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

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

whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 21

…

The Third Son of a Duke

…

I’ve been researching the Melbourne of March 1915, and I was basically gobsmacked.

How can you live in a city for almost half your life and know absolutely nothing about it?

Why wasn’t any of this taught to us in school? The joke of that is that I know every king and queen of England from William the Conqueror. I could tell you more than three Australian prime ministers, or state premiers, from when Australia was born, which, by a miracle, I do know, 1901.

As for Victoria, no idea when it became a state, no idea how it was populated beyond a gold rush in the mid-1800s, and barely anything about the Ballarat goldfields and the revolt by the miners.

My great-great-great-grandfather emigrated from England to a place called Harrow in Victoria, a place I’ve never heard of until I started tracing my ancestors, said to be the first town in Victoria.

Since my grandmother features in this story, it is around the time she meets my great-grandfather and her husband-to-be in 1914/1915 in a place called Bairnsdale, a place my father used to mention but not with the fondness a child who was born and brought up there would.

What in hell’s name happened there?

Not our problem in this story, it is just the periphery, or what I think might have happened that interests us, but only as outsiders looking in.

We have a ship to catch. And hi ho hi ho it’s off to war we go!

…

1750 words, for a total of 33030 words.

Writing about writing a book – Day 26

On the surface, the relationship between Bill and Barry is an odd one. I’ve thought about it, and at the moment, there’s some aspects that need to be written to provide background for what follows later.

I think I would like to make Barry one of those people who were built for soldiering, and not for civilian life, and it has to be said, he is a bit of a sloth once he becomes a civilian.

And, yet, under all of that, he’d be the first one in line to help his friends.

I just have to strike that balance so that I don’t make him too unsociable.

So, a little more about them, and Barry in particular.

…

A groan emanated from the table, and Barry moved his head slightly.

I shifted the drink in front of him, and then a hand went out and moved it back. He lifted his head to look at me, and then lowered it again.

“I thought it was you.” A croak.

“Mate. Not looking too good this afternoon?”

He groaned again, and then struggled to sit up, trying to smooth his hair back into place, and failing. He rubbed his face and realized he had a week’s stubble, giving him the look of a deranged sanatorium inmate.

“Someone’s gotta try and get me off the gut rot Ogilvy calls booze.” He nodded in Ogilvy’s direction, but typically, Ogilvy ignored him.

“You don’t have to drink it.”

“That’s what I keep telling myself. Only it doesn’t work.”

“Perhaps you should try harder.”

He looked me over, looking for the changes since the last time he saw me, about four months ago.

“Where you been?”

“Hospital.”

“Not surprising. Work too hard, no fun.” He looked at the drink on the table, took it in his hand, then holding it up to the light. Perhaps he thought it was the magic elixir that would fix him.

“Someone shot at me. I nearly didn’t make it. One thing it did, though. Brought back all those memories I’d shut away. Now I know why I did.”

“Shot at you? Why?”

“I don’t know. You should see the other guy. He’s dead.”

“What other guy?” He put the drink down, untouched. He was beginning to look a little more alert.

I had not expected it would make much of a difference telling him about my problems, but it had.

“Take it from the top.” Then, over towards Ogilvy, “Bring me some coffee. Black.”

I started, a little hesitantly, not quite sure how much or little I should say.

Ogilvy came over with coffee for him and my orange juice. He glared at me, then Barry.

“Your account is a little overdue,” Ogilvy said, standing over him.

“It’ll get paid.”

By little, I assumed it was more than Ogilvy was willing to stand. He was kind, but kindness had its limits.

I pulled out two hundred dollar notes and gave them to him. “Will this settle it?”

“I don’t want your money. You should throw him in a detox center. That would make more sense.”

“It’s only money. If he wants to drink himself to death, who am I to argue?”

Ogilvy shrugged and took the money. As he turned to leave, Barry said, “And take the scotch back. I’ve had enough.”

He looked at Barry with surprise, no, I think it was more shock, but did as he was asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ogilvy drink the scotch himself, and another for good measure.

I picked up the story where Aitchison and I were shot in the street and related what I knew from there. He asked only two questions, who was Jennifer, and what had happened to Ellen. He’d absorbed the rest, and judging by his reaction, probably not understood any of it.

“You have a friend? Does Ellen know about this friend?”

“Ellen and I are divorced. Don’t you remember me telling you several years ago?”

“Has it been that long?”

He’d been like this off and on over the last twenty years. It had been getting worse in the last few years, his health failing, and, at times, his memory. I watched him pick up the coffee cup, his hand shaking so badly, he needed to hold it was two. It took a minute or so before he could drink it, and then, his face was of a child, taking medicine.

He looked over towards the bar. “More coffee.” He set the cup down carefully, and then looked back at me.

“What can I do?”

“I need someone to watch my back. I have the odd feeling I’ve got myself into a situation. The people I work for, well, I can’t put my finger on it, but they’re probably doing something they shouldn’t. I have some evidence, and I think they know I’ve got it, and they’ve attacked me, like I said, at least once since I got out of the hospital.”

“You want me to get this Kowalski character and beat it out of him?

I smiled at the thought. I had no doubt if I asked him, he would do exactly that.

“Not yet. We have to get a better case against them first.”

“So, just watch your back?”

“For the moment. And for Jennifer.”

“But you are not sure about her. I get the impression you think she might be involved in more ways than one.”

“Did I give that impression?” I had no idea he would pick up on my doubts. But he was right. I did.

“Yes. But it doesn’t matter. If she is we’ll find out soon enough.”

In the space of five minutes and the arrival of the second cup of coffee, to be followed by a third, his whole manner had changed. There was still the pained look from the hangover, but the eyes were brighter, and he had a purpose.

“Then you’re in?”

“Might as well. It’ll be better than the last bodyguard gig I had. Had to thump the little turd. Smart arse needed it.”

To be honest, I didn’t expect Barry to take up the challenge. Perhaps I’d become used to seeing him down and out, and not expecting anything else. It was the look in his eyes that changed my opinion. The same look I’d seen all those years ago, in the jungle.

It was another good sign when he asked for an hour to clean up so he could become inconspicuous. I told him he could take over my place, gave him the key, gave him some money, and then told him where he could find me in an hour.

It was exactly what I needed. The Barry of old.

…

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 44

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and the question of who a friend is and who is a foe is made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

I spent another hour trading stories of Army life, none of mine bearing any resemblance to the truth before the party started.

I said to him, several times, that in my estimation, a part would start at a particular time. He seemed intrigued by how that could be possible when all my men were locked up and guarded.

The captain, it seemed, was a man of limited intellect.

Or just plain overconfident that he had quelled the incursion and attempted to take the prisoner’s home.

I was under house arrest, just not in the house with the rest of the men. The captain decided, being the ranking officer of our group, that I should be accorded facilities befitting my rank. It didn’t change my opinion of the captain, but it did raise the respect level slightly.

As an officer and a gentleman, as he described himself, he was also a student of Army procedures and practices, not only of his own army but that of others. I admired his hobby outside of working hours.

We were just discussing aspects of the First World War, and the part Africa played in it when both of us suddenly heard gunshots. So did the guard picked up his gun and carefully went out the front door.

The captain pulled his pistol from out of the top drawer and made sure the magazine had bullets in it. Just in case he needed to use it. All the men, suddenly increased to six, armed and dangerous, in that room had a gun, like the captain. They were commanded by another soldier dressed in fatigues, perhaps a Colonel or higher.

I’d notice some African countries had a higher proportion of Generals, to say Lieutenants, and deduced from that, field promotions were a regular thing. That was not my experience here. So far.

I heard another gunshot, this time closer to the hut. Was it my people, mounting their attack? Or was it the Commander, back to retake what was his?

There would be no love lost between the captain and the commander, and if was a betting man, in a fight, my money would be on the commander.

The sounds of gunfire continued for about ten minutes, then it became sporadic, then none. There were footsteps on the boards at the front of the hut, and then a cautious entry, gun barrel first, “if you have a gun pointed at the door, I suggest you put it down.” Monroe.

Having caught the captain’s attention from the front, the Colonel came in the rear and had his gun barrel pointing to the small of the captain’s back. “Drop it now.”

The captain did as he was told.

“You had more men on the perimeter?” he said with a sigh.

“Yes. I thought it prudent to have more than one sniper, a fact that the Militia commander hadn’t given a thought to.” I looked over at Monroe. “Have we secured the airfield?”

“Yes. 10 surviving soldiers, some of them in a bad way, are in the second barracks. They won’t be mounting a counterattack.”

I heard an engine; a large plane engine being started.

“That will be Davies playing with her new toy. Someone is on the runway lights; the rest are heading for the plane. Where are the hostages?” She glared at the captain.

He shrugged.

Shurl burst in the door. “Out, back through that door,” I said. “Be careful there isn’t a guard waiting for you.”

Monroe looked at me. “Can I shoot the insubordinate bastard?”

A look of surprise, not terror, crossed the captain’s face.

“Just take him back to the cells and lock him up.”

Shurl came out with the two hostages, just as the second plane engine fired. Monroe took the captain back to the cells and returned a minute or so later. Shurl had taken the hostages to the plane. Baines would be waiting to switch on the lights at the last minute, and hopefully, the rest were on board.

They would be waiting for Monroe and me.

Both engines were running smoothly, and Davies was testing the rudder and flaps. Suddenly the runway lights came on, and Baines came running towards the plane. Monroe and I jumped aboard, and then Baines followed, pulling the door shut behind him.

I heard the engine noise increase, and then we were moving.

I headed up to the cockpit and joined Davies. She was now in her element, her face a picture of concentration. We were slowly moving to the end of the runway, and I could see her working her way through the preflight checklist.

I tried to speak to her, but she couldn’t hear. She had headphones on. There was a pair near the co-pilot’s seat. I sat down and put them on.

“Everything OK?”

“Nearly. Be quiet for a minute.”

We were at the end of the strip and she turned the plane. She would have checked the wind, not that I’d felt any, and adjusted the take-off direction accordingly.

Then, after what looked like a deep breath and slow exhale, she pushed the engine controls to maximum, and we started moving, slowly gathering speed. The runway surface wasn’t exactly flat, but it was enough not to impede forward motion. Not long after the rear of the plane rose, and then in what seemed effortless, we were in the air.

Odd then, when we passed through 2,000 feet, I wondered who this plane belonged to.

Writing a book in 365 days – 308

Day 308

Writing exercise

By the time I learned what she was saying, it was too late.

…

It was difficult to remember when the first signs of our relationship, if it could be called that, had started to disintegrate.

Thinking about it, there was no clear point, just a series of random events that most people would simply write off as ‘well, it just wasn’t going to work’.

Which was odd because until that indefinable moment in time, it had.

Perhaps it was the impossible odds.

Perhaps it was the way we met.

Perhaps the randomness wasn’t random at all.

Because when you switched perspectives and took the view that the whole thing had been a set-up from start to finish, it all made sense.

In a very disturbing way.

…

The insistent knocking on my door was not the best start to the day. It had been a late night, and little too much to eat and drink and in a semi intoxicated state, it was hard to resist the temptation of letting Marianne stay.

Protocol dictated that it could not happen.

It was a long story, but having the secrets I had, even with the impregnable safe, no one was allowed to stay beyond a certain hour of the night.

Any other night when I didn’t have classified documents, not a problem.

I groaned, rolled over, and then it started again.

I climbed out and shook off the drowsiness, and headed for the door. A look at the screen showed it was Marianne back, and agitated.

It was a state I’d never seen her in before.

Warning bells on the back of my head were going off. Training told me that this could be a problem and that she had been compromised simply by being associated with me.

Some people knew who I really was, what my work was, and if that was the case, this was a level one problem

I put the code into my phone and sent it.

Just in case.

Then I opened the door. “Marianne.”

“Phillip. I need to see you?”

“You saw me last night and early this morning. I’m neither up nor presentable.”

“Seriously?”

“We have had this discussion. There are times when I am on call and I cannot have other people in the place.”

I had given her the standards spiel on the nature of my work and the confidentiality that surrounded it, and she had always understood.

Except this was beginning to be one of those instances of her subtly changing.

“Confidential information. Yes. But you are not in conversation with anyone.”

“I could be at any minute. I can’t be seen shooing you out. I would be severely reprimanded, even fired if it came to that. Can it wait another hour or two? I’m sorry. I have to follow protocol.”

“Even at the possible expense of your relationships with others?”

I’d explained this too. There was no choice, no matter what I felt. I’d made a commitment.

“At this point in time, unfortunately, yes.”

I didn’t want to go down this path, but it seemed like the culmination of drifting apart.

She shrugged. “I’m sorry then.”

I felt rather than heard a movement behind me, and then nothing.

…

When I woke head hurt.

Very badly.

While the details were fuzzy, I knew I had been hit from behind, that Marianne had diverted my attention while an accomplice had gained entry to my flat from the rear.

It was the building’s one weak spot.

Now I was in a dark space, smelling of damp and age, and I was lying on a bed of stacked newspapers, unbound. Neither did I have a gag, so it was somewhere no one would ever hear me yell for help.

It didn’t stop me, but all there was in response was an echo.

If my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, then they could be working or not. There was always light coming from somewhere, but not right at the moment.

That being the case, I had no idea how big the room was or whether anyone else was in it with me. Or who it was that had put me, other than one unassailable fact; Marianne had helped them.

One fact of what could be many that I had overlooked, something that all people in the first throes of a relationship tended to do, unless of course you were suspicious of everyone and everything.

I should have been, but I naively wanted to believe in her. Echoing in my head were those fateful words, If it’s too good to be true, it generally isn’t.

I cast my mind back to when I first met Marianne and realised it was too good to be true. The chances of us being in the same place at the same time…

And then, cursing myself for being a creature of habit, for ignoring basic rules, and I had only myself to blame.

Was anything we had real?

…

“I’m sorry.”

Marianne’s words ran over and over in my head.

Why would she say that? It was certainly in a contrite tone, like she had meant it, which was odd if she was part of the kidnap team.

I opened my eyes and found that there was a crack in the ceiling where light was trying to get through, and that it was turning the inky blackness into an opaque blur.

There were no distinguishable objects, but it whiled away the time trying to identify them. A sofa, a table, a chair, and what looked like a person, though it could be a mannequin.

It could be anything.

Until it moved slightly, or was that just my imagination?

Until there was a groan, and the figure rolled sideways and looked up.

Marianne.

Perhaps it was wrong.

“I’m sorry. I tried to warn you. You obviously didn’t get the subtext.”

Of course, it had been in the back of my mind, amongst all the other jumbled and mixed messages I’d received and ignored. She had tried to warn me in some peculiar manner that took too long for me to understand.

“Not that clever, I’m afraid. It’s the bane of people who are clever in their field of study and totally stupid when it comes to people.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Did you send the level one protocol?”

Who was she? How did she know about that?

“Yes. Pounding on the door like that, and ignoring my request…”

“Good. It won’t be long now.”

“What?”

“Rest. No more talking.”

Who was this person? How did she know so much about me and or anything to do with me? I thought everything about me and the project I was working on was top secret.

I had questions, but she seemed insistent.

…

I dozed off, waking to the sound of three explosions, or perhaps something else. There were muffled voices overhead, indistinct.

Marianne had moved slightly, hearing them too.

Them silence.

A few minutes later, there was the sound of a key in a lock, then the careful turning of the door know, followed by two people covered head to foot bursting in and ready to shoot anything that moved.

One checked the room now flooded in light, then said, “Clear.”

Two paramedics came in, one to me, the other to Marianne. She had been bound, the ties were cut, and she was dragged to her feet, and the first two in the room took her away. I managed to sit up and answer a few questions. Fuzzy but not disoriented. There had been time for the drugs to wear off.

Then my boss came in, a scowl on her face, but then she always had a scowl.

The paramedic reported, “Drugged but no physical harm.”

“Good. Give us the room.”

He nodded, packed the kit bag and left.

She glared at me. “Caught the people trying to crack your safe. Caught the kidnappers. Still haven’t got who organised it, but he or she knows we’re onto them now.”

“You knew?”

“We had an inkling, nothing positive until Marianne was approached.”

“She is one of your people?”

“Someone we could trust, yes. Left to your own devices, you would have been a prime honey trap target. And it was a two birds with one stone operation. You get a girlfriend, and we find who’s been leaking information in the department. Getting a branch of a foreign intelligence group was a bonus.”

I felt like I was the biggest prize idiot on the planet.

She must have seen my look of bitter disappointment.

“Don’t worry. She likes you, Phillip, though I can’t imagine why. I’ve assigned her as your bodyguard for the duration of the project. Just a heads up, she is an excellent shot, and our top agent in field interrogations. I would try not to piss her off. You’re lucky I’m not sending you back to training. Now, off you go.”

She was waiting for me at the front door.

“Don’t look so downcast. You could have got my sister. I’m the nice one.”

I just shook my head. Why hadn’t I taken that six-month assignment in Antarctica?

…

What I learned about writing – Reality and imagination frequently clash

One minute I was sitting out in my office, working on some tweets, and the next I woke up, staring at a black screen.

I thought we’d lost power.

No, I’d been asleep for a long time.

To be honest, I’m worn out. It’s the end of the year and when it’s supposed to be a time to relax, go on holidays, do something else, I find life is getting more and more hectic.

Yes, I’m going on holiday, but it will be a time when I’m subconsciously looking for new locales for stories, the people, the places, what goes on, all different to my usual humdrum.

So, not a holiday in the true sense of the word.

What put me into this trance-like state was writing the next line, yep, it was as simple as that. I stopped at a particular point where I had something else to say, and it just felt like the train had come to the end of the track, out there, in the middle of nowhere.

I wrote that line in my mind, and it sounded good, much the same as we sometimes say something in our mind before we speak, and when we finally do, it sounded better in my head than out loud.

Perhaps I’m losing my touch.

Perhaps that ability to sum up everything I want to say in less than 200 characters is beginning to desert me, and old age and decrepitude is setting in.

Which reminds me, pills before bed.

Perhaps I’m just tired and it’s time to go to bed.

I keep putting it off because sometimes I can’t go to sleep and I’m just lying there staring at the ceiling, sometimes the cinema of my dreams.

I imagine I’m somewhere else, someone else, doing something else.

But not in a helicopter. Not tonight.

Tonight it’s a sinking ship.

Gotta run!

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow, and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs. Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs. Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs. Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs. Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr. Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!

“If Mr. Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.” Mrs. Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone but made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs. Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.

His eyes, they mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying? There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No. That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later she realized she’d spoken it out loud, had hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilization, and home, as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs. Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but realized it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observance, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr. Henshaw?”

He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs. Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks. Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs. Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs. Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question, otherwise she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs. Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living,” Michelle asked in an off-hand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, and tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night and then smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

lovecoverfinal1

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz