joey had called a friend, who he believed had his back.

The doc muttered to himself. We could see the police car coming towards us, siren blaring and lights flashing. We made it back to the porch just as the cars screeched to a halt.

Two officers and two men in suits.

Another police car arrived; officers jumped out and began securing the scene, pushing the growing group of onlookers back.

People had started to wake up and either come out the front and stand on their verandas or peer through the front windows.

For some it was an event to watch, others the culmination of a series of violent events that had taken over their street, and sadly our house was the epicentre.

This was not going to help me.

Not any more. My parents had resisted the courts dragging me off to child welfare after Joey’s last arrest, saying my house was not a suitable environment because of my brother’s criminal activities, and the fact my father wasn’t quite operating a legitimate business.

My mother was at her wits’ end, having finally issued an ultimatum to her husband and her two eldest sons. My sister, Anna, had been sent to her grandmother’s two states away.

Perhaps I might share the same fate.

There was only one certainty in all of this: the fact that my mother was not a criminal, and to keep her reputation, if not her sanity, she would have to leave. She had threatened it, and I knew it would happen.

If she was here now, she would have broken down and cried.

The second police car had the sergeant who had last visited, and had reluctantly left me in situ based on now broken promises.

There was not going to be negotiations this time.

I think that Sergeant Donovan was glad to see that the doc was with me. He wasn’t going to ask a question he knew I would have to lie about.

He knew my mother was at the hospital, on night shift because it paid more and kept us afloat. My father gave money when she nagged enough, but it was never enough, and if it wasn’t for her mother, we would not be living in the house.

We lived rent- and utility bills free. We had to find the rest.

Alex, my other brother, was out; where I didn’t know and didn’t ask. He was slowly worming his way into Joey’s organisation, against all advice. For all I knew, he could be lying dead in a back alley somewhere.

I had no inclination to join, or associate with them, as much as they tried intimidation. The leader was a boy not much older than Joey’s, tougher, meaner and street-savvy. But, after all said and done, just a boy, out of his depth.

The Sergeant knew who he was and with this development, hell was about to rain down on him and his neighbourhood gang cohorts.

The two FBI guys had stood back until her arrived. He looked at the body, then the doctor who shook his head, then looked at me.

“What happened?”

I looked at the body, which was once my brother. It was the precise moment tears came as the full weight of what happened hit me.

“He’s dead.”

An ambulance, lights flashing but no siren, arrived, and the paramedics came, walking quickly.

“Who’s inside?”

I think he knew. “Just me. Mom’s at work, and Alex is- I don’t know where.”

He shook his head, refraining from saying what he thought. Instead, “Have you told your mother?”

That’s when I realised I hadn’t, too wrapped up in the horror of it all.

Perhaps the Sarge realised that it was all too much for me because he put a hand on my shoulder and said, “None of this is your fault. If you have your mother’s phone number, I’ll call her.”

I went inside and got the cell phone she had left for emergencies. I guess this qualified. It was the only number available. I gave it to him.

The paramedics were checking Joey and talking to the doc. There was nothing they could do for him. One of the two remained with the body; the doc was taken aside for an interview. The other paramedics took me to the ambulance and checked.

I watched the sergeant animatedly talking to my mother, though I suspect he would not be making any headway. Being told your eldest son had been found shot dead and lying on your doorstep would have a profound effect on you.

A new truck had arrived with crime scene investigators who were getting dressed and propping before examining the crime scene, even if the crime had been perpetrated elsewhere.

…

An hour had passed, the doc had gone home, the paramedics had gone, and the coroner had replaced them. Forensics had collected everything they considered relevant, and then the body was removed, and would be taken to the morgue for a post-mortem, and my mother would have to go there and verify it was her son.

That was going to be brutal, but at least he didn’t die in front of her. That image was going to live with me for a long time.

The sergeant had come over after the call to my mother saying she would be coming home as soon as she could.

I had no phone number for my father, and had found it easier to deal with his absence from our house by pretending he didn’t exist

Alex still hadn’t come home, but if I knew him, seeing all the flashing lights and police, he would be, more likely than not, in hiding somewhere near.

The Sergeant had held off questioning me until my mother arrived. In the meantime, Mrs Quick, who lived on the other side, had come over and identified herself as a family friend and stayed with me.

When we were alone, she asked, “What happened?”

“Joey is dead.”

She knew someone had died on the doorstep, but she didn’t know it was Joey. She was visibly shocked and took a moment before asking the next question. “How did he die?”

“The police say from multiple gunshot wounds. I could see he had been shot in the back.”

“Was he dead when you found him?”

“No. Doc thinks he was helped to the front door, they left, and he knocked on the door. I opened it, and he collapsed, and died a few seconds later.”

“Did he say who killed him?”

I thought about it, but no one other than the police needed to know what he said, not that it was much and certainly not the name of his killer.

My best guess was that he and his fellow criminals were caught in the act of robbing someone or some place and the owner or night-watchman shot at them.

Eight times was a little excessive, and once might indicate there was a group to shoot at. Eight bullets meant he was alone or there were two of them. Alex…

My mother arrived in a police car. She was in tears, and came over straight to Mrs Quick and me.

There was wariness because Mrs Quick, though kind-hearted and helpful, could be a little judgemental. My mother thanked her, then hugged me.

The sergeant gave her some time, then came over. The two men in suits were not FBI but Detectives, one of whom came with him.

It was question time, and I would have to think about the answers I gave them. My father always said never to offer information, and to answer the questions with short, truthful answers, or as close to the truth as possible.

This was simply because he said liars needed to have good memories, and the police were prone to asking the same question seven different ways. I figured he may have been referring to his own experience with police interrogations.

The detective covered the usual ground, but added more. “How did your brother get to the door?”

“The doctor had worked out they arrived by car, he was helped to the door, and whoever helped him left.”

“Any idea who these others were?”

I got a very strange look from my mother. Perhaps she knew something I didn’t.

“No. I was inside, upstairs and was alerted by someone knocking on the door. My room is at the back of the house, not the front, so I didn’t see who dropped him off.”

“Who was he out with tonight?”

“Couldn’t tell you. He was not in the habit of telling me anything, perhaps to stop me from getting involved. I know my brother ran with one of the local gangs. He told me which one, but I didn’t listen because I preferred not to know. They actively try to recruit me, but I wasn’t interested. I know Alex was interested and went off with them more than once. And no, I don’t know where he is.”

It was clear then to them I was not going to be of much use, except from the time of the door knock till he dropped dead. I didn’t tell them what he said.

I think the detectives knew who my brother was, what he had been doing and who he ran with before they came. Neither seemed either surprised or moved that he was dead. One said, ‘I’m sorry for your loss ‘, but I don’t think he meant it.

They switched to my mother, and she seemed to know who he was involved with, and hoped they caught up with them.

Another hour after that, the Sargent left. Nothing more could be done until the morning. He had asked if we could stay somewhere else, but that was impossible at four or five in the morning.

So was sleep, though both of us tried.

Alex, however, was still missing.

…

I never got that night out of my head for a long, long time. I think in the end I finished up hating Joey for ruining everything.

Alex didn’t come home that night.

A week later, the Sergeant came back and filled us in on what had happened.

The next morning there was a police report of a robbery at a 24-hour mini mart not far from our place. There were three masked robbers: a man and two boys. The man had a gun, so it became armed robbery.

The mini mart owner had been robbed before, and after the last time got himself a gun. He put a sign in the front windows that said robbers would be shot.

Shoot them he did. He killed the man, in the process getting shot himself. The two kids with the man turned and ran at the first shot. The mini mart owner continued shooting indiscriminately at the two fleeing.

He thought he hit them but wasn’t sure. By that time he was losing blood and called emergency services. He just managed to see them jump in a vehicle and drive off. No idea what sort of car, but it was driven by someone other than the two.

That was the extent of his statement. Nothing was stolen.

Another report was of a car speeding and crashing into another car parked on the street not far from the minimart. One passenger got out and ran. The car kept going, presumably to drop Joey off.

It was seen leaving our house, and twenty minutes later was cleaned up by a garbage truck when the driver ran a red light.

The passenger who ran got three blocks away before he collapsed, and after discovery the next morning, seeming asleep on a stoop, was discovered to be dead. One of the stray bullets hit him in the leg, and he bled to death.

It was Alex.

The man was one of the gang leaders, and the two who died in the getaway car were kids younger than Alex.

It was a tragedy.

I didn’t know how to process that information, so I just put it out of my mind until the funerals. My mother and I went to her mother’s place, and we stayed there until the police finished with it.

We didn’t go back. Grandma sold it, and we lived with her. My mother tried to get on with her life, but after the funeral of her two sons she seemed to lose interest in everything.

To see half your family wiped out by senseless violent gad to leave a very large scar. The lesson I learned from it: keep on the straight and narrow.

Or do what we did. Sell up and go and live on the other side of the country where no one knew who we were.

…

In a word: Spark

So, as far as I’m concerned the word ‘spark’ is something that is created by a fire, and can create havoc.

But…

Another meaning is that a ‘spark’ is created by a ‘spark plug’ in order to force the pistons of an engine to drive the crankshaft

This leads to…

There is no spark in this relationship, so perhaps it’s going nowhere. No, we’re not looking for a fiery spark, but a small amount of very intense feeling

Spark?

I was watching God Friended Me last night, and I’m sure, like many others, we were waiting to see that spark that would change their relationship from the friend zone to something else.

And…

I think it was there. Of course, we’ll have to wait till next week to find out.

As for the word spark, well, there are several different meanings, one of which I am familiar with when I was young.

Being called a ‘bright spark’

Depending on who used that remark, it could either mean you were clever or you were a smart ass, which I suspect was the reference to me.

Then, moving on

Saying something inflammatory ‘sparked’ the crowd into action. A single remark can be equated to a literal ‘spark’ that can ignite a reaction.

A lynching perhaps?

And what about, once upon a time, a ship’s radio officer, he was called ‘sparks’ or ‘sparkie’, also a name that sometimes refers to an electrician.

I can see plenty of uses for this word in a story.

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly, he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

Another excerpt from “Strangers We’ve Become” – A sequel to ‘What Sets Us Apart’

…

It was the first time in almost a week that I made the short walk to the cafe alone. It was early, and the chill of the morning was still in the air. In summer, it was the best time of the day. When Susan came with me, it was usually much later, when the day was much warmer and less tolerable.

On the morning of the third day of her visit, Susan said she was missing the hustle and bustle of London, and by the end of the fourth she said, in not so many words, she was over being away from ‘civilisation’. This was a side of her I had not seen before, and it surprised me.

She hadn’t complained, but it was making her irritable. The Susan that morning was vastly different to the Susan on the first day. So much, I thought, for her wanting to ‘reconnect’, the word she had used as the reason for coming to Greve unannounced.

It was also the first morning I had time to reflect on her visit and what my feelings were towards her. It was the reason I’d come to Greve: to soak up the peace and quiet and think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

I sat in my usual corner. Maria, one of two waitresses, came out, stopped, and there was no mistaking the relief in her manner. There was an air of tension between Susan and Maria I didn’t understand, and it seemed to emanate from Susan rather than the other way around. I could understand her attitude if it was towards Alisha, but not Maria. All she did was serve coffee and cake.

When Maria recovered from the momentary surprise, she said, smiling, “You are by yourself?” She gave a quick glance in the direction of my villa, just to be sure.

“I am this morning. I’m afraid the heat, for one who is not used to it, can be quite debilitating. I’m also afraid it has had a bad effect on her manners, for which I apologise. I cannot explain why she has been so rude to you.”

“You do not have to apologise for her, David, but it is of no consequence to me. I have had a lot worse. I think she is simply jealous.”

It had crossed my mind, but there was no reason for her to be. “Why?”

“She is a woman, I am a woman, she thinks because you and I are friends, there is something between us.”

It made sense, even if it was not true. “Perhaps if I explained…”

Maria shook her head. “If there is a hole in the boat, you should not keep bailing but try to plug the hole. My grandfather had many expressions, David. If I may give you one piece of advice, as much as it is none of my business, you need to make your feelings known, and if they are not as they once were, and I think they are not, you need to tell her. Before she goes home.”

Interesting advice. Not only a purveyor of excellent coffee, but Maria was also a psychiatrist who had astutely worked out my dilemma. What was that expression, ‘not just a pretty face’?

“Is she leaving soon?” I asked, thinking Maria knew more about Susan’s movements than I did.

“You would disappoint me if you had not suspected as much. Susan was having coffee and talking to someone in her office on a cell phone. It was an intense conversation. I should not eavesdrop, but she said being here was like being stuck in hell. It is a pity she does not share your love for our little piece of paradise, is it not?”

“It is indeed. And you’re right. She said she didn’t have a phone, but I know she has one. She just doesn’t value the idea of getting away from the office. Perhaps her role doesn’t afford her that luxury.”

And perhaps Alisha was right about Maria, that I should be more careful. She had liked Maria the moment she saw her. We had sat at this very table, the first day I arrived. I would have travelled alone, but Prendergast, my old boss, liked to know where ex-employees of the Department were, and what they were doing.

She sighed. “I am glad I am just a waitress. Your usual coffee and cake?”

“Yes, please.”

Several months had passed since we had rescued Susan from her despotic father; she had recovered faster than we had thought, and settled into her role as the new Lady Featherington, though she preferred not to use that title, but go by the name of Lady Susan Cheney.

I didn’t get to be a Lord, or have any title, not that I was expecting one. What I had expected was that Susan, once she found her footing as head of what seemed to be a commercial empire, would not have time for details like husbands, particularly when our agreement made before the wedding gave either of us the right to end it.

There was a moment when I visited her recovering in the hospital, where I was going to give her the out, but I didn’t, and she had not invoked it. We were still married, just not living together.

This visit was one where she wanted to ‘reconnect’ as she called it, and invite me to come home with her. She saw no reason why we could not resume our relationship, conveniently forgetting she indirectly had me arrested for her murder, charges both her mother and Lucy vigorously pursued, and had the clone not returned to save me, I might still be in jail.

It was not something I would forgive or forget any time soon.

There were other reasons why I was reluctant to stay with her, like forgetting small details, an irregularity in her character I found odd. She looked the same, she sounded the same, she basically acted the same, but my mind was telling me something was not right. It was not the Susan I first met, even allowing for the ordeal she had been subjected to.

But, despite those misgivings, there was no question in my mind that I still loved her, and her clandestine arrival had brought back all those feelings. But as the days passed, I began to get the impression my feelings were one-sided and she was just going through the motions.

Which brought me to the last argument, earlier, where I said if I went with her, it would be business meetings, social obligations, and quite simply her ‘celebrity’ status that would keep us apart. I reminded her that I had said from the outset I didn’t like the idea of being in the spotlight, and when I reiterated it, she simply brushed it off as just part of the job, adding rather strangely that I always looked good in a suit. The flippancy of that comment was the last straw, and I left before I said something I would regret.

I knew I was not a priority. Maybe somewhere inside me, I had wanted to be a priority, and I was disappointed when I was not.

And finally, there was Alisha. Susan, at the height of the argument, had intimated she believed I had an affair with her, but that elephant was always in the room whenever Alisha was around. It was no surprise when I learned Susan had asked Prendergast to reassign her to other duties.

At least I knew what my feelings for Alisha were, and there were times when I had to remember she was persona non grata. Perhaps that was why Susan had her banished, but, again, a small detail; jealousy was not one of Susan’s traits when I first knew her.

Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.

When I swung around to look in the direction of the lane where my villa was, I saw Susan. She was formally dressed, not in her ‘tourist’ clothes, which she had bought from one of the local clothing stores. We had fun that day, shopping for clothes, a chore I’d always hated. It had been followed by a leisurely lunch, lots of wine and soul searching.

It was the reason why I sat in this corner; old habits die hard. I could see trouble coming from all directions, not that Susan was trouble or at least I hoped not, but it allowed me the time to watch her walking towards the cafe in what appeared to be short, angry steps; perhaps the culmination of the heat wave and our last argument.

She glared at me as she sat, dropping her bag beside her on the ground, where I could see the cell phone sitting on top. She followed my glance down, and then she looked unrepentant back at me.

Maria came back at the exact moment she was going to speak. I noticed Maria hesitate for a second when she saw Susan, then put her smile in place to deliver my coffee.

Neither spoke nor looked at each other. I said, “Susan will have what I’m having, thanks.”

Maria nodded and left.

“Now,” I said, leaning back in my seat, “I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation as to why you didn’t tell me about the phone, but that first time you disappeared, I’d guessed you needed to keep in touch with your business interests. I thought it somewhat unwisethat you should come out when the board of one of your companies was trying to remove you, because of what was it, an unexplained absence? All you had to do was tell me there were problems and you needed to remain at home to resolve them.”

My comment elicited a sideways look, with a touch of surprise.

“It was unfortunate timing on their behalf, and I didn’t want you to think everything else was more important than us. There were issues before I came, and I thought the people at home would be able to manage without me for at least a week, but I was wrong.”

“Why come at all. A phone call would have sufficed.”

“I had to see you, talk to you. At least we have had a chance to do that. I’m sorry about yesterday. I once told you I would not become my mother, but I’m afraid I sounded just like her. I misjudged just how much this role would affect me, and truly, I’m sorry.”

An apology was the last thing I expected.

“You have a lot of work to do catching up after being away, and of course, in replacing your mother and gaining the requisite respect as the new Lady Featherington. I think it would be for the best if I were not another distraction. We have plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves when you get past all these teething issues.”

“You’re not coming with me?” She sounded disappointed.

“I think it would be for the best if I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“It should come as no surprise to you that I’ve been keeping an eye on your progress. You are so much better doing your job without me. I told your mother once that when the time came I would not like the responsibilities of being your husband. Now that I have seen what it could possibly entail, I like it even less. You might also want to reconsider our arrangement, after all, we only had a marriage of convenience, and now that those obligations have been fulfilled, we both have the option of terminating it. I won’t make things difficult for you if that’s what you want.”

It was yet another anomaly, I thought; she should look distressed, and I would raise the matter of that arrangement. Perhaps she had forgotten the finer points. I, on the other hand, had always known we would not last forever. The perplexed expression, to me, was a sign she might have forgotten.

Then, her expression changed. “Is that what you want?”

“I wasn’t madly in love with you when we made that arrangement, so it was easy to agree to your terms, but inexplicably, since then, my feelings for you changed, and I would be sad if we parted ways. But the truth is, I can’t see how this is going to work.”

“In saying that, do you think I don’t care for you?”

That was exactly what I was thinking, but I wasn’t going to voice that opinion out loud. “You spent a lot of time finding new ways to make my life miserable, Susan. You and that wretched friend of yours, Lucy. While your attitude improved after we were married, that was because you were going to use me when you went to see your father, and then almost let me go to prison for your murder.”

“I had nothing to do with that, other than to leave, and I didn’t agree with Lucy that you should be made responsible for my disappearance. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of my mother. She hated you; Lucy didn’t understand you, and Millie told me I was stupid for not loving you in return, and she was right. Why do you think I gave you such a hard time? You made it impossible not to fall in love with you, and it nearly changed my mind about everything I’d been planning so meticulously. But perhaps there was a more subliminal reason why I did because after I left, I wanted to believe, if anything went wrong, you would come and find me.”

“How could you possibly know that I’d even consider doing something like that, given what you knew about me?”

“Prendergast made a passing comment when my mother asked him about you; he told us you were very good at finding people and even better at fixing problems.”

“And yet here we are, one argument away from ending it.”

I could see Maria hovering, waiting for the right moment to deliver her coffee, then go back and find Gianna, the café owner, instead. Gianna was more abrupt and, for that reason, was rarely seen serving the customers. Today, she was particularly cantankerous, banging the cake dish on the table and frowning at Susan before returning to her kitchen. Gianna didn’t like Susan either.

Behind me, I heard a car stop, and when she looked up, I knew it was for her. She had arrived with nothing, and she was leaving with nothing.

She stood. “Last chance.”

“Forever?”

She hesitated and then shook away the look of annoyance on her face. “Of course not. I wanted you to come back with me so we could continue working on our relationship. I agree there are problems, but it’s nothing we can’t resolve if we try.”

I had been trying. “It’s too soon for both of us, Susan. I need to be able to trust you, and given the circumstances, and all that water under the bridge, I’m not sure if I can yet.”

She frowned at me. “As you wish.” She took an envelope out of her bag and put it on the table. “When you are ready, it’s an open ticket home. Please make it sooner rather than later. Despite what you think of me, I have missed you, and I have no intention of ending it between us.”

That said, she glared at me for a minute, shook her head, then walked to the car. I watched her get in and the car drive slowly away.

No kiss, no touch, no looking back.

…