The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to write a war story – Episode 19

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 world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

Marina drove the truck slowly and carefully, without the benefit of headlights on a night that have become very dark when cloud cover moved in. A good night to be out on foot, but not in a few tons of metal.

It seemed to take longer to go back to the old factory, if that was what it was, or it may have just been my imagination. Certainly, it was rather tense in the cabin.

I wondered if what Chiara had said about not trusting me had made Marina have second thoughts of taking me back. From where we were, I would have no idea where it was, and if she dropped me off, I could not find it again.

And that fear came true a few minutes later when she pulled off to the side of the road, near some trees, and stopped, turning off the engine.

The silence crept over us like a fog.

Such was the atmosphere I found myself whispering, “What’s wrong.”

“Lights. Appearing briefly and disappearing. Like someone is following us.”

She sat still for about five minutes, looking intently at the rear vision mirrors, and at times turning around to stare of the small window at the back of the cabin.

I did too, but I couldn’t see anything, nor had I, but I hadn’t thought to look in the rear vision mirrors because I thought we were safe. How wrong I was, to assume that. If there was one lesson I should learn from what I was doing, was that I should know what’s going on around me and that at no time could I ever believe I’m safe. The moment I did and let my guard down, I would be dead. I’d been told that in London, and in a relaxed moment, I’d forgotten it. How many others had done the same and died?

A shake of her head, she got out of the truck, and quietly closed the door. I did likewise and joined her at the rear.

“What’s happening?”

“I’m going to check back over the road, see if there’s anyone following us. There have been too many instances of lights for it to be coincidental.”

“Since we left the church?” In thinking that, it meant that either Chiara or Enrico may have inadvertently, or deliberately, told someone about the meeting.

I hope it’s just my imagination, but it was shortly after we left I saw the first light.”

“Could be a local farmer stumbling around at night.”

“It could, but no one is that silly to be caught out after dark. There was a curfew, and most of us like to believe there still is.”

She looked back down the road, but all I could see was inky blackness. The moon was still hidden by dark clouds above, and it looked like there was going to be rain.

“I’ll come with you.”

“You’d be better off staying here. The last thing I need is a soldier stomping around in the dark.”

Thanks for the compliment, I thought. “Then I’ll have to be quiet, and try not to stomp.”

Even in the darkness I could feel rather than see the scowl on her face.

“As you wish, but don’t get in my way, and don’t make me shoot you.”

Short and wiry, she was built for stealth and speed, unlike the bulky soldier I was. Not that I was overfed and fat, but I was still a larger target than she was. I could just see her outline in front of me, and she was moving very quietly.

I was trying very hard to emulate her.

Then I saw it. A light going on briefly, then off, definitely in the direction we had just come from.

She had stopped and I nearly ran into her.

“You were right,” I said quietly.

“I was hoping I wouldn’t be.”

So had I. The last thing we needed was trouble, trouble that would have to be eliminated. She couldn’t have anyone else knowing about their hiding places, and meeting points.

A few minutes further along, we both heard a strange sound at the same time.

A wheel scraping against a fender? There was no engine noise. It became louder, then we saw what it was. Someone riding a bicycle. Close to the edge of the road so as to remain hidden from view because of the turns in the road, which would account for seeing the light at odd times. At the front, there was a light that was taped to show only a thin slit of light.

I saw her look around, then take hold of a long branch that had recently fallen off one of the trees, pared it down, and then waited. I could see what she was going to do.

When the bike came alongside, moving slowly because it was up a hill, and the rider was labouring hard, she poked the stick through the spokes of the front wheel, the rider just seeing her at the last moment, and not being able to avoid her.

The result was predictable, the rider went flying over the handlebars and crashed into the hard ground with a thud and a loud grunt.

My role was to jump on the rider so he, or she, couldn’t escape. Marina was right behind me and jammed a dirty rag in the persons mouth as I held them very tightly under me.

“Now what?”

This was not going to work for very long as the person under me was beginning to kick and thrash about. In a few seconds, the gag would be spat out and the silence would be shattered.

I heard the gun before I saw it, a whooshing sound near my ear just before it hit the head of the captive, and suddenly there was no more movement or sound.

“A moment’s silence.”

We rolled the figure over, and looked at the face, just visible in the near darkness. We had just been blessed with a shard of moonlight for a few seconds.

A man.

“You know him?” she asked.

Another look, just as the clouds shut off the light, and I thought so.

“One of the soldiers from the castle. How would he know we were meeting at the church?”

“He might not. Nor might he be following us, but just unlucky.”

“How so?”

“Chiara sometimes entertains men from the castle. Part of our eyes and ears. She was not part of the resistance when Fernando was in charge so they would just use her like any other enemy soldier would.”

“So this was a mistake. If he doesn’t return, then they’ll get the wrong idea.”

“Unfortunately. He has to be dealt with.”

“Killed?”

“No time to get squeamish on me. He’s an enemy soldier.”

An enemy I preferred to be some distance away from before shooting to kill. Up close and personal makes it so much harder.

“Come on. Grab his shoulders. There’s a gully over there, so we can make it look like he ran into a tree, tipped off the bike and hit his head on a rock.”

“Or a gun.”

“A few hits with a rock will fix that. I’m sure there’s no one up there that can do autopsies on bodies.”

No, there wasn’t. I just hoped I was not going to be the one that had to hit him.

Ten minutes later it was done.

We carried him to the gully, and at a suitable place laid the body as if it had landed off the bike and onto the rocks, where Marina picked up a large one and hit him several times with a lot of force the last making a sickening sound, and the blow that killed him.

I went back and collected the bicycle and staged it to meet the crash criteria, and then left.

For all intents and purposes, he had died falling off his bike after wandering off the road in the dark.

Both of us hoped it would not cause Chiara any trouble.

And, it was the first person I’d seen killed up close, and I doubted, in the coming days it would be the last. It was not a sight I was going to forget in a hurry.

An excerpt from “One Last Look”: Charlotte is no ordinary girl

This is currently available at Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

…

I’d read about out-of-body experiences, and like everyone else, thought it was nonsense. Some people claimed to see themselves in the operating theatre, medical staff frantically trying to revive them, and being surrounded by white light.

I was definitely looking down, but it wasn’t me I was looking at.

It was two children, a boy and a girl, with their parents, in a park.

The boy was Alan. He was about six or seven. The girl was Louise, and she was five years old. She had long red hair and looked the image of her mother.

I remember it now, it was Louise’s birthday and we went down to Bournemouth to visit our Grandmother, and it was the last time we were all together as a family.

We were flying homemade kites our father had made for us, and after we lay there looking up at the sky, making animals out of the clouds. I saw an elephant, Louise saw a giraffe.

We were so happy then.

Before the tragedy.

When I looked again ten years had passed and we were living in hell. Louise and I had become very adept at survival in a world we really didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted to crush our souls.

It was not a life a normal child had, our foster parents never quite the sort of people who were adequately equipped for two broken-hearted children. They tried their best, but their best was not good enough.

Every day it was a battle, to avoid the Bannister’s and Archie in particular, every day he made advances towards Louise and every day she fended him off.

Until one day she couldn’t.

Now I was sitting in the hospital, holding Louise’s hand. She was in a coma, and the doctors didn’t think she would wake from it. The damage done to her was too severe.

The doctors were wrong.

She woke, briefly, to name her five assailants. It was enough to have them arrested. It was not enough to have them convicted.

Justice would have to be served by other means.

I was outside the Bannister’s home.

I’d made my way there without really thinking, after watching Louise die. It was like being on autopilot, and I had no control over what I was doing. I had murder in mind. It was why I was holding an iron bar.

Skulking in the shadows. It was not very different from the way the Bannister’s operated.

I waited till Archie came out. I knew he eventually would. The police had taken him to the station for questioning, and then let him go. I didn’t understand why, nor did I care.

I followed him up the towpath, waiting till he stopped to light a cigarette, then came out of the shadows.

“Wotcha got there Alan?” he asked when he saw me. He knew what it was, and what it was for.

It was the first time I’d seen the fear in his eyes. He was alone.

“Justice.”

“For that slut of a sister of yours. I had nuffing to do with it.”

“She said otherwise, Archie.”

“She never said nuffing, you just made it up.” An attempt at bluster, but there was no confidence in his voice.

I held up the pipe. It had blood on it. Willy’s blood. “She may or may not have Archie, but Willy didn’t make it up. He sang like a bird. That’s his blood, probably brains on the pipe too, Archie, and yours will be there soon enough.”

“He dunnit, not me. Lyin’ bastard would say anything to save his own skin.” Definitely scared now, he was looking to run away.

“No, Archie. He didn’t. I’m coming for you. All of you Bannisters. And everyone who touched my sister.”

It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.

I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the thoughts, the images of Louise, the phone call, the visit to the hospital and being there when she succumbed to her injuries. Those were the very worst few hours of my life.

She had asked me to come to the railway station and walk home with her, and I was running late. If I had left when I was supposed to, it would never have happened and for years afterwards, I blamed myself for her death.

If only I’d not been late…

When the police finally caught the rapists, I’d known all along who they’d be; antagonists from school, the ring leader, Archie Bannister, a spurned boyfriend, a boy whose parents, ubiquitously known to all as ‘the Bannister’s, dealt in violence and crime and who owned the neighbourhood. The sins of the father had been very definitely passed onto the son.

At school, I used to be the whipping boy, Archie, a few grades ahead of me, made a point of belting me and a few of the other boys, to make sure the rest did as they were told. He liked Louise, but she had no time for a bully like him, even when he promised he would ‘protect’ me.

I knew the gang members, the boys who tow-kowed to save getting beaten up, and after the police couldn’t get enough information to prosecute them because everyone was too afraid to speak out, I went after Willy. There was always a weak link in a group, and he was it.

He worked in a factory, did long hours on a Wednesday and came home after dark alone. It was a half mile walk, through a park. The night I approached him, I smashed the lights and left it in darkness. He nearly changed his mind and went the long way home.

He didn’t.

It took an hour and a half to get the names. At first, when he saw me, he laughed. He said I would be next, and that was four words more than he knew he should have said.

When I found him alone the next morning I showed him the iron bar and told him he was on the list. I didn’t kill him then, he could wait his turn, and worry about what was going to happen to him.

When the police came to visit me shortly after that encounter, no doubt at the behest of the Bannister’s, the neighbourhood closed ranks and gave me an ironclad alibi. The Bannister’s then came to visit me and threatened me. I told them their days were numbered and showed them the door.

At the trial, he and his friends got off on a technicality. The police had failed to do their job properly, but it was not the police, but a single policeman, corrupted by the Bannisters.

Archie could help but rub it in my face. He was invincible.

Joe Collins took 12 bullets and six hours to bleed out. He apologized, he pleaded, he cried, he begged. I didn’t care.

Barry Mills, a strong lad with a mind to hurting people, Archie’s enforcer, almost got the better of me. I had to hit him more times than I wanted to, and in the end, I had to be satisfied that he died a short but agonizing death.

I revisited Willy in the hospital. He’d recovered enough to recognize me, and why I’d come. Suffocation was too good for him.

David Williams, second in command of the gang, was as tough and nasty as the Bannisters. His family were forging a partnership with the Bannister’s to make them even more powerful. Outwardly David was a pleasant sort of chap, affable, polite, and well mannered. A lot of people didn’t believe he could be like, or working with, the Bannisters.

He and I met in the pub. We got along like old friends. He said Willy had just named anyone he could think of, and that he was innocent of any charges. We shook hands and parted as friends.

Three hours later he was sitting in a chair in the middle of a disused factory, blindfolded and scared. I sat and watched him, listened to him, first threatening me, and then finally pleading with me. He’d guessed who it was that had kidnapped him.

When it was dark, I took the blindfold off and shone a very bright light in his eyes. I asked him if the violence he had visited upon my sister was worth it. He told me he was just a spectator.

I’d read the coroner’s report. They all had a turn. He was a liar.

He took nineteen bullets to die.

Then came Archie.

The same factory only this time there were four seats. Anna Bannister, brothel owner, Spike Bannister, head of the family, Emily Bannister, sister, and who had nothing to do with their criminal activities. She just had the misfortune of sharing their name.

Archie’s father told me how he was going to destroy me, and everyone I knew.

A well-placed bullet between the eyes shut him up.

Archie’s mother cursed me. I let her suffer for an hour before I put her out of her misery.

Archie remained stony-faced until I came to Emily. The death of his parents meant he would become head of the family. I guess their deaths meant as little to him as they did me.

He was a little more worried about his sister.

I told him it was confession time.

He told her it was little more than a forced confession and he had done nothing to deserve my retribution.

I shrugged and shot her, and we both watched her fall to the ground screaming in agony. I told him if he wanted her to live, he had to genuinely confess to his crimes. This time he did, it all poured out of him.

I went over to Emily. He watched in horror as I untied her bindings and pulled her up off the floor, suffering only from a small wound in her arm. Without saying a word she took the gun and walked over to stand behind him.

“Louise was my friend, Archie. My friend.”

Then she shot him. Six times.

To me, after saying what looked like a prayer, she said, “Killing them all will not bring her back, Alan, and I doubt she would approve of any of this. May God have mercy on your soul.”

Now I was in jail. I’d spent three hours detailing the deaths of the five boys, everything I’d done; a full confession. Without my sister, my life was nothing. I didn’t want to go back to the foster parents; I doubt they’d take back a murderer.

They were not allowed to.

For a month I lived in a small cell, in solitary, no visitors. I believed I was in the queue to be executed, and I had mentally prepared myself for the end.

Then I was told I had a visitor, and I was expecting a priest.

Instead, it was a man called McTavish. Short, wiry, and with an accent that I could barely understand.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”

When I saw it was not the priest I told the jailers not to let him in, I didn’t want to speak to anyone. They ignored me. I’d expected he was a psychiatrist, come to see whether I should be shipped off to the asylum.

I was beginning to think I was going mad.

I ignored him.

“I am the difference between you living or dying Alan, it’s as simple as that. You’d be a wise man to listen to what I have to offer.”

Death sounded good. I told him to go away.

He didn’t. Persistent bugger.

I was handcuffed to the table. The prison officers thought I was dangerous. Five, plus two, murders, I guess they had a right to think that. McTavish sat opposite me, ignoring my request to leave.

“Why’d you do it?”

“You know why.” Maybe if I spoke he’d go away.

“Your sister. By all accounts, the scum that did for her deserved what they got.”

“It was murder just the same. No difference between scum and proper people.”

“You like killing?”

“No-one does.”

“No, I dare say you’re right. But you’re different, Alan. As clean and merciless killing I’ve ever seen. We can use a man like you.”

“We?”

“A group of individuals who clean up the scum.”

I looked up to see his expression, one of benevolence, totally out of character for a man like him. It looked like I didn’t have a choice.

Trained, cleared, and ready to go.

I hadn’t realized there were so many people who were, for all intents and purposes, invisible. People that came and went, in malls, in hotels, trains, buses, airports, everywhere, people no one gave a second glance.

People like me.

In a mall, I became a shopper.

In a hotel, I was just another guest heading to his room.

On a bus or a train, I was just another commuter.

At the airport, I became a pilot. I didn’t need to know how to fly; everyone just accepted a pilot in a pilot suit was just what he looked like.

I had a passkey.

I had the correct documents to get me onto the plane.

That walk down the air bridge was the longest of my life. Waiting for the call from the gate, waiting for one of the air bridge staff to challenge me, stepping onto the plane.

Two pilots and a steward. A team. On the plane early before the rest of the crew. A group that was committing a crime, had committed a number of crimes and thought they’d got away with it.

Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.

Me.

Quick, clean, merciless. Done.

I was now an operational field agent.

I was older now, and I could see in the mirror I was starting to go grey at the sides. It was far too early in my life for this, but I expect it had something to do with my employment.

I didn’t recognize the man who looked back at me.

It was certainly not Alan McKenzie, nor was there any part of that fifteen-year-old who had made the decision to exact revenge.

Given a choice; I would not have gone down this path.

Or so I kept telling myself each time a little more of my soul was sold to the devil.

I was Barry Gamble.

I was Lenny Buckman.

I was Jimmy Hosen.

I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.

That’s what I told Louise, standing in front of her grave, and trying to apologize for all the harm, all the people I’d killed for that one rash decision. If she was still alive she would be horrified, and ashamed.

Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.

God had gone on holiday and wasn’t there to hand out any forgiveness. Not that day. Not any day.

New York, New Years Eve.

I was at the end of a long tour, dragged out of a holiday and back into the fray, chasing down another scumbag. They were scumbags, and I’d become an automaton hunting them down and dispatching them to what McTavish called a better place.

This time I failed.

A few drinks to blot out the failure, a blonde woman who pushed my buttons, a room in a hotel, any hotel, it was like being on the merry-go-round, round and round and round…

Her name was Silvia or Sandra, or someone I’d met before, but couldn’t quite place her. It could be an enemy agent for all I knew or all I cared right then.

I was done.

I’d had enough.

I gave her the gun.

I begged her to kill me.

She didn’t.

Instead, I simply cried, letting the pent up emotion loose after being suppressed for so long, and she stayed with me, holding me close, and saying I was safe, that she knew exactly how I felt.

How could she? No one could know what I’d been through.

I remembered her name after she had gone.

Amanda.

I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.

Someone else had the same imperfection.

I couldn’t remember who that was.

Not then.

I had a dingy flat in Kensington, a place that I rarely stayed in if I could help it. After five-star hotel rooms, it made me feel shabby.

The end of another mission, I was on my way home, the underground, a bus, and then a walk.

It was late.

People were spilling out of the pub after the last drinks. Most in good spirits, others slightly more boisterous.

A loud-mouthed chap bumped into me, the sort who had one too many, and was ready to take on all comers.

He turned on me, “Watch where you’re going, you fool.”

Two of his friends dragged him away. He shrugged them off, squared up.

I punched him hard, in the stomach, and he fell backwards onto the ground. I looked at his two friends. “Take him home before someone makes mincemeat out of him.”

They grabbed his arms, lifted him off the ground and took him away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a woman, early thirties, quite attractive, but very, very drunk. She staggered from the bar, bumped into me, and finished up sitting on the side of the road.

I looked around to see where her friends were. The exodus from the pub was over and the few nearby were leaving to go home.

She was alone, drunk, and by the look of her, unable to move.

I sat beside her. “Where are your friends?”

“Dunno.”

“You need help?”

She looked up, and sideways at me. She didn’t look the sort who would get in this state. Or maybe she was, I was a terrible judge of women.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nobody.” I was exactly how I felt.

“Well Mr Nobody, I’m drunk, and I don’t care. Just leave me here to rot.”

She put her head back between her knees, and it looked to me she was trying to stop the spinning sensation in her head.

Been there before, and it’s not a good feeling.

“Where are your friends?” I asked again.

“Got none.”

“Perhaps I should take you home.”

“I have no home.”

“You don’t look like a homeless person. If I’m not mistaken, those shoes are worth more than my weekly salary.” I’d seen them advertised, in the airline magazine, don’t ask me why the ad caught my attention.

She lifted her head and looked at me again. “You a smart fucking arse are you?”

“I have my moments.”

“Have them somewhere else.”

She rested her head against my shoulder. We were the only two left in the street, and suddenly in darkness when the proprietor turned off the outside lights.

“Take me home,” she said suddenly.

“Where is your place?”

“Don’t have one. Take me to your place.”

“You won’t like it.”

“I’m drunk. What’s not to like until tomorrow.”

I helped her to her feet. “You have a name?”

“Charlotte.”

The wedding was in a small church. We had been away for a weekend in the country, somewhere in the Cotswolds, and found this idyllic spot. Graves going back to the dawn of time, a beautiful garden tended by the vicar and his wife, an astonishing vista over hills and down dales.

On a spring afternoon with the sun, the flowers, and the peacefulness of the country.

I had two people at the wedding, the best man, Bradley, and my boss, Watkins.

Charlotte had her sisters Melissa and Isobel, and Isobel’s husband Giovanni, and their daughter Felicity.

And one more person who was as mysterious as she was attractive, a rather interesting combination as she was well over retirement age. She arrived late and left early.

Aunt Agatha.

She looked me up and down with what I’d call a withering look. “There’s more to you than meets the eye,” she said enigmatically.

“Likewise I’m sure,” I said. It earned me an elbow in the ribs from Charlotte. It was clear she feared this woman.

“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.

“You know why.”

Agatha looked at me. “I like you. Take care of my granddaughter. You do not want me for an enemy.”

OK, now she officially scared me.

She thrust a cheque into my hand, smiled, and left.

“Who is she,” I asked after we watched her depart.

“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”

Charlotte never mentioned her again.

Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.

Instead of going to visit her sister Isobel, we stayed at a hotel in Beethovenstrasse and Isobel and Felicity came to us. Her husband was not with her this time.

Felicity was three or four and looked very much like her mother. She also looked very much like Charlotte, and I’d remarked on it once before and it received a sharp rebuke.

We’d been twice before, and rather than talk to her sister, Charlotte spent her time with Felicity, and they were, together, like old friends. For so few visits they had a remarkable rapport.

I had not broached the subject of children with Charlotte, not after one such discussion where she had said she had no desire to be a mother. It had not been a subject before and wasn’t once since.

Perhaps like all Aunts, she liked the idea of playing with a child for a while and then give it back.

Felicity was curious as to who I was, but never ventured too close. I believed a child could sense the evil in adults and had seen through my facade of friendliness. We were never close.

But…

This time, when observing the two together, something quite out of left field popped into my head. It was not possible, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I thought she looked like my mother.

And Charlotte had seen me looking in their direction. “You seem distracted,” she said.

“I was just remembering my mother. Odd moment, haven’t done so for a very long time.”

“Why now?” I think she had a look of concern on her face.

“Her birthday, I guess,” I said, the first excuse I could think of.

Another look and I was wrong. She looked like Isobel or Charlotte, or if I wanted to believe it possible, Melissa too.

I was crying, tears streaming down my face.

I was in pain, searing pain from my lower back stretching down into my legs, and I was barely able to breathe.

It was like coming up for air.

It was like Snow White bringing Prince Charming back to life. I could feel what I thought was a gentle kiss and tears dropping on my cheeks, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Charlotte slowly lifting her head, a hand gently stroking the hair off my forehead.

And in a very soft voice, she said, “Hi.”

I could not speak, but I think I smiled. It was the girl with the imperfection in her right eye. Everything fell into place, and I knew, in that instant that we were irrevocably meant to be together.

“Welcome back.”

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 20

Here’s the thing…

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

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

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

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

…

As we all stood either on or off the boat, two things were clear to me. The first, Rico’s genuine surprise at finding the body on his boat, and the second, how quickly the authorities had circled in for the kill.

I know calling 911 was supposed to get a rapid response to dire situations, but to get from the police station to the pier would take at least five minutes longer than it had, and that was breaking all the speed limits.

I might be jumping to conclusions, but someone wanted Rico to be found with an unexplainable body. His recently departed friend’s maybe?

Johnson waited until the officer off the boat had finished his call, and asked, “What are we doing here?”

It was now obvious the men on the boat was either state police, the coast guard, or some Federal branch-like FBI or, if Rico was suspected of dealing or trafficking drugs, the DEA.

“Take him into custody. Some of our people will be along to sit in on the questioning. This is an FBI crime scene and we’ll take it from here.”

“These two?” Johnson nodded in our direction.

“They’ve just found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. Cut them loose, they have nothing to do with this, other than to contaminate our crime scene.”

And that was it, more men, this time in white overalls, came up from below the deck of the newly arrived boat and came over. Crime scene investigators.

Johnson grabbed both of us by the scruff of the neck and shoved us in the direction of the shore. “Get out of here before I find something to charge you with.”

Neither of us waited to be told a second time. We were lucky, very lucky.

And Johnson was not happy his investigation had been pulled from under him. He needed a case like this to enhance his prospects for the upcoming election for the new Sherriff.

On dry land again I stopped and turned to look back at the boat, and Rico, now handcuffed and guarded.

In the background something else caught my attention, slowly cruising past the unfolding scene aboard Rico’s boat. A large ocean-going yacht, one that was owned by the Benderby’s. With Alex standing at the back of the bridge looking at Rico’s boat, and two others at the stern, dressed in what looked like diving suits, putting equipment away.

Even from this far away I could see the smug expression on his face.

No prizes then, for guessing how the police got an early warning.

Equally so for guessing who it was most likely to dump a body on a boat and have someone else take the rap for it. I had no doubt that a quantity of drugs would be found in some hidey-hole on Rico’s boat where he usually stashed the drugs he picked up from out in the sea lanes. A win-win, for law enforcement on many levels, and Benderby.

The question then I needed an answer to was, who was the dead man, and what was his relationship with the Benderby’s. I think I was now certain Rico had no idea who the man was, or why he was found on his boat, dead.

…

What I learned about writing – The ‘Wow’ Factor

How do we write a story with the characters playing particular roles, make it a story that by the end, the reader says, ‘wow, that gave me an insight I didn’t have before’

…

Beyond the Surface: Crafting Stories That Reveal Profound Insight

We’ve all been there. You finish a book, a short story, or even a compelling anecdote, and for a moment, the world looks a little different. A subtle shift has occurred in your understanding, a corner of your mind has been illuminated, and you find yourself thinking, “Wow. I never thought about it that way before.”

As writers, this is the Holy Grail. We don’t just want to entertain; we want to resonate. We want to leave our readers with more than just a memory of plot points, but with a genuine, lasting insight. And often, the key to unlocking this lies not just in the story itself, but in how we craft our characters and the “particular roles” they play.

The Power of “Particular Roles” – Beyond the Obvious

When we talk about characters playing “particular roles,” it’s easy to think of archetypes: the hero, the villain, the mentor, the damsel in distress. While these are foundational, to achieve that “wow” insight, we need to delve deeper.

A character’s “role” isn’t just their job title or their place in the narrative structure. It’s their societal function, their familial position, their self-perception, the expectations others place upon them, and even the masks they wear.

The Unyielding CEO: Is she truly ruthless, or is her iron facade a shield against a past vulnerability?
The Meek Assistant: Is his quiet compliance a sign of weakness, or a calculated strategy for survival in a cutthroat environment?
The Rebellious Teenager: Is her defiance simply adolescent angst, or a desperate cry for authenticity in a world that demands conformity?

These are the “particular roles” we define. But the magic happens not when the character plays the role, but when they interact with it, challenge it, or are ultimately defined by its unexpected complexities.

Unveiling the Unseen: The Art of Subversion and Empathy

The “wow” insight rarely comes from a character simply acting as expected. It emerges when we, the readers, witness the tension between a character’s assigned role and their true nature, their hidden motivations, or the profound impact that role has had on their soul.

Here’s how we achieve it:

Establish the Role (and its Expectations): Introduce your character within a clearly defined role, even if it’s a stereotype. Let the reader settle into their preconceived notions. This sets the stage for the revelation.
- Example: Introduce the gruff, solitary old man who seemingly hates children.
Introduce Conflict That Challenges the Role: Place the character in a situation that forces them to act outside the confines of their established role, or reveals the cost of maintaining it. This conflict should expose a deeper layer of who they are.
- Example: A lost child appears on the old man’s doorstep during a blizzard, forcing him to choose between his solitude and his humanity.
Explore the “Why” Behind the Role: What experiences, fears, or desires moulded them into this role? What sacrifices have they made, or what truths have they suppressed to maintain it? This is where empathy is forged.
- Example: As the old man reluctantly cares for the child, flashbacks reveal he lost his own daughter years ago, and his gruffness is a defensive mechanism against further heartbreak. His solitude isn’t misanthropy; it’s grief.
Show the Gradual Erosion or Unravelling: The insight isn’t usually a sudden, dramatic reveal (though it can be). More often, it’s a slow burn, a series of small moments where the reader pieces together the character’s true self, seeing past the initial role.
- Example: The child’s innocent questions chip away at the old man’s defences. He finds himself sharing stories, showing kindness, and slowly, painfully, re-engaging with the world he’d shut out.
Connect to a Universal Truth: The character’s specific journey should illuminate a broader human experience. Their struggle with their “role” should reflect something we all grapple with: the masks we wear, the expectations we face, the hidden pains we carry, or the unexpected sources of strength we find.
- Example: The reader realises that true grief isn’t about avoiding pain, but about finding the courage to connect again. The “insight” here isn’t just about the old man, but about the nature of grief and resilience itself.

The “Aha!” Moment: When the Reader Connects the Dots

The true “wow” moment isn’t when you tell the reader something. It’s when they discover it, often feeling like they’ve connected dots that were always there but previously invisible.

It’s the realization that:

The “villain” isn’t evil, but a product of an unjust system, fighting for a warped version of good.
The “hero” carries immense personal baggage, and their strength comes from battling internal demons as much as external foes.
The seemingly “insignificant” background character holds the key to an entirely different perspective on the main conflict.

By meticulously crafting characters who embody specific roles, then showing the pressures, hypocrisies, sacrifices, or hidden depths that lie beneath those roles, we don’t just tell a story – we create an experience. We invite the reader into a deeper understanding of human nature, challenging their assumptions and expanding their worldview.

So, as you build your next story, think about the roles your characters play. Then, ask yourself: How can I use this role not just as a descriptor, but as a crucible in which a profound, unforgettable insight can be forged? That’s when your readers will close the book, pause, and say, “Wow.”

365 Days of writing, 2026 – 174

Day 174 – Writing Exercise

I saw the motion to be quiet, but it was not the time nor place.

…

In a company where promotions came slowly and were hard earned, the ‘lecture’ from the head of Human Resources was the highlight.

The company was built on tradition. Its executives were quiet, unassuming men who took the time to consider all aspects before making decisions.

Being brash and openly enthusiastic at Executive meetings was frowned upon. There was an agenda, there was required reading, sometimes a lot of pages, and matters were dealt with calmly and dispassionately.

From the purchasing of stationery to a multi-million-dollar overhaul of the production line.

Or as it happened, the decision to close the doors and make every one of the three thousand employees, nationwide, and particularly in my town, redundant.

A situation that would be utterly devastating.

…

As I walked out of the head of HR’S office, my first question was, why me? There were at least two far more viable candidates in terms of age and experience ahead of me.

It was a question I candidly tossed out at the morning tea table where half a dozen of us want-to-be managers sat lamenting our lack of opportunity.

“Why me?”

Lorraine, perhaps the brightest of us, said, “They’re looking for a sacrificial lamb,” with the sort of candour that was scary as well as plausible.

Walter, the sort of person who could be in plain sight but completely invisible, laughed, but it was not a pleasant or amiable one.

It was like Frankenstein’s monster had sat in his seat and had been watching us all like prey.

“Nothing like a beheading at sunrise.”

Perpetually nervous Larry shrank back in his seat. Experience told him bad news was coming. He asked, softly, “What do you know that we don’t?”

Larry looked at Bill. Bill shrugged. “They called off critical repairs to the machine shop. Without those repairs, we’re on borrowed time.”

It had been a topic of conversation for the last four weeks. Delays, funding approvals being revised, rumoured order cancellations, and a shipment lost in transit due to an unfortunate accident.

Information that was known only to us six and, of course, management. They had not informed anyone of the situation, the consequences of which were far-reaching.

People knew something was wrong. Production lines were being systematically closed for a day, sometimes two, under the guise of maintenance.

That excuse had been disposed of by Jaime when she had inadvertently walked into one of the shut-down areas and found it in complete darkness, with no activity, repairs or otherwise.

And all the while, the General Manager was down at City Hall waxing lyrical to the Mayor about how the company was working hand in hand with the County to keep things going, and the future was bright.

Jaime’s mother’s friend had a travel agency, and she just happened to mention that bookings overseas were up a few hundred per cent, and that things must be great at the company because the management and Directors were all off overseas in the next month.

Not all at the same time, so it didn’t look suspicious. In fact, it might not be, just our imaginations working overtime.

‘So, what do we do?”

Bill shifted in his chair. He was the more senior and the one to be promoted. He hadn’t seemed upset when it was me instead, two years his junior.

“You’re in management now, Harry, you have to keep your ears and eyes wide open. You’ll know if anything is off. People who try to hide something always have a tell. A nervous twitch, a tendency to silence, short, sharp answers, and defensive when answering pertinent questions. There’s a meeting tomorrow.”

“They have to invite me.”

Something I learned about junior management, it was by invitation only, and I went to one soon after the appointment, the only one where I was introduced to ‘the team’. It was the only one so far.

“They will.”

It was all he said, and I think I knew why. It was prep before the walls fell in on me

….

The board room was also the managerial meeting room, a large room on the top floor adjacent to the Executive dining room.

It was where management held informal meetings and drinks after hours, a perk of the office they held. There was another for the managers, the next level down.

I was not, as junior management, privy to either.

Except today.

Bill was right. It was time to prime the fall guy, and they were going to dazzle me with the whole charade so I’d be distracted.

It was the spiel Bill gave me an hour ago. He seemed very knowledgeable about managerial practices. Jaime had managed to get some figures together, raw stock, production figures, per item costs, current wages, coatings versus profits, which were not good, and some estimates of various aspects of the production line that were shut down or limited.

Where she got them was anyone’s guess, but she was an accounting genius, and maybe they were he own assessments based on what was left lying around. I didn’t ask, and she didn’t volunteer. I just had to shred them after reading them.

I climbed the stairs slowly and then outside, Mrs Gatly, the Executive Secretary, was outside, expecting me.

I had met her the day I was promoted, and she had taken me through management procedures. She was very serious and ensured I was aware of the obligations of office. The most important. What I heard stayed in the room.

Confidentiality was everything.

I could understand that. She reminded me when she ushered me into the room. My position was at the end of the table. I was to speak when spoken to, and I was not to offer opinions, only facts.

I was not mingling before the meeting.

So, I went in, got a few glances from people I knew but rarely spoke to, and waited for the rest. None seemed inclined to talk to me.

I sat there for fifteen minutes while the others arrived, all having a convivial chat like nothing was wrong; in fact, some were comparing holiday destinations until the meeting started.

The General Manager sat at the other end of the table, and the twelve other managers sat down in order of importance. My manager was number three.

He opened the proceedings with, “I trust it is all good news and full steam ahead.” He looked around the table with the ease of a man who was fully in charge. He did glance at me, but only briefly. I’m not sure he wanted me there.

My manager spoke first. It started hesitantly, “We have just received the reports from Sanderson Engineering about the plant, and they say that we will be able to delay the maintenance cycle for another year, perhaps two if we don’t push too hard. Good news.”

The Financial Manager added, “That will release funds for the update to employee wages and benefits that were promised two years ago. They have been patient.”

The General Manager beamed, “Of course.”

The Shipping Manager was next, the man responsible for internal and external shipping via the fleet. One of the important aspects of the business was having our delivery venues being seen everywhere, advertising, the marketing department said money couldn’t buy.

A fleet of aging vehicles we couldn’t afford but persisted with. The new owners tried to get rid of them, but a petition from within and from a hundred thousand customers scotched it.

Maintaining that fleet was one of the deadweights slowly sinking the business. The same could be said for both Executive and Management perks.

“Delivery times are improving, and we are almost back to normal after a few problems with the vehicles and drivers. Plans are in the advanced stage to begin the vehicle renewal program. We are considering an offer from Argosy Fleet Management.”

Again, the General Manager beamed. “Excellent.”

If all of this was to be believed, the ship wasn’t sinking.

Except….

Argosy Fleet Management was owned by the General Manager’s brother-in-law, a little-known fact to any of those sitting in that room. I’d discovered it quite by chance when I had been researching Fleet replacement options.

Ideally, we should just use someone like FedEx. I found that would cut a considerable amount from the cost structure, but it would make quite a few redundant.

Other reports were equally upbeat, though those who delivered them were hesitant and nervous, as if they had to learn their lines from a script. Four of them used the same turn of phrase.

That told me I was there to hear what they wanted me to hear and pass it on, because none of what they said had any confidentiality about it.

At the end, my manager came down to say a few words and ushered me out. None of the others left. The real meeting was about to start.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall.

…

The thing is, I took Mrs Gatly seriously and didn’t tell anyone what I heard, just the shadow team, and not in the office.

We went to a diner management, and the executives wouldn’t be caught dead in, knowing that whatever I said would not be heard by the wrong people. Few people took us seriously anyway, even when we gathered at the local bar.

Lorraine started with, “So, how did they treat their sacrificial lamb, Sam?”

As if they were going to spell it out, with chuckles all round.

“Business as usual. The GM has a habit of saying good, well done, excellent, and business as usual. If anyone were to listen in, they would assume that everything is going according yo plan.

“Just we don’t know what plan they’re working on,” Lorraine said.

The waitress with the name tag, Dora, deposited and trauma of drinks and handed them out exactly as ordered. The ladies in the company cafeteria got it right.

“Did they sit you in purgatory?” Bill had predicted I would be isolated and land away from the main group. He called the seat at the end of the table purgatory.

He was right.

“Yes. No one looked at me, no one came over to greet me, welcome me, most didn’t acknowledge I was there. My boss came over at the end and tossed me out. No one else left.”

Harry muttered, “Of course. That’s when the real business is discussed. They’re probably hoping you’ll pass on the good news.”

“Is there any good news?” Lorraine asked.

“Some engineering consultants reckon the plant can go two more years before heavy maintenance.”

“Bought and paid for,” Harry said. “When it does break down, they have a fallback.”

“The money saved is supposedly being channelled to deferred employee raises.”

“Read money being channelled to the directors and management retirement funds,” Harry had a different answer for each talking point.

“They’re going ahead with the upgrading of the delivery trucks.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it. On the surface, it seems they are doing everything they said they would, but the numbers don’t add up.” Jaime had been listening and waiting.

The food arrived. Lorraine said it was time to forget about work and talk about other things. She was going to join the growing trend at the company, and planned to take an overseas holiday.

…

There are many interesting facts about living in a company town.

Not only did the town depend upon the company for its survival, but it was the major employer, where the sons, the fathers and the fathers before them worked in some capacity over the years.

I was fourth generation. My father always told me that if I looked after the company, the company would look after me.

I believed him. I ignored a growing trend of people my age deciding there was a bigger world out there and went to more distant colleges and the bigger cities for better opportunities.

Maybe they had seen that figurative writing on the wall.

Another interesting fact was that in a town like ours, everyone knew everyone else. Families were united over time, and those relationships carried from outside work into work, where a close friendship was beneficial on the job.

Especially down in the so-called engine room, that group of lower-level workers who were the ones who made it all work, despite management’s attempts to interfere.

The managers didn’t make the machinery hum; it was a dedicated group of men and women who did not have that all-important engineering degree, just the 30-odd years of service and experience.

They never bought advanc3nent just the satisfaction of another day on the job, all problems fixed and ready for the next day. They knew the current state of the machinery and whether or not it needed an overhaul. Not engineering outside engineering reviews and ‘planned’ maintenance.

They were the people I had nurtured on my way up, and worked with, supported, and spent the long nights and agonising days with, something the upper management never did, nor asked for their input.

The people who actually knew the truth.

And, over the next month, the people I spent most time with. I needed to know if the plant was going to die, whether the reality of deferring the heavy maintenance was going to be the death of the company.

And if the General Manager had the right attitude, he should have too.

He didn’t.

Apparently, he had no time for the ‘wrenchmen’, what he called the indigent factory hands.

Louis Bayer was sixty-seven years old, always in oil-stained overalls, a wrench in his back pocket and hands with ingrained grease stains. Like his crew, varying from 57 down to the new lads just replacing their fathers at 25, they were the operating manuals for the machinery.

I went down into the power generation plant where he was supervising the overhaul of one of three spare diesel generators. We could power the whole town in an emergency.

He saw me coming and jumped up out of the pit. Truth be told, he was fitter than I was.

He’d called me, concerned.

“The boss has that Mulligan character snooping around.”

Mulligan was one of the engineers who did the assessment that led to holding over the maintenance. His job was done.

“Did he give you a reason?”

“GM wanted a follow-up review. Thing is, he’s been poking in places he shouldn’t. My guess, they’re going to sabotage the plant.”

“How?”

“There’s a vulnerability. No one knows about it, and you can’t tell it’s there, not unless you were born in this building. Someone told him, because he was caught in the very place.”

“Can you stop it?”

“Not if no one is here.”

“Can it be fixed?”

“Not before it causes just enough damage, so the bosses can call it.”

There was something she wasn’t telling me. I knew the plant needed nursing, and the crew would keep it going. But I hadn’t heard about any vulnerabilities. Not serious vulnerabilities

“We need security then?”

He laughed. “We need a miracle. Just thought you’d like to know.”

He went back to the pit.

I watched the machinery that had held together longer than my father or I had been alive. It wasn’t going to break down; they were going to break it.

…

In a perfect world, I would have asked Jaime out for coffee, more than likely in the company cafeteria, a place that had been the background for a great many romantic relationships and marriages

More than the pier at the park, in a more romantic setting for asking the girl of your dreams to marry you.

Jaime had many bottles and then men asking her for dates. Some she went on, many she didn’t and was still single.

I figured she was not interested in daylight, a guy from work. It was bad enough, she once said jokingly, that you would see him all day, but then all night too.

So when we were together, I just had to set those feelings aside and wonder what might have been.

Sitting opposite my desk, the door closed, we were able to speak of confidential matters.

Not that I was price to them, and not that it was earth-shattering, or perhaps I was underpaying the value of it.

“The General Manager just filed his vacation requirements. 6 weeks starting next Monday. Oddly enough, there are six directors and top-level managers taking various periods of vacation.”

“Hardly a revelation for the time of year.”

It was the pre-annual meeting period where everyone else stayed at work to produce the reports for the directors to mull over.

“Timing, given what we know about the current state of things.”

“You think he doesn’t want to be here if they decide to close the plant?”

“Or it crashes, and they have to.”

I had told her about my meeting with Bayer when I ran into her at the cafe. She was sitting alone at the back, reading a book and sipping a large black coffee. It was a romance novel, which I thought out of character.

“Whereupon I would be asked for answers.”

“Since your boss is also running away. The sacrificial lamb.”

“Want to go on a vacation with me?”

She gave me a sideways look. “Tempting as that offer sounds, we can’t. No one involved with the reporting can have time off, unless they are dead. I was told that was the only excuse.”

She didn’t say no, so I decided to push my luck. “Does that mean when this is over you might?”

“Die?”

“Go on vacation with me?”

The look she gave me said she would prefer to be an alien abductee. Or not.

“It’s taken you six years. You’re lucky I’m a very patient woman. Ask me again when this nonsense is done with. Now, you have to go see Eleanor.”

Six years ago, we were in high school together. I had wanted to ask her to the prom, but didn’t have the courage. I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

…

Eleanor was the hotshot reporter who was that kind of person who could get under your skin. She was persistent and annoying.

It was what made her a good reporter. She ran the school paper, and after graduation, got a job at the newspaper, combining college with reporting.

Recently, she was added to the local TV station reporting on news from our town and the surrounding area. She was also vitally interested in our company and the persistent rumours that it was in financial distress.

We had a brief thing after graduation, but the fact that I was not important enough broke us up. I’d always suspected her relationships were based on breaking stories or advancing her career.

I was never going to do either.

But..

Now I had a story, but it was a matter of how I sold it, because it would not do to have her and her crew knocking down the door

Her involvement was purely to throw a cat amongst the pigeons, something she could do just by turning up.

Jaime and I had talked about it. How to light a hundred-foot slow-burning fuse so that we could be a hundred miles away when the bomb went off.

I was thinking about that when Eleanor took the stool next to me at the bar.

The bartender was waiting for her order.

“He’s paying for your best champagne.”

I did say, when I called her, the drinks were on me. It might have been a little brash.

“Don’t make me regret this. I’ve got people to hang out to dry.”

“Do you ever look for good news?”

I glanced sideways and took a breath. That girl never got less stunning, perhaps the reason she was so successful.

“Frankly, no. Who wants good news, really? People thrive on disaster and mayhem. In this town, it’s the company. They’re up to something. You work for the company. Are you here to tell me what it is?”

“How do you know anything is wrong?”

“You’re here. That tone of yours. You were always a lousy poker player, Sam. Why am I here?”

“To put the wind up management, specifically the General Manager. He’s going away on Monday. I’d like you to harass him at the airport.”

“With what?”

“Put two and two together. I’m sure you’ve been watching the company. The share price is dropping, the earnings are lacklustre, we’ve suffered shipping problems, and maintenance has been deferred.”

“Cash flow problems?”

“Not if six executives can afford long overseas vacations, just before the Annual General Meeting. Including a GM who should be here guiding the ship through the storm.”

“Rats deserting a possible sinking ship.”

Her champagne arrived, and the bartender poured two glasses. A salute and a drink.

I shrugged. “Someone has the answers. You just need to find the right questions.”

“Monday?”

“I’m sure someone down at the travel agency will help you with your travel requirements. Ask for Anna.”

She smiled. “A question for you. When are you going to ask Jamie on a date?”

…

That old saying, ‘I love it when a plan comes together’, is rarely applicable in any circumstances.

Plans made are always fraught with danger.

We didn’t have a plan as such; just a group of like-minded people with suspicious minds making conjecture out of a series of seemingly unrelated events.

The drip selling of blocks of shares in the company is a trend that no one would see if they weren’t looking for it.

A number of realty opportunities that, if you didn’t look closer at the ownership, you would simply dismiss as the market working as it should.

The carefully worded press releases from a company going through what anyone, and particularly the General Manager, would call business as usual.

Reports to the staff advising certain decisions to be ratified at the Annual General Meeting, such as wage increases, fleet upgrades and distribution streamlining, and the delay to scheduled maintenance to allow for all of the above.

No one knew about the cask flow problems that were caused by the loss of a shipment that insurance was refusing to pay, or the large bonuses being paid to the board and executive members for ‘a job well done’ and particularly that to the General Manager.

Or the fact that in an oddly screwed-up piece of paper that landed on my desk, when smoothed out was the draft resignation letter of the General Manager, one week after his departure on vacation.

It was clear that he was not coming back.

Sunday night, the day before our General Manager departed for what he called a well-earned rest before the AGM, the group of suspicious minds had gathered in the power plant building, all ready for the night shift. Curiously and unknown to most, the Sheriff in plain clothes was watching proceedings.

He had heard a rumour, one that sounded awfully like a criminal act was about to be perpetrated.

Louis Bayer and I were standing on a makeshift stage, looking out over a sea of faces, about a hundred in all, there because we suspected that the plant would be sabotaged.

We just didn’t know where.

Louis deployed the troops with one instruction. Whoever they were, they were not to leave the site, and they were to use any and all means necessary.

This place was their livelihood. Despite management, they were going to do whatever it took to save it. Or di the best they could.

There were other problems, but the plant and its machinery were not going to be the cause of the company’s demise.

It was like the troops were going to war.

…

Thus, it was 10 am on Monday.

The executives filed into the board room for the meeting, the Assistant General Manager in charge, and me, taking my manager’s place at the right end of the table.

I was there to take responsibility for anything that might happen while my manager was away.

A message had appeared on my phone from Eleanor telling me she had the General Manager in her sights, with a camera crew and a live cross waiting.

Another followed to say my manager had just appeared.

Five minutes past ten, the warning siren went off in the production line five building. It signified a problem. It could go either of two ways. Problem identified and resolved, or evacuation.

No one in the boardroom seemed agitated. The AG Manager simply asked me to find out what was going on.

I called Louis

“It’s done.”

I looked up at him. “Investigation underway. We’ll know soon enough.”

I looked around at the faces. Three of them looked nervous, the others, not so much. I wondered if they had met before to work on their strategy. The three who were nervous were the last three to offload their stick holdings.

I paced nervously. From the windows overlooking the outside picnic area used by the employees to eat their lunches and just rest, I could see the Number Five building. It seemed like nothing was happening.

Until smoke started billowing, and the siren changed to evacuation, and people started filing out. A very orderly and unpanicked evacuation.

I pressed send on my phone.

It rang. I answered. “You know the drill.”

“Thanks.”

I looked at the executives. “Catastrophic breakdown. The maintenance crew are being deployed.”

“It wasn’t supposed to break down. We had a team of experts go over the whole plant.”

“Initial report is that it was in an entirely unexpected area, one we’ve never had a problem with, and was never expected to fail. It happens.”

“Then I guess we’d better start working on a plane. I assume it means everything has to be shut down.”

“Given it’s the one place that we just didn’t need to fail, and the hardest and most complex to repair, yes.”

“Then give the order.”

Just then, Mrs Gatly came running into the room and flicked on the TV. It was the news, with Eleanor blocking the General Manager, asking, “Do you realise that a serious act of sabotage has been perpetrated at the plant?”

“No. What are you talking about? My flight has been called, and we need to get to the gate.”

“Are you running away from the problems? Did you cause the problems? How do you explain a letter of resignation dated one week from today?”

“What?”

Caught like a deer in headlights. And suddenly flanked by two deputies. We just caught sight of my manager being held by more deputies.

Cut to the sheriff outside his office, saying, “We currently have two suspects under arrest for the attempted sabotage of the number five plant room at the Bentham factory site.”

There was also a ruckus outside the boardroom, followed by the Sheriff. What was on the TV was pre-recorded, because the two suspects had been quietly handed over soon after they were apprehended, so they could not damage the plant.

Louis had correctly assumed what they would go for. There was nothing else that could do the necessary damage, and it was the most vulnerable point in the machinery chain.

Mrs Gatly had a file in her hand, and she gave it to the Sheriff. “It’s all in there.”

She glared at the executives. “Shame on the lot of you.” To me, she nodded and left the room.

“Sit down, the lot of you. It’s going to be a long morning.” The Sheriff wasn’t a happy man.

Outside, I heard a roar. People cheering.

My phone rang.

“Generally, I hate Mondays, but I’ll make an exception for today. The fire truck brought cakes, so don’t wait too long.”

I turned back to the executives. “Problem solved. The plant will be back online in half an hour.”

“Are you telling me you orchestrated this whole charade?” The AG manager said.

“No. We caught the two saboteurs you sent in to wreck the production line. They confessed. You were expecting a disaster, so we gave you one. Why you wanted one, well, that’s for the authorities to find out.”

“This factory is done, now or in a year, there’s nowhere in this current market it can be economic.”

“Not for those seeking to make themselves rich, no. But for ordinary people who simply want a comfortable life, it can be done. But there’s no point talking about that with you. You don’t think you’re ordinary people, but then you’ll have time in prison to wonder how that happened.”

And as I left, I wondered briefly about that comfortable life I thought I had. Perhaps when I saw Jaime, it would all become clear.

…

“What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.

Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.

They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?

When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.

When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.

Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.

Find the Kindle version on Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

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 continued 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 of an 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 mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, 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 Brothers’ 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 it went the way of the others.

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

I have high hopes of publishing it in mid-2026. It even has a cover.