Category: Fiction

The cinema of my dreams – I never wanted to go to Africa – Episode 30

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and the question of who is a friend 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.

…

At the end of the discussion, which began to get quite heated, I was escorted from the room and taken to another interrogation room.

Fresh from his intimidatory success with Jacobi, Lallo was, no doubt, going to try and press on his advantage with me though I was not quite sure what it was he thought I could help him with, other than to dissuade him from his current plan.

I had to wait an hour in that small, stuffy room considering the possibilities.  Surely he wasn’t expecting me to join his band of merry men.

When he finally came, he arrived with a folder and two bottles of cold water, one of which he gave to me before he sat down.

I took a sip of water out of the bottle, after checking the seal hadn’t been broken.  I still didn’t trust him, and with good reason considering the trick he’d played on me.

“Now, I’m sure you saw and heard everything that happened with Jacobi.”

I nodded.

“He’s the reason your mission failed.  He met the other team on the ground and was supposed to lead them to the building where the targets were hiding.  Instead, he told the Government forces, Bahti, the plan for their rescue and their location.  It was a double-cross brought on by greed.”

“It always is.  But he’s more than likely right about the fate of the two prisoners.”

“Half dead, yes, pressed into working on a prison farm, but neither has been cracked yet.  After the last attempt at rescuing them, we cultivated new agents on the ground.  Their advice has led to us being able to formulate a new attempt to rescue them.”

Had they asked my opinion long before the first attempt, I would have told them to have more than one source, particularly if they were paying handsomely for information.  It was always an opportunity for double-crossing.

There still was, but I don’t think that eventuality was factored into Lallo’s thinking.

“Who’s the fool you have in mind to lead this disaster.”

“You.”

Good thing I’d braced myself for the bad news, and it came as no surprise.  In that hour of considering possibilities, they all seemed to come back to one person.  I was the only one left who’d been there, if only for a few hours.

It had also given me time to work on an excuse not to go.

“I don’t think so…”

Lallo put his hand up to stop me.  My protestations might have worked on a reasonable man, but Lallo wasn’t reasonable.

“Well, you, too, have a choice.  Stay and be court marshalled for your failure to follow orders in the last attempt or redeem yourself and volunteer to lead the next.”

“I did nothing wrong the last time.”

“Not according to the investigation I’ve just completed, the one that I intend to submit to the JAG if you are unwilling to follow orders.”

And there it was.  All the time I’d been in Lallo’s hands he had been compiling a feasible case against me, just so that I could be induced to do his bidding.  I was stupid not to connect the dots long before this and shut my mouth.  Everything I had denied, was the same evidence he could use against me.

n typical military style, someone had to shoulder the blame for the previous mess.

And to be given a choice, one that made me as expendable as Jacobi, was, as far as Lallo was concerned, a masterstroke.

If I went and was killed in action, he would have a scapegoat he needed.  If I didn’t go, I would be court marshalled and thrown in a cell for the rest of my life.  And if I went, and succeeded, he would become the golden boy in the intelligence services, and the same fate as any other scenario would befall me.  It was a lose-lose.

“You’re not throwing out any bones?”

“Don’t have to.  But you get to pick the team you want to go with you.”  He tossed a file across the table to me, and I opened it.  Several pages, with photos attached.

A who’s who of the military types that spent more time in the stockade than on the battlefield.  Men who would do anything to stay out, men who had nothing to lose.  Men who were expendable.

“You’re kidding?”  I looked up at him, but his expression told me he wasn’t.

“Are you sure any of these will obey orders?”

“You have my assurance they will.  We’re sending an observer, just to make sure everyone stays on mission.  You have three days to pick a team of four men, establish command, and prepare to leave.”

Something else I thought about in that hour, other than it was probably the last time I would have for reflection, was that it would have been better to die in the helicopter crash.

I waited until he left the room before I reopen the file.

© Charles Heath 2019-2023

Writing a book in 365 days – 294

Day 294

Writing Exercise

…

My brother was horrible. Aside from being the favoured son, he made sure both my sister and I got nothing from our parents. When they were alive and even when they were dead.

He knew that I wanted the family house. He didn’t care about those things, just what it was worth, and when my father left it to him, he decided to keep it. Not live in it. Just keep it because he could, all the while just doing enough to keep it from being condemned by the local authorities.

Then, twenty years down the track, he called me. We hadn’t spoken in years. And I wouldn’t have if he hadn’t called. He’d decided to sell me the house.

If…

I agreed to three demands.

First, I had to get back together with my first girlfriend, Jennifer Williams, whom I had parted with after she had admitted cheating on me with my brother. He did that to nearly every girl I met, whether they cheated or not. They thought our whole family was rotten, and given his actions, I had to agree with them. That would be impossible; she had moved to Canada.

Second, I had to secure a letter of apology from my friend Jacob over some perceived slight twenty years ago that had cost him a job. It hadn’t been Jacob, per se, who did it; he had done it because I asked him. It would stretch the friendship, but he would do it if I asked.

Third, and the one that would ruin everything I had ever worked for, was to give him 51 per cent control of my companies. He had always been jealous and had always wanted to be a shareholder, but I had blocked him at every turn. He was a monster, and 51 per cent would ruin a lot of innocent lives; he would destroy them simply out of spite. I’d still be rich beyond averice, but I would never recover from it.

So, the point was, did I want the house that much?

…

As you can imagine, he had to believe that there was something in or about the house that made it possible for him to use the leverage he thought he had.

Ever since the house had been built in the late 1700s by a man who had been believed to be a notorious pirate, and coincidentally, an ancestor of ours, rumours abounded of a huge treasure hidden either in the house or the grounds, and somewhere in the house was the treasure map to tell where it was hidden.

That was the story my father used to tell us when we were children, and my brother lapped it up. Three generations of my father’s family had almost gone mad looking for it, including my father, and I had no doubt Jeremy had spent the last 20 years looking for the treasure and the map. 20 years on, I would have known if he found either. I think I knew what the inside of the house would look like, completely ripped to pieces. The surrounding land now looked like a WW2 bomb site.

He hadn’t found it, so he was going with the notion I knew where it was.

Of course, I didn’t, but he would never accept that. And if I gave him what he asked, he would instantly boast that my success was really his success and that somehow I had stolen it from him.

I would be better off taking a contract out on his life and then admitting it to the police.

…

I took his letter of demands and went to visit him in his trailer park caravan, which, if it was the one our parents owned, would be in very bad shape now. I drove down to Brighton in the oldest, worst-looking car I could find. Showing signs of wealth would simply be a red rag to a bull.

He met me on the specially built verandah in shorts and a singlet, three months away from dying a terrible death. I’d only just found out: Cancer. Stage 4.

He gave me the standard sullen look, the one he used to give when he had stolen something from me. I stayed at the bottom of the stairs.

“Took your time. Where are the documents?” He could see the envelope I had.

“There are no documents, Jeremy. It’s three flyers from Funeral Homes for you to choose from before you go. I’m happy to pay for it.”

“That’s not part of the deal.”

“There is no deal. I don’t want the house. I don’t want anything from you.”

He sighed. “I knew you’d be like this. No matter. We just have to move to Plan B.”

“What Plan B?”

“You need an incentive. Remember Jennifer Williams? I sent her a message that you wanted to see her, did it in your name. Offered her a million bucks. People are stupid when it comes to money. Didn’t even check to see if it really came from you.”

This didn’t sound very good. What had he done?

“So?”

“She’s kind of tied up at the house, and the house is rigged with explosives. You know, the sort that go boom.” his gesturing didn’t make it sound any better, but he smirked at the thought of the house going boom.

“You’re mad.”

“No. I was cheated. By you, and by everyone. If you had cut me in on your company, we’d both be rich and no skin off your nose.”

“You would have run it into the ground like everything else you did. You wouldn’t have taken a subordinate role. I don’t need you ruining everything.”

“Whatever. You have three hours to come back with the documents. If you go near the house, it will go boom; if you do anything I don’t like, the house will go boom, and her death is on you. She told everyone she was coming back for you.”

I shook my head, speechless.

“Two hours and fifty-eight minutes, don’t be late.”

…

My mind was just about in full meltdown. Jeremy had gone way past the fringe lunatic and was well on the way to a psychopathic murderer.

Whatever way I looked at it, I was up the proverbial creek.

Unless…

It took half an hour to get back to my office and drag out the seven boxes of papers my father had left with me. It was the detailed notes of his exploration of the property for the location of the treasure map and the treasure, neither of which he had found a trace of.

But there had to be something about the house in there I could use to get in and save Jennifer.

Or die trying. My life would not be worth anything if she were harmed.

And, my mind told me that even if I signed over everything, he would simply blow up the house anyway, just to implicate me in her murder, so basically, I was in a no-win situation.

Box 1, nothing, box 2, equally nothing, and time was ticking away.

Box 3, Box 4, Box 5. Papers were scattered everywhere, on desks and on the floor. Nothing. Half an hour gone, time was relentlessly moving forward.

Box 6. A map. Old. Contours. The English called these maps ordnance surveys. There was an X, a dotted line, and another X.

X marks the spot? What spot?

There was a tracing of a street map that overlaid the survey, and the X marked a building. I wrote down the address, 15 minutes away, and literally ran to the car.

An hour and a half, about, gone. I stopped outside a two-story run-down residence. It was clear by the height of the overgrowth that no one lived there. It took a few minutes to get to the front door, then try it. I was expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t.

Once inside, I turned on the flashlight and looked around. Remarkably clean for a house that hadn’t been used in recent years. I walked up the passage to the rear of the building and into the kitchen. A door was open, perhaps a pantry, and I looked in. There was a trap door in the floor.

I tried it and it swung open. Steps going down. Was it the wine cellar? This house backed onto a hill, so it was likely that there was an underground cellar. I went down slowly; the wooden steps might have decayed. There was a strong odour of wine and damp.

A flash of light in the direction I thought was towards the hill, and I could see the brick arches where the wine had been stored. There were a few broken and empty bottles in the arches, but no usable wine. What was this place, and how did my father know about it?

I went to the rear of the cellar, counting 24 arches, and then between two an iron gate, rusting, but showing signs of recent use. I opened it, and another flask of light showed it was a tunnel.

X to X. Did it go from the street to the old house? Was this an escape tunnel built by our forefathers to escape the British during the fight for independence? That was another story my father used to tell us, that we were among the original patriots. I thought he was joking.

I followed it to the end, where there was another gate, half ajar, as if whoever used it last didn’t bother closing it. It was another wine cellar. I never knew our old house had one. I don’t think my brother did either, unless he found it in his search for the treasure.

And then, playing the light around the walls, I stopped at a tarpaulin, relatively new, covering something. I pulled it off, and there was a figure lying on the ground inside a cage.

Jennifer Williams.

She moved when I aimed the light at her, then lifted her head. “Oliver?”

“It is.” I looked at the cage, and saw there was a lock keeping the door closed, so she couldn;t escape.

“What the hell is going on?” She was still groggy from being drugged.

“My brother is playing one of his games. I’m sorry you had to get mixed up in it.”

“Jeremy? He doesn’t look well.”

“Dying. Stage four cancer. This is his last play to destroy me before he dies.”

I looked around and found an iron bar, one of a dozen or so in a pile in one of the wine arches. It took several minutes to break the lock off the cage and get her out. The drugs were still affecting her mobility, though she seemed more alert now.

“There are bombs somewhere down here. I remember him telling me that if you didn’t pay up, he was going to blow the house up.”

“No surprises there.”

“He also said that you buried a body down here. Edgar something or other. A school prank gone wrong. I don’t remember any Edgar from school days.”

“Come, this way. We don’t have much time.” I led her back down the tunnel to the house.

Halfway, she stopped, blocking the way.

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Kill someone and hide the body under the house?”

Then it dawned on me. He had a dozen plan B’s in place just in case I did manage to find and save her. A story of malfeasance, told with just enough sincerity to make her believe it. After all, the filthy rich always manage to get away with everything, including murder.

“No.”

…

“Oliver, Oliver, Oliver…” A crackly voice that sounded like someone was strangling Jeremy filled the tunnel. “Always trying to be the hero. You do remember what I told you if you tried to rescue Jennifer or go near the house.”

“Jeremy, is that you?”

“Of course. Welcome to my little brother’s nightmare.”

“You said he killed someone and buried them under the house.”

“Oh, slight mistake. I did that. Little shit was too nosy, so I hit him with a brick. Killed him. Sorry state of affairs. Had to make him disappear. It’s why the house has to go boom. Even if Oliver saved you, he wouldn’t save you. I knew you wouldn’t pay up, Oliver, so you can die too.”

“This is between you and your brother, not me. I’m leaving.”

“Can’t. The gate is locked. Better lock than the cage. Iron bars won’t help you now. You have five minutes to say your goodbyes. Then … boom.” The laughter lasted until the volume died.

…

Five minutes.

I looked for the camera, because he had to be watching us squirm. A minute to find two, another minute to smash the lights that he had turned on, obviously to watch us.

“Follow me.”

By the time I reached the gate, another minute, I tried it, and it was shut.

“Next idea.”

I reached down and tried pulling on the lock. It was a desperate and useless thing to do, but…

It opened. It felt wet and corroded. I opened the gate, dragged her through, shut it again and holding her hand, pulled her towards an arch structure as far away from the gate as possible, acting as a wall between us and possible rubble from an explosion.

There was no time to try and get upstairs into the house. I had to hope the cellar wasn’t rigged too, and that the arch structure would withstand the explosion.

I’d set the timer on my watch, and it was nearly time. Five … four … three … two … one … Boom. We could both feel the percussive aftereffect of the explosions; there were about ten in all, followed by a blast of air, dust, and debris as far as the gate, but not much into the cellar. But it had destroyed the tunnel, and had we been in it, we would have been suffocated in the collapse.

I had been holding her very close, protecting her with my body. If we were going to suffer a collapse, at least one of us should walk away from it. I let her go, and she stumbled back, trying to brush the dust off her clothes. The effects of the drugs had worn off, and I think she had just realised just how close we had been to death.

All because she had once been my friend. Now, I’m not so sure she would want to stay any longer than she had to.

“You’re safe now. We should get out of here in case he comes to check.”

“I doubt we’ll ever be safe while he still breathes. We have to go to the police.”

“Of course. The moment we get out of here.”

We went back up to the pantry and then back outside. It was cool and clear, and it was good to breathe clean air again. There were people in the street, looking in the direction of where they thought the explosion came from.

A police car, sirens blaring and lights flashing, came around the corner just up from the house and screeched to a halt not far from us. Two police officers got out, and from behind the doors, with guns pointing at us, screamed for us to get down on the ground with our hands behind our heads.

Or else.

It was stating the obvious to say that things were about to go from bad to worse.

…

We were arrested on suspicion of using explosives in a suburban setting and destroying a house that had a heritage listing, as well as the alleged murder of Edgar Bruinski, whose body was also allegedly in the house I just blew up. With my accomplice.

Now the mad bomber and his accomplice were sitting in an interview room at a police station, awaiting interrogation. It had a camera, and the light was blinking, meaning it was recording us. Perhaps they were waiting for us to turn on each other.

“From one small hole to another,” Jennifer sighed. “I knew I should have worn my worst clothes, but there was that prospect it might have been you, after all these years.” She shook her head. “i should have guessed it was Jeremy all along. You would not have made the offer of money to get me here.”

“Why did you then?”

“People are stupid when it comes to money, and I haven’t had the best of luck over the last few years, money or men for that matter. I thought I would find out if leaving you all those years ago was a mistake.”

“Was it?”

“A mistake? No. Not at the time, but I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and when I pieced together the events, I realised it couldn’t have been you, but your brother and those horrid friends of his.”

That was the moment a detective came into the room. I could feel Jennifer stiffen beside me in fear, or something else, but it was definite she knew who he was.

He sat down and introduced himself. I saw Jennifer shake her head. “No. That’s not who you are, and we both know it.”

He looked at her, a very dark expression on his face. “I think you are mistaken …” He opened a file, and there was a photo of Jennifer. “Miss Williams.”

“Mistaken or not, Detective, I am entitled to a lawyer and I’d like to call one now.”

“Soon. Just a few preliminary questions.”

I looked up at the camera. “Whoever is watching this, if this circus persists for a moment longer, there will be serious repercussions.” Then it came to me why she was afraid. I knew who the man was across the table.

A long time ago, when Jeremy had got into trouble, he had been rescued by a policeman who had been first on the crime scene. He had been an acquaintance of my father’s, and back then, he was in a situation where Jeremy’s troubles would have reflected back on him and ruined a deal he was about to make. Money changed hands, and of course, the gentle threats people with an advantage make. Across the table was his son, and one of the delinquents that Jeremy used to run with.

Another of Jeremy’s fallback plans.

I felt her squeeze my hand. I was right.

“So, Tolliver. Back to helping the scum of this city? Like father, like son.”

He was out of his chair and almost on me by the time two officers got into the room to restrain him. Just in time.

After they dragged him out, a more senior detective came in. He didn’t sit. “I’m sorry, but that was necessary. He’s been under surveillance for a while, and he’s been very careful. Your brother Jeremy is in custody, but it will only be short-lived. I think you know his circumstances.” He looked at Jennifer. “I’m sorry we didn’t live up to your expectations over protecting you, but thank you for the recording of Jeremy’s confession.” He looked at me. “Your father didn’t help matters by handing out bribes when he should have allowed the police to do their job. Not your fault, but those are the facts. At least now we can give Edgar’s family some closure. Don’t leave the city, we might have some more questions. As for now, you’re free to go.”

Once outside again, we walked a short distance to a small park area and sat on one of the benches. I needed time just to breathe. And consider what the detective had said.

“What just happened?” I had to ask.

“When you, or as it were, Jeremy called, I called the detective who was originally investigating the disappearance of Edgar. I had been with Edgar that day, and he had told me that he had a special party to go to, but wouldn’t tell me where or with whom. Of course, I suspected it was Jeremy and his friends and their so-called initiation they put chaps like Edgar through, leading them to believe they would gain admission to his circle of friends, but the reality was just a pile of humiliation and little else.”

I knew about Jeremy and his friends, and the process. He had done it to me, too, and I dared to fight back. Three of his friends got more than just bloody noses, but they didn’t come near me again.

“That was the trouble that would have caused your father a lot more. Tolliver was there, too, and he got his father to get them out of trouble, and there’s always a price to pay. Edgar gets no justice, and the Tolliver family profited handsomely. When I got the call, I told him there was a chance we could get either of you to tell the truth. I didn’t think you might know anything about it, but Jeremy was a chance. When I arrived, I went to see him. I knew straight away it wasn’t you who had asked me to come back. He drugged me and the rest you know.”

“The recording of the confession?”

“Cell phone in the tunnel. Up until then, nothing. He must have thought we were going to die. He was one of the two officers in that first car that arrested us. A little lax in protecting me, but it was worth it in the end.”

“Nearly dying?”

“My life hasn’t been that great, Oliver. I spent what little money I had coming back here, half hoping to see you again. And, here we are. Not under the best of circumstances, but we share a common bond, survivors. I didn’t thank you for trying to protect me back there in the cellar. If those bricks had fallen on us, well…” She suddered, then put her hand on mine. “Perhaps you could take me to dinner, after I get a change of clothes, and I can thank you properly.”

“I’m surprised you would want anything to do with my family.”

“He was the bad apple, Oliver, not you. I’ve seen what you’ve done with your life. Is your sister still alive?”

“She left as soon as she could escape. She said I should have gone with her, but I couldn’t leave my mother with my father and Jeremy, even though there wasn’t much I could do. When she died, I left the day after the funeral. My father wasn’t inherently bad, but it seems Jeremy inherited all the worst traits of his.”

“And you got all the good traits. Now…” She stood and held out her hand. “Let us not dwell on the past, or Jeremy, or what just happened. Food, wine, conversation, and whatever happens after that, that is up to you.” She smiled, and it changed her, almost back to the girl I used to know a long time ago.

I took her hand and stood. I was not sure what was supposed to happen, but it turned into a hug and perhaps the beginning of the rest of my life.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

What I learned about writing – Time Management is very, very important

Do you have days when you feel like you’ve achieved nothing, even after getting through what might appear to be a lot?  It’s the ancillary stuff that’s the bugbear of anyone who simply wants to get on with what’s important, and that’s writing.

You know, sit down in front of a blank page on the computer, on your writing desk, if you have one, ready for the words to come.

Except there’s the email to check.

Then there are ads to be sent out on Twitter and the general Twitter feed to look at just to keep up with what’s happening out there.

Then there’s the news usually that arrives on my desktop computer, the feed from the major papers around the world, for me, the New York Times, in the US, the Times in The UK and the Australian, in my country.

And, dammit, each has a challenging crossword that I really don’t have time to do, well, not in the morning.

Then there’s the stuff that has to be done around the house. I’m home, but my wife still works, so there’s washing, cooking, and domestic tasks to be done, which eats into the day.

Sometimes it’s not until mid-morning before I get to sit down with a cup of tea.

The point is, it’s not conducive to writing during the day because you can’t get a run at it, time enough to think about what you’re going to write before committing it to paper.

That is, before the phone rings with another scammer and breaks your concentration.  Right, I hear you, cut the phone off.

So, three phone calls later, I’m about to give up.  It’s time to get dinner on with family coming.  Perhaps I’ll have a few bottles of beer instead.

This is why I write at night, sometimes after ten.  No phone calls, no distractions.  Well, that’s not necessarily true because what you didn’t get done earlier has a way of backing up if you don’t get through it promptly.

Perhaps I’ll get a blog post or two done, another episode of the trip to China, upload another photo to Instagram and look at the current novel I’m in the middle of editing.

By that time, it will be two am, way past anyone’s decent time to go to bed.  In fact, it’s ten past two, and I’ve got an early morning.

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Writing a book in 365 days – 294

Day 294

Writing Exercise

…

My brother was horrible. Aside from being the favoured son, he made sure both my sister and I got nothing from our parents. When they were alive and even when they were dead.

He knew that I wanted the family house. He didn’t care about those things, just what it was worth, and when my father left it to him, he decided to keep it. Not live in it. Just keep it because he could, all the while just doing enough to keep it from being condemned by the local authorities.

Then, twenty years down the track, he called me. We hadn’t spoken in years. And I wouldn’t have if he hadn’t called. He’d decided to sell me the house.

If…

I agreed to three demands.

First, I had to get back together with my first girlfriend, Jennifer Williams, whom I had parted with after she had admitted cheating on me with my brother. He did that to nearly every girl I met, whether they cheated or not. They thought our whole family was rotten, and given his actions, I had to agree with them. That would be impossible; she had moved to Canada.

Second, I had to secure a letter of apology from my friend Jacob over some perceived slight twenty years ago that had cost him a job. It hadn’t been Jacob, per se, who did it; he had done it because I asked him. It would stretch the friendship, but he would do it if I asked.

Third, and the one that would ruin everything I had ever worked for, was to give him 51 per cent control of my companies. He had always been jealous and had always wanted to be a shareholder, but I had blocked him at every turn. He was a monster, and 51 per cent would ruin a lot of innocent lives; he would destroy them simply out of spite. I’d still be rich beyond averice, but I would never recover from it.

So, the point was, did I want the house that much?

…

As you can imagine, he had to believe that there was something in or about the house that made it possible for him to use the leverage he thought he had.

Ever since the house had been built in the late 1700s by a man who had been believed to be a notorious pirate, and coincidentally, an ancestor of ours, rumours abounded of a huge treasure hidden either in the house or the grounds, and somewhere in the house was the treasure map to tell where it was hidden.

That was the story my father used to tell us when we were children, and my brother lapped it up. Three generations of my father’s family had almost gone mad looking for it, including my father, and I had no doubt Jeremy had spent the last 20 years looking for the treasure and the map. 20 years on, I would have known if he found either. I think I knew what the inside of the house would look like, completely ripped to pieces. The surrounding land now looked like a WW2 bomb site.

He hadn’t found it, so he was going with the notion I knew where it was.

Of course, I didn’t, but he would never accept that. And if I gave him what he asked, he would instantly boast that my success was really his success and that somehow I had stolen it from him.

I would be better off taking a contract out on his life and then admitting it to the police.

…

I took his letter of demands and went to visit him in his trailer park caravan, which, if it was the one our parents owned, would be in very bad shape now. I drove down to Brighton in the oldest, worst-looking car I could find. Showing signs of wealth would simply be a red rag to a bull.

He met me on the specially built verandah in shorts and a singlet, three months away from dying a terrible death. I’d only just found out: Cancer. Stage 4.

He gave me the standard sullen look, the one he used to give when he had stolen something from me. I stayed at the bottom of the stairs.

“Took your time. Where are the documents?” He could see the envelope I had.

“There are no documents, Jeremy. It’s three flyers from Funeral Homes for you to choose from before you go. I’m happy to pay for it.”

“That’s not part of the deal.”

“There is no deal. I don’t want the house. I don’t want anything from you.”

He sighed. “I knew you’d be like this. No matter. We just have to move to Plan B.”

“What Plan B?”

“You need an incentive. Remember Jennifer Williams? I sent her a message that you wanted to see her, did it in your name. Offered her a million bucks. People are stupid when it comes to money. Didn’t even check to see if it really came from you.”

This didn’t sound very good. What had he done?

“So?”

“She’s kind of tied up at the house, and the house is rigged with explosives. You know, the sort that go boom.” his gesturing didn’t make it sound any better, but he smirked at the thought of the house going boom.

“You’re mad.”

“No. I was cheated. By you, and by everyone. If you had cut me in on your company, we’d both be rich and no skin off your nose.”

“You would have run it into the ground like everything else you did. You wouldn’t have taken a subordinate role. I don’t need you ruining everything.”

“Whatever. You have three hours to come back with the documents. If you go near the house, it will go boom; if you do anything I don’t like, the house will go boom, and her death is on you. She told everyone she was coming back for you.”

I shook my head, speechless.

“Two hours and fifty-eight minutes, don’t be late.”

…

My mind was just about in full meltdown. Jeremy had gone way past the fringe lunatic and was well on the way to a psychopathic murderer.

Whatever way I looked at it, I was up the proverbial creek.

Unless…

It took half an hour to get back to my office and drag out the seven boxes of papers my father had left with me. It was the detailed notes of his exploration of the property for the location of the treasure map and the treasure, neither of which he had found a trace of.

But there had to be something about the house in there I could use to get in and save Jennifer.

Or die trying. My life would not be worth anything if she were harmed.

And, my mind told me that even if I signed over everything, he would simply blow up the house anyway, just to implicate me in her murder, so basically, I was in a no-win situation.

Box 1, nothing, box 2, equally nothing, and time was ticking away.

Box 3, Box 4, Box 5. Papers were scattered everywhere, on desks and on the floor. Nothing. Half an hour gone, time was relentlessly moving forward.

Box 6. A map. Old. Contours. The English called these maps ordnance surveys. There was an X, a dotted line, and another X.

X marks the spot? What spot?

There was a tracing of a street map that overlaid the survey, and the X marked a building. I wrote down the address, 15 minutes away, and literally ran to the car.

An hour and a half, about, gone. I stopped outside a two-story run-down residence. It was clear by the height of the overgrowth that no one lived there. It took a few minutes to get to the front door, then try it. I was expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t.

Once inside, I turned on the flashlight and looked around. Remarkably clean for a house that hadn’t been used in recent years. I walked up the passage to the rear of the building and into the kitchen. A door was open, perhaps a pantry, and I looked in. There was a trap door in the floor.

I tried it and it swung open. Steps going down. Was it the wine cellar? This house backed onto a hill, so it was likely that there was an underground cellar. I went down slowly; the wooden steps might have decayed. There was a strong odour of wine and damp.

A flash of light in the direction I thought was towards the hill, and I could see the brick arches where the wine had been stored. There were a few broken and empty bottles in the arches, but no usable wine. What was this place, and how did my father know about it?

I went to the rear of the cellar, counting 24 arches, and then between two an iron gate, rusting, but showing signs of recent use. I opened it, and another flask of light showed it was a tunnel.

X to X. Did it go from the street to the old house? Was this an escape tunnel built by our forefathers to escape the British during the fight for independence? That was another story my father used to tell us, that we were among the original patriots. I thought he was joking.

I followed it to the end, where there was another gate, half ajar, as if whoever used it last didn’t bother closing it. It was another wine cellar. I never knew our old house had one. I don’t think my brother did either, unless he found it in his search for the treasure.

And then, playing the light around the walls, I stopped at a tarpaulin, relatively new, covering something. I pulled it off, and there was a figure lying on the ground inside a cage.

Jennifer Williams.

She moved when I aimed the light at her, then lifted her head. “Oliver?”

“It is.” I looked at the cage, and saw there was a lock keeping the door closed, so she couldn;t escape.

“What the hell is going on?” She was still groggy from being drugged.

“My brother is playing one of his games. I’m sorry you had to get mixed up in it.”

“Jeremy? He doesn’t look well.”

“Dying. Stage four cancer. This is his last play to destroy me before he dies.”

I looked around and found an iron bar, one of a dozen or so in a pile in one of the wine arches. It took several minutes to break the lock off the cage and get her out. The drugs were still affecting her mobility, though she seemed more alert now.

“There are bombs somewhere down here. I remember him telling me that if you didn’t pay up, he was going to blow the house up.”

“No surprises there.”

“He also said that you buried a body down here. Edgar something or other. A school prank gone wrong. I don’t remember any Edgar from school days.”

“Come, this way. We don’t have much time.” I led her back down the tunnel to the house.

Halfway, she stopped, blocking the way.

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Kill someone and hide the body under the house?”

Then it dawned on me. He had a dozen plan B’s in place just in case I did manage to find and save her. A story of malfeasance, told with just enough sincerity to make her believe it. After all, the filthy rich always manage to get away with everything, including murder.

“No.”

…

“Oliver, Oliver, Oliver…” A crackly voice that sounded like someone was strangling Jeremy filled the tunnel. “Always trying to be the hero. You do remember what I told you if you tried to rescue Jennifer or go near the house.”

“Jeremy, is that you?”

“Of course. Welcome to my little brother’s nightmare.”

“You said he killed someone and buried them under the house.”

“Oh, slight mistake. I did that. Little shit was too nosy, so I hit him with a brick. Killed him. Sorry state of affairs. Had to make him disappear. It’s why the house has to go boom. Even if Oliver saved you, he wouldn’t save you. I knew you wouldn’t pay up, Oliver, so you can die too.”

“This is between you and your brother, not me. I’m leaving.”

“Can’t. The gate is locked. Better lock than the cage. Iron bars won’t help you now. You have five minutes to say your goodbyes. Then … boom.” The laughter lasted until the volume died.

…

Five minutes.

I looked for the camera, because he had to be watching us squirm. A minute to find two, another minute to smash the lights that he had turned on, obviously to watch us.

“Follow me.”

By the time I reached the gate, another minute, I tried it, and it was shut.

“Next idea.”

I reached down and tried pulling on the lock. It was a desperate and useless thing to do, but…

It opened. It felt wet and corroded. I opened the gate, dragged her through, shut it again and holding her hand, pulled her towards an arch structure as far away from the gate as possible, acting as a wall between us and possible rubble from an explosion.

There was no time to try and get upstairs into the house. I had to hope the cellar wasn’t rigged too, and that the arch structure would withstand the explosion.

I’d set the timer on my watch, and it was nearly time. Five … four … three … two … one … Boom. We could both feel the percussive aftereffect of the explosions; there were about ten in all, followed by a blast of air, dust, and debris as far as the gate, but not much into the cellar. But it had destroyed the tunnel, and had we been in it, we would have been suffocated in the collapse.

I had been holding her very close, protecting her with my body. If we were going to suffer a collapse, at least one of us should walk away from it. I let her go, and she stumbled back, trying to brush the dust off her clothes. The effects of the drugs had worn off, and I think she had just realised just how close we had been to death.

All because she had once been my friend. Now, I’m not so sure she would want to stay any longer than she had to.

“You’re safe now. We should get out of here in case he comes to check.”

“I doubt we’ll ever be safe while he still breathes. We have to go to the police.”

“Of course. The moment we get out of here.”

We went back up to the pantry and then back outside. It was cool and clear, and it was good to breathe clean air again. There were people in the street, looking in the direction of where they thought the explosion came from.

A police car, sirens blaring and lights flashing, came around the corner just up from the house and screeched to a halt not far from us. Two police officers got out, and from behind the doors, with guns pointing at us, screamed for us to get down on the ground with our hands behind our heads.

Or else.

It was stating the obvious to say that things were about to go from bad to worse.

…

We were arrested on suspicion of using explosives in a suburban setting and destroying a house that had a heritage listing, as well as the alleged murder of Edgar Bruinski, whose body was also allegedly in the house I just blew up. With my accomplice.

Now the mad bomber and his accomplice were sitting in an interview room at a police station, awaiting interrogation. It had a camera, and the light was blinking, meaning it was recording us. Perhaps they were waiting for us to turn on each other.

“From one small hole to another,” Jennifer sighed. “I knew I should have worn my worst clothes, but there was that prospect it might have been you, after all these years.” She shook her head. “i should have guessed it was Jeremy all along. You would not have made the offer of money to get me here.”

“Why did you then?”

“People are stupid when it comes to money, and I haven’t had the best of luck over the last few years, money or men for that matter. I thought I would find out if leaving you all those years ago was a mistake.”

“Was it?”

“A mistake? No. Not at the time, but I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and when I pieced together the events, I realised it couldn’t have been you, but your brother and those horrid friends of his.”

That was the moment a detective came into the room. I could feel Jennifer stiffen beside me in fear, or something else, but it was definite she knew who he was.

He sat down and introduced himself. I saw Jennifer shake her head. “No. That’s not who you are, and we both know it.”

He looked at her, a very dark expression on his face. “I think you are mistaken …” He opened a file, and there was a photo of Jennifer. “Miss Williams.”

“Mistaken or not, Detective, I am entitled to a lawyer and I’d like to call one now.”

“Soon. Just a few preliminary questions.”

I looked up at the camera. “Whoever is watching this, if this circus persists for a moment longer, there will be serious repercussions.” Then it came to me why she was afraid. I knew who the man was across the table.

A long time ago, when Jeremy had got into trouble, he had been rescued by a policeman who had been first on the crime scene. He had been an acquaintance of my father’s, and back then, he was in a situation where Jeremy’s troubles would have reflected back on him and ruined a deal he was about to make. Money changed hands, and of course, the gentle threats people with an advantage make. Across the table was his son, and one of the delinquents that Jeremy used to run with.

Another of Jeremy’s fallback plans.

I felt her squeeze my hand. I was right.

“So, Tolliver. Back to helping the scum of this city? Like father, like son.”

He was out of his chair and almost on me by the time two officers got into the room to restrain him. Just in time.

After they dragged him out, a more senior detective came in. He didn’t sit. “I’m sorry, but that was necessary. He’s been under surveillance for a while, and he’s been very careful. Your brother Jeremy is in custody, but it will only be short-lived. I think you know his circumstances.” He looked at Jennifer. “I’m sorry we didn’t live up to your expectations over protecting you, but thank you for the recording of Jeremy’s confession.” He looked at me. “Your father didn’t help matters by handing out bribes when he should have allowed the police to do their job. Not your fault, but those are the facts. At least now we can give Edgar’s family some closure. Don’t leave the city, we might have some more questions. As for now, you’re free to go.”

Once outside again, we walked a short distance to a small park area and sat on one of the benches. I needed time just to breathe. And consider what the detective had said.

“What just happened?” I had to ask.

“When you, or as it were, Jeremy called, I called the detective who was originally investigating the disappearance of Edgar. I had been with Edgar that day, and he had told me that he had a special party to go to, but wouldn’t tell me where or with whom. Of course, I suspected it was Jeremy and his friends and their so-called initiation they put chaps like Edgar through, leading them to believe they would gain admission to his circle of friends, but the reality was just a pile of humiliation and little else.”

I knew about Jeremy and his friends, and the process. He had done it to me, too, and I dared to fight back. Three of his friends got more than just bloody noses, but they didn’t come near me again.

“That was the trouble that would have caused your father a lot more. Tolliver was there, too, and he got his father to get them out of trouble, and there’s always a price to pay. Edgar gets no justice, and the Tolliver family profited handsomely. When I got the call, I told him there was a chance we could get either of you to tell the truth. I didn’t think you might know anything about it, but Jeremy was a chance. When I arrived, I went to see him. I knew straight away it wasn’t you who had asked me to come back. He drugged me and the rest you know.”

“The recording of the confession?”

“Cell phone in the tunnel. Up until then, nothing. He must have thought we were going to die. He was one of the two officers in that first car that arrested us. A little lax in protecting me, but it was worth it in the end.”

“Nearly dying?”

“My life hasn’t been that great, Oliver. I spent what little money I had coming back here, half hoping to see you again. And, here we are. Not under the best of circumstances, but we share a common bond, survivors. I didn’t thank you for trying to protect me back there in the cellar. If those bricks had fallen on us, well…” She suddered, then put her hand on mine. “Perhaps you could take me to dinner, after I get a change of clothes, and I can thank you properly.”

“I’m surprised you would want anything to do with my family.”

“He was the bad apple, Oliver, not you. I’ve seen what you’ve done with your life. Is your sister still alive?”

“She left as soon as she could escape. She said I should have gone with her, but I couldn’t leave my mother with my father and Jeremy, even though there wasn’t much I could do. When she died, I left the day after the funeral. My father wasn’t inherently bad, but it seems Jeremy inherited all the worst traits of his.”

“And you got all the good traits. Now…” She stood and held out her hand. “Let us not dwell on the past, or Jeremy, or what just happened. Food, wine, conversation, and whatever happens after that, that is up to you.” She smiled, and it changed her, almost back to the girl I used to know a long time ago.

I took her hand and stood. I was not sure what was supposed to happen, but it turned into a hug and perhaps the beginning of the rest of my life.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.

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

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

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

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

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

Maria nodded and left.

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

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

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

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

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

An apology was the last thing I expected.

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stood.  “Last chance.”

“Forever?”

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

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

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

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

No kiss, no touch, no looking back. 

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2025

strangerscover9

“The Things We Do For Love”

Would you give up everything to be with the one you love?

…

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, a place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?

For Henry, the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself.  It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.

Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end, both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.  

Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.

A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone.  To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.

But can love conquer all?

It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red-light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

NANOWRIMO – November 2025 – Day 6

…

The Third Son of a Duke

…

It was the golden age of travel, where the opulence of the Titanic filtered down into the ships that went in the opposite direction.

It was also the golden age for migration from England to Australia, with ships leaving from a number of ports, a wave that had started in the mid-1800s.

I discovered which ship my grandmother took from Tilbury to Melbourne, the RMS “Orama”, over 10,000 tons and the latest iteration in the design that saw four of five similar ships before it, run by the Orient Shipping Line, and these ships departed every 14 days.

First class, second class, and third class, which sounds so much better than steerage.  The second-class ticket cost 40 pounds, which could be regarded as a small fortune back then, when wages were about 80 pounds a year.

My grandmother had a little inheritance money, and having cousins living in Australia, I am sure her intention was to simply visit them for a while and then go back home.

Of course, there was just one problem.

World War One was brewing in Europe. 

Perhaps if she thought it might all blow up, she could have stayed at home. But I think there was another reason why she was making such a journey.

…

1610 words, for a total of 9620 words.

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

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

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

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

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

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

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

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

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

Then there’s the title, like

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

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

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

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

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

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

PIWalthJones1

Writing about writing a book – Day 20

It is a day of rest although writers are ready and able to work on any given day at any hour of the day or night when an idea or thought comes to them.

I’m trying not to think, but that’s not working.

I’ve been going over the reasons for writing the first draft of the book 30 odd years ago and it had something to do with the fact I was working with personal computers and local area networking when both were in their infancy, and I wanted to blend this knowledge into a story.

Of course, I’d always wanted to write thrillers, and this presented the opportunity to use computers as a basis for a worldwide conspiracy.  How easy it is these days to do just that, but back in those days, it was a lot of hard work.

I remember sitting in a meeting when the company I was working for at the time had just implemented a network and personal computer to replace the mainframe and dumb terminals, also looking to leverage the new technologies of spreadsheets and word-processing, effectively making accounts staff more productive, and removing typists and moving into the world of centralized word processing.  It was not a new idea with Wangwriter, but using PC’s was.

One of the departmental managers got up to give his take on the new technology, this about six months after implementation, and after a lot of teething troubles caused mainly by people who were vehemently resisting change, and his message was, it should not be called ‘networking’, but ‘not working’, in reference to the number of times the network went down.

But this is a digression.  Computers are only a part of the story.

The story also goes back to a time when there was a clear demarcation between the management levels.  Management offices were oasis’s whereas the staff worked in a stark desert-like environment.  When one came to work for such an organization, it was with the belief that you start at the bottom, and over time, you work your way up the ladder.  There was, very definitely, class distinction, and the various management levels never mixed, at work or socially, except within their own level.

There were Managers, Assistant Managers, and Manager’s Assistants, a typing pool, a secretary, that young, or old, lady who did so many jobs for their boss, that these days it would be considered demeaning.  They were dedicated to their jobs and irreplaceable.  There was no such person as a Personal Assistant.

Nor was such a thing as sexual harassment.  One company I worked in where one of the Assistant Managers was sexually abusing an office girl, her complaints didn’t get a prosecution as it would now, it just had him transferred to another branch.  Reprehensible, yes, and thankfully no longer a problem, except of course, in Fifty Shades of Grey which apparently condones such behavior.

There were department heads, General Managers, and Board Members.  The upper management level and participants were in a world of their own, one few could ever aspire to.  This is the world in which Transworld, my fictitious (but based on a very real) company lives.

I have to work on my company structure to make sure it is right.

Now I have two charts.  A timeline, for both Bill, and the story, and a hierarchy for the office management and staff.

This is beginning to be more complicated than I thought.

 

© Charles Heath 2016-2020