Category: Fiction

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 50

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 in what happened during the second worlds 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…

…

Meyer was cramping, having been confined to a relatively small space in the box car for far too long.

He had considered when the train was moving to come out to stretch, but then the train had stopped several times for lengthy periods when soldiers had searched all of the cars.

There had been one time when he had almost been discovered, a soldier getting a little too close for comfort, and had been called away a few moments before he lifted the palings that covered his hiding spot.

Then, at another siding, the soldiers brought dogs, and one had stopped near the carriage sniffing and making moaning sounds before then doing what dogs do against the wheels.

Expletives and laughter from the soldiers, relief from Meyer.  He knew if he was caught, the chances were he’d be shot.

Now, it was night, very, very late and the train had arrived at Florence and some time was spent unconnected the wagons then reconnecting to a shunting engine and pushed into a siding one across from the last.  From the crack in the back wall, he could see the station platforms in the distance, where only a few lights were on.

Next to where the boxcar sat was a wall, or houses or warehouses he didn’t know, but safety was just 30 meters away.  All he had to do was get from the car, and through or over that wall.

He waited, and during the next hour there was a train arrival, where the lights were turned on just before, during and after it left, back the way it had come, most of the time taken putting the locomotive on the other end.

It was going to be a problem if he chose to leave, and a train was arriving.  All the advance notice was the whistle.

The other problem was the sporadic nature of the patrols, two German soldiers wandering up and down the tracks, aiming their torches at walls and windows, loading telling each other war stories and crude stories.  They were bored, which would work in his favour.

There was, he noted, about an hour between each one.

Figuring it was about three in the morning after the second patrol had returned to the station, he came out of his hiding spot.  He tried not to make any noise which meant the harder he tried, the more it happened.

Once out he peered through the rear guard’s window at the station and it was deserted.  There were no lights up the lines where the wagons were parked.  There was no sign of the shunting locomotive.

He went over to the door and pulled.  It was stiff and at first, didn’t move.  A harder tug loosened the track and the door slid sideways about 30 centimetres.  He put his head out to check.  The moon was out, and it was quite light, light enough to see up and down the track.

There were about 20 wagons on the siding.  The wall ran for most of that distance, with what appeared to be an opening opposite the tenth or eleventh wagon.  That’s where he would go.

He pushed the door open wide enough to squeeze through and climbed down onto the tracks.  Once down he closed the door.  If anyone had checked, it had been closed before.  Keeping close to the side of the wagons, he headed away from the station.

About three wagons along, a light came on almost opposite him, illuminating the tracks,, the wagons and him.  Several seconds later, a whistle sounded, not a train whistle but one like a guard.

Then a man yelled out “Halt!”

He looked back towards the station and could see two soldiers running awkwardly in the middle of the tracks towards him.

Meyer started running for the gap in the wall, keeping as close to the wagons as he could.

When he looked back over his shoulder, he could see they were gaining on him.  He was still stiff and sore from being in that confined space for so long.

Another light came on further along.

He stopped and looked around.  The soldiers were raising their guns.

He saw only one way out, and climbed under the train and over to the other side of the train, away from his objective.

He ran harder and was nearly at the end of the wagons when a man stepped out in front of him.  He was not in a uniform.

Meyer almost stumbled and fell trying to stop crashing into him.

“Meyer?”

The man knew his name.  He looked Italian, was he from the resistance?

“Who are you?” he asked in halting Italian.

“What is the doe word?”

Code word?  What code word?  The piece of paper in his pocket, given to him by the British officer.  He pulled it out.  “Winston.”

“Right, you’re the one I’m here for.  Follow me if you want to live.”

The man then ran across the tracks to the opposite side, and Meyer followed as quickly as he could.  Then just short of the stone wall, there was an opening in the ground where another man was half in, half out.

“This way,” he said, then disappeared down the hole.

The soldiers had been held up crossing under the train to follow and were now so far behind they were out of sight. 

Meyer saw the hold, with a ladder and climbed down.  The man who had led him there followed and put the lid back over the top.

“Where are we?” Meyer asked.

“The sewers.  A little smelly, but you’re safe.  For the moment.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2023

A to Z Blog Challenge – April 2025 – X

…

X is for — Xanthic.  It’s the password, and to guess it, you have to know it’s yellow.  The one person who knew the code was murdered

…

I stood in front of the vault door, recently installed, that, when opened, led to what we called ‘Aladdin’s cave’.

It was, in reality, just that; the gateway to a new technology that was going to change the world, the brainchild of Augustus Beatony.

We were not exactly sure what that brainchild was, except that it was going to be the next evolution in artificial intelligence, and the company, or more to the point, the consortium of public and private enterprise entities, investment of nearly a trillion dollars had diligently paid for.

The launch would be in three days, where everyone would learn what it was.

My guess, after spending the last five years handling the accounts, with almost as much secrecy surrounding them as the project itself, was that it was a computer, but not just any computer.

Many had speculated, some said they knew but wouldn’t tell, but the truth was, no one was sure.  And Augustus Beatony was nowhere to be found to ask.

This development, discovered last evening when a delegation of reporters had arrived at the hall where Augustus was going to tantalise them, and us, with some non-specific details of what to expect, and found he had failed to arrive.

A search was instituted, people going to his residence, this university office, his work office, even his mistress’s residence, but no one had seen him.

The last anyone had was me.  Two days ago, outside this very door, he had a special password that he was not going to share with anyone.

Including me, his most trusted friend.

Apparently, I like everyone else, could not be trusted.

And rather alarmingly, he stated that he was the only one who knew the password.

No one else.  No one.

Aloysius Magreve, the man the government had appointed to oversee their interests in the project, and probably the only other person in the universe capable of understanding the technology, was standing next to me.

He had just expended a lot of energy and anger at the situation.  I was not the prime target this time. It was Major General Fitzwilliam, head of the security detail, who was on the end of this tirade.

“How hard can it be to keep an eye on one man, given the resources at your disposal?”

It was a common misconception that the Major General had a whole army to throw at the problem.  The truth was he did not.  He was limited to six men and two women in rotation.

Augustus, on the other hand, was the Houdini of subjects being guarded, was as slippery as an eel, and was known to shake his bodyguards as easily as a bartender made cocktails

It’s not my analogy.

Major General Fitzwilliam was out looking for him.  Well, not the Major General himself, but his men and women.  They all thought the other was watching him.  Yes, Augustus was very good at pitting them against each other.

“What does it matter,” I said. ” He will be back to open the door, and then the games will commence.”

“Games?”

“Figure of speech.  He will tell us how it works.”

“You know what it is?”

“No.  But we will find out soon enough.”

“You seem quite blasé about a one trillion dollar funded and unseen project that could turn out to be a glorified Atari console.”

The fact that Augustus had likened his project to just such an item was worrying in the extreme.  And having heard Augustus refer to it as the world’s most expensive Atari console? I was more than a little worried that I’d given him too much attitude.

“He will turn up, don’t you worry.  The man had one other fault: he loves the limelight.”

I barely made it back to my office before my cell phone rang.  Major General Fitzwilliam.

“We’ve found him.  I’m texting you the address.”

When I received it a minute later, I typed the address into the maps app and zoomed in on the location.  An industrial estate on the edge of town.

Another quick search found that it had once been a thriving place with all manner of business, as well as a shopping mall, but a fire some years back turned the whole area into a ghost town.

Some said it was haunted, and others said it was where the drug addicts and homeless ended up, with a drug-related death at least once a week.

Our offices, the warehouse used to be there, but we moved five years ago when this new project started.

It was a twenty-minute drive, and I was the last one there.  Fitzwilliam had brought a platoon of troops, and they were being deployed.  What for, I was not sure, but it seemed to me they were prepping for action.

Magreve was standing beside the command truck.

“What on earth is going on?” I asked.

“Betoney’s cell came back on, and is in that building.”

He pointed to the one that had a faded sign on the wall above the door, our company name.  What was he doing in our old building?

Two soldiers stood cautiously on either side of an open door, weapons ready.  Five more were finishing kitting up.

“What are they doing?”

“Infra-red scan says there are three people inside.  They’re going in armed and ready.

“Has someone told them they’re not to shoot him?”

“Don’t panic.  The Major General has got this.”

The leader raised a hand, and when it stopped, the two men at the door went in.  The other five followed.  I just hoped they didn’t shoot first and ask questions later.

Seven minutes.

For seven minutes, there was nothing, and then the sound of Magreve’s communicator made a noise.

“Magreve, you there?”  The commander of the team wasn’t the best at communication with civilians.

“I am.”

“You need to see this.”

“Is it bad?”

Silence then, “Get in here.”

I followed Magreve inside, where we were met by one of the soldiers, who had obviously come back to take us.

We went down several passageways towards the back of the building, the smell of waterlogged carpet, and something else.  Death.

We came out into a large room, which had been a breakout area where tables and chairs had been stacked against the wall, and then in the middle of the open space, a single chair.

In it was Aloysius.

Dead.

He had died a very painful and horrific death, one that was very recent.

“We think the perpetrators are still here,” the officer whispered, “and the body is still warm.”

My God.  Aloysius was dead.  Just the true notion sent a chill down my spine.  And the obvious question was on the tip of my tongue.  “Why?”

“Because whoever kidnapped him wanted the secret technology. This is the result when a person refuses to give away his secret.”

I hadn’t realised I’d spoken the question out loud.

“Has he been…?”

“Tortured.  Yes.  And my guess is that he didn’t tell them anything.”

“It’s a bit late to be asking any questions or finding out what happened from him.  If they got what they wanted…”

“He was kidnapped, brought here, a bit poetic, by some people who wanted to get their hands on the tech.  Heart attack, by the look of it, and unexpected by the interrogators.”

“You can tell that how?”

“I recognise the work.”

I didn’t ask him to elaborate.  I was a numbers man, not versed in the machinations of espionage.

A shot rang out very near to us, and then, shouting, followed by a volley of shots, one of the bullets clanged into a metal wall not far from us.

Both Magreve and I ducked.  The officer headed towards the shooting.

This went on for several minutes until silence returned.  Not long after that, major General Fitzwilliam returned.

“We have two suspects.  It is time to clear the scene and bring in the investigators.  This is a bad business, very bad indeed.”

That’s when Magreve and I were escorted out of the building, just as the first police and ambulance personnel arrived.

He was right.  It was indeed a bad business.  Questions were going to be asked, including the one trillion dollar question.  How were we going to find out what Augustus Beatony did with the money?

If, in fact, he had not given up the password, and he was the only one with it, and the vault was set to self-destruction if it was opened any other way than with the password, we may never know.

And I knew who was going to get the blame.

Back at the office, a meeting was convened to discuss the situation. The situation was clear to me: Beatony was dead, no one had come near the vault, so he hadn’t given it up.

That meant that there was no one alive who could open the vault, so we would have to break in and hope the self-destruct didn’t work

But, knowing Beatony as I did, it would have been the first thing he made sure to work.

So…

We were up the proverbial Creek. My overtures to various people he had worked with brought up nothing new and verified that everyone hated him equally.

It was the shortest meeting for the project we had.  Mangreve was given the job of approaching the vault builders to see if they had kept a back door.  It was a possibility but unlikely.

My suggestion was, failing everything, I was going to wait and see if the door opened itself.  It was the mother of all Hail Marys, but knowing Beatony as I did, nothing could be ignored.

For the man who thought of everything, he must have devised a day to make his work visible, even in the event of his death.

An hour before the appointed time of the reveal, Beatoney had set up nearly three months before, I sat outside the vault.

In my imagination, the night before, I’d worked through any number of possible scenarios, all of which seemed impossible because he was dead.  A dead man can not get up and do stuff.

Then I went through all of the possibilities of what it might be, trying to discard the expensive Atari console type computer and then factor in all of the materials that I’d purchased.

I’d done that once before, trying to work out what it might be, but it wasn’t until the very end that I discovered he had two suppliers, both unknown to each other.

It was just another method of keeping his project results secret.

A half hour later, I was joined by Magreave and the Major General.  They had been told I was hanging around the vault door, so they thought they should be there too.  All the while, several technicians were studying the blueprints, the manual, the alarm schematics, looking for a way in.

At the appointed time, nothing happened.

Perhaps I’d been wrong about him.  Or maybe…

From within, there were a few weird sounds that, if I were to hazard a guess, the door going through an unlocking process.

Five minutes later, the sound of the warning almost drowned out all other responses, an action designed to make people aware of the vault door opening.  Getting hit by a hundred tons of metal door was going to hurt.

We stood back beyond the arc and watched the door slowly open.  When it had, and the smoke had cleared, another door opened, and then…

…Beatony walked out and stopped, several paces from us.

I think, to a man, we were all just simply gobsmacked, and definitely speechless.

“Great to meet the three of you, finally.  I am Augustus Beatony version two.  A fully functional, lifelike Android that is faster, stronger, smarter, and able to live, work, and function indefinitely in any circumstances.”

“You do realise Augustus Beatony version one is dead.”  I finally found my voice after getting over the initial shock of seeing a perfect replica of Augustus.

He had made a lifelike robot of himself. I’m not sure it was worth the trillion dollars.

“Yes.  Unfortunately, but he knew his time was limited and had prepared for it.  It’s why I’m here, now, to complete his work.”

“Are you not his work?”

“A small part of it. I have all the knowledge that went into building me so that we can make more and finally start exploring space.  Humans can’t survive. We can.”

“So the project…”  The Major General found his voice, too.

“Was to build the people and the spaceships to travel into the outer reaches of the galaxy.  I have it all in my head.”  The robot tapped his head.  “Now take me to the briefing, and I will tell everybody how this is going to work.”

“Isn’t there a convention where robots are not supposed to be human-like?”  Magreave had finally got over his astonishment.

“And you know the backers didn’t agree with that stipulation.  We don’t have time for semantics.  The briefing.”

I looked at Magreave and the Major General.

Both shrugged, Magreave saying, “Lifelike Robotics and artificial intelligence.  Why am I not surprised?”

“Because this was what they wanted all along,” the Mahor General added.  “Super soldiers.”

He turned to Augustus Beatony version two.  “We can’t switch you off, can we?”

“Nor destroy me.  Not without very serious consequences.  Shall we go?”

He warned me, and I realised the truth in that moment.  Three days before his disappearance, he said that if anything happened to him, there would be consequences.  “You’re in charge now, Magreave.  My involvement ended when he stepped out of the vault.  May God have mercy on all our souls.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story 13

More about my story

…

Sleeping with the…

The devil takes many forms, and our protagonist has met quite a few. In his line of work, there are few opportunities to snatch a little rest and recreation between life-and-death missions.

Coming back from a mandatory rest period, to recover from the worst of disasters that nearly cost him his life, there is time for the mortality aspect to start doing a number in his head.

It is inevitable.

And as inevitable is the slow breaking down of those beliefs in his invincibility. 

But worse than that, his handler started to think he was losing his edge, enough to send a backup just in case.

And why does it have to be an enigma wrapped up in a mystery?  It’s not as if to say she is there for any other reason than help in the mission, but after getting shot, and taking a cocktail of drugs and alcohol, his mind wanders.

The woman in white, that apparition that appears to be too good to be true, is dancing on the edge of his memory.  Who is she?  Well, in a moment of finally doing his job, keeping a watchful eye over the conference delegate, a woman from his past, he sees them together, and their chemistry together tells him it is a daughter or a special relative. 

It doesn’t explain why the woman in white is there.

It is a question for another day.

NANOWRIMO – April 2025 – Day 28

…

The Fourth Son

…

I have to say that just writing about Queen Isobel sent shivers down my spine.

At tome my hands were shaking over the keyboard, and I had to try very hard to find the words that might express some of that feeling and felt the despair of never being able to act on it.

In my mind, they were sharing a dance, a waltz, one where they could br together and apart when they could gaze into each other’s eyes.

I could feel that depth of feelings because it’s the same o have with the love of my life who’s been there for nearly 50 years.  All it takes is a look, a nuance, a simple touch that sends an electric shock through you.

And how hard it is not to show it when out in public.

It’s why Ruth is perceptive enough to see what there is and clever enough to realise that it was not a threat.  Their pact of telling the truth, no matter what, had given her his perspective, what had happened, and what it meant in a world that she could never imagine.

I’m still trying to reconcile those feelings because I’ve never quite experienced anything like it, so I could never say for sure what I would have done in similar circumstances.

Men are usually weak.  Perhaps I want this king to be sometimes more than his father, who certainly would have acted on what he would have assumed was an implied offer.

And just to be clear, I never expected there would be weighty moral issues arising in this simple tale of a fourth son rising to be king.

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigation of crimes doesn’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get either found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage the police thought I had murdered my own wife though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbors reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last I saw of Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months I was barely functioning, to the extent I had all but lost my job, and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy.  Her story varied only in she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened become our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realize that all she had was her work, personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt, about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta readers view

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

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

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

And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.

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

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

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

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

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

Bring it on!

…

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

…

Writing a book in 365 days – My Story 13

More about my story

…

Sleeping with the…

The devil takes many forms, and our protagonist has met quite a few. In his line of work, there are few opportunities to snatch a little rest and recreation between life-and-death missions.

Coming back from a mandatory rest period, to recover from the worst of disasters that nearly cost him his life, there is time for the mortality aspect to start doing a number in his head.

It is inevitable.

And as inevitable is the slow breaking down of those beliefs in his invincibility. 

But worse than that, his handler started to think he was losing his edge, enough to send a backup just in case.

And why does it have to be an enigma wrapped up in a mystery?  It’s not as if to say she is there for any other reason than help in the mission, but after getting shot, and taking a cocktail of drugs and alcohol, his mind wanders.

The woman in white, that apparition that appears to be too good to be true, is dancing on the edge of his memory.  Who is she?  Well, in a moment of finally doing his job, keeping a watchful eye over the conference delegate, a woman from his past, he sees them together, and their chemistry together tells him it is a daughter or a special relative. 

It doesn’t explain why the woman in white is there.

It is a question for another day.

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years.  Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.

But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it.  Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life.  I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister.  And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.

I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021.  It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers.  Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier.  I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village.  I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed.  In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passenger’s attention.  Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back.  He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury.  He looked at her ticket then nodded dismissively, and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway.  I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see there was something about her.  It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile.  I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone.  Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model.  I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris.  The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on.  I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me.  I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin.  My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast.  With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination.  It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight.  It would give me enough time to sample the local fare, and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch.  After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward.  I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and let the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked, and what part I played in it.  And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out.  What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land.  There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would need to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later a keen military mind.  If nothing else I could ride a horse, and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no-one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared.  I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue and I had an aptitude for programming.  I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which although I hated the subject, I excelled in.  Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse.  There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life.  My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks.  It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited the qualifications I had, and the rest, I think I intimidated the interviewer simply because of who I was.  In that time I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist, and through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.  Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues.  I knew that in building a relationship compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing.  There was a certain expectation I had to fulfill, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented.  The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged.  Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian.  He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties.  He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns.  He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa.  From that moment, my obscurity disappeared.  It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses.  He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door.  There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa?  For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her when she had a certain air of unpredictability.  That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future.  She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her.  It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move.  The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red.  It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific.  In fact, her sublime beauty was the one other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact her hair was short, rather than long, and jet black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid.  I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes, before retracing my steps to the front of the ship and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water.  It was almost mesmerizing.  There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa, and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned.  The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close me without my realizing it.  How did she do that?  I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping.  I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck.  There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her particularly around the eyes, and of her hair which was jet black.  An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtle, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory.  The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent, and fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate.  Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes.  My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No.  Not yet.”  I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak.  And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanor as a little warmth reached her eyes.  “So that’s a maybe.  Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away.  Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped she turned to face me again.  She did not move closer.

I realized then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket.  “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe.  By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease.  “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side then the other, looking intently at me.  “You seem to be familiar.  Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings.  If she was, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me.  Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.”  I also didn’t mention the fact she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realized who I was.  “Yes, I remember now.  You made the front cover of the Economist.  You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course.  She was not the first who had recognized me from that cover.  It had raised my profile considerably, but not the Sternhaven’s.  That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family.  I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.”  Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky.  It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.”  She smiled again.  “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts.  I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me.  It had been Sebastian on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money.  He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right.  I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around.  “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head.  Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit.  “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised, or amused.  “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment.  “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave.  Instead she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot.  To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true.  Aside from the fact this excursion was probably a bad idea.  And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignoring their natural instinct.  I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing.  I was supposed to be traveling with my prospective bride.  I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?”  Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment then came back to me.  She seemed surprised I might be traveling with someone.

“No.  She is back in England, and the wedding is off.  So is the relationship.  She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her?  I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge.  No walking the plank today.  She moved towards it and sat down.  She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair.  Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds if she used this approach with anyone else.  I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us.  After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message.  It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.”  She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her.  “But it is done, and I moved on.  Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry.  Sometimes I ask personal questions without realizing what I’m doing.  It is none of my business.”  She shivered.  “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood, and held out her hand.  Should I take it and be drawn into her web?  I thought of Sebastian.  What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet.  “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

newdevilcvr6

Plots ripped from newspaper headlines

Truth is stranger than fiction

…

I’ve been reading about an anomaly in Google Maps where people are looking at maps that display weird objects in places where they shouldn’t be,

For instance, one of the recent occurrences of this places a plane, either an Airbus A320 or a Boeing 737, is on the ground, in the middle of a clearing of a dense forest with trees all around it.

No one is missing a plane so where did it come from, and how could it possibly get there?

Another occurrence was a car at the bottom of a lake, though there has been more than one occurrence of this. 

But, sometimes those objects actually are there, like, for instance, one of those cars where the body of a man who had been missing for 20-odd years was discovered.

There is a rational reason why people are seeing what are objects that cannot be explained.  It is an instance where two images have been taken, and one is a ‘ghost’, and in the case of the aeroplane, it could have been flying very low over the area in question when the photo was taken.

So.

What if …

Someone was using the map program to look at various places, places that did not get the usual public scrutiny, or perhaps not at all.

After all, what does one do with the leisure hours when there’s nothing else to do?

Mick was a tramper, one of those people who liked to trail blaze, find new paths through forests and make odd discoveries, one of which, several years before, had uncovered a lost village of some archaeological value.

He sees what seems to be wreckage dispersed in the forest, notes the date of the photograph, nearly a year before, and checks newspapers and media sources for any news of missing small lanes, but discovers none.

But just in case his mind is playing tricks, he asks a friend to come and verify the discovery, and, lo and behold, it is no longer there.

Perhaps it was his imagination, wanting to find something.

Until he checked the date of the photograph and notes it’s been updated to another, a year later.

With nothing else to do, perhaps it was time for another walking holiday, and to see what was there.