Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 63

Here’s the thing…

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

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

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

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

…

Back to the newspaper office

…

I went around to Boggs’s house on the chance that he might have come home, just as his mother was heading off to her night job. I raised the possibility that something might have happened to him but she didn’t agree, nor did she look all that concerned.

The fact he had experience in cave exploration and used to camping out with his father and later uncle Rico and had told he might not be back for a few days was not cause for concern, and we left it at that, telling her I would drop in again soon.

She didn’t seem to think that he might get into trouble considering the instability of some of the caves, nor the fact they have warning signs and or been boarded up to stop explorers concern her.

The possibility it could happen and had happened to others, bothered me, as was the fact he was starting to emulate his father with this obsession. If the story in the paper was anything to go by, at worst he could finish up just like his father, buried under a pile of rubble.

Did I believe that was where his father was?

I didn’t know what to think, because the waters were so muddied by people who were driven by self-interest.

There was so much more to this story, mostly driven by self-interest, revenge perhaps, and, worse, greed. It was perhaps a symptom of everything that had gone wrong in not only this town but what was happening on a much larger scale to the whole country. But, that was someone else’s problem. My concern was here, now, and saving Biggs from following the same destructive path his father had

And, to do that, I needed to know more. That meant, first thing the next morning, a trip to the newspaper office.

When I returned to the newspaper office Lenny was in his usual seat with a paper in hand, reading. Keeping up with the competition, he said, though the difference in circulation was counted in millions.

There was a woman behind the other desk.

“Staff journalist,” he said when he saw me looking at her. “And family. My wife, Jennifer.”

I’d not seen her before, and she didn’t come from here, or I would have recognized her.

She smiled, and there was something in that expression that struck me as familiar.

“Are you related to the Ormistons?”

It was a vague resemblance, after seeing so many pictures of the Ormistons, that everyone looked like them.

“It’s a name I don’t use anymore,” she said, “for obvious reasons. My grandfather stirred a lot of resentment.”

“And,” Lenny added, “it’s between us and these four walls, Sam.”

I nodded. I could understand the sentiment. And it explained Lenny’s depth of knowledge.

“Just to be clear, your grandfather didn’t find the treasure?”

She sighed.

Lenny said, sharply, “Sam!”

I shrugged. “Sorry. I had to ask.”

“No, he did not, and believe me, that’s a sore point with everyone whose lives he destroyed.”

“I can imagine. Does anyone know what happened to him, the real story?”

“There is no real story Sam. I tried to discover the truth and failed. For Jennifer’s peace of mind. We may never know what happened to him.”

“But surely you don’t believe he died in a cave somewhere?”

“It’s the most plausible.”

“And what about Boggs’s father?”

“He was a fool,” Jennifer said. “From what I remember of him, he was always insistent that the treasure was in a cavern up in the hills, accessible only by an underground river that flowed down to the sea. He originally thought it was the one the mall was built over, except every cave had a dead end.”

“Before or after the mall was built?”

“My father explored the cave system, with my grandfather, extensively, before the mall was built. There was no underground river.”

“How did the mall get destroyed in a flood then?”

“That was the Benderby’s cost-cutting the foundations. The flooding was man-made, not an act of nature like they said it was. That was just so they could claim the insurance. No one could really tell the difference, and the specialist the got to sign off on it lied. The same guy that turned up dead on Rico’s boat, by the way.”

“The Benderby’s cleaning up another mess, but their way.” Jennifer sounded, and probably had every right to be, resentful.

“Then there still could be an underground river somewhere along the coast?”

“If there is, I haven’t found it, and neither has Alex and that fancy boat of his. It’s another dead end, and like as not, another nail in the coffin of what was a fairy tale, to begin with. There was no treasure, just a fable invented by the Cossatinos.”

“Even so, it’s part of the folklore of this county and will have a place in the history I’m writing. I noticed over the years the treasure had a prominent place in the paper.”

“My father, and his before him thought it would be good for the town. You know, bring in tourists. It was my father’s idea to print treasure maps, and then the Cossatino’s embellished it but producing what they called ‘the real map’ each a slight variation on the other, commanding a special fee, and swearing the purchases to a promise of silence, and adding to the authenticity, demanding a 19 percent share of whatever they found. People lapped it up and my father said they’d made a fortune out of it. Boggs’s father hand-made the copies, and used that money to fund his own explorations. Everyone made money out of it, one way or another except Ormiston.”

A bitter irony if there was ever one. There was more money in the illusion of treasure than the actual treasure itself.

“And the so-called real map that Boggs reputedly found in the pirate’s hideaway?”

“No one ever saw it, except that one time it was authenticated age-wise, so no one ever got to see it. Boggs made sure of that, and never let it out of his sight. Now we’ll never know. I’m sure Boggs junior doesn’t have it, but with him, he’s as daft as his father was.”

“He had a lot of his father’s stuff he found in a box in the attic recently. I’ve seen some of it, but not an authentic map, so maybe your right.”

“Of course I am. When you have an idea of what this history of yours is going to look like, let me know. And I’ll publish it in parts if you want, maybe pass it on to the dailies. It might be worth something.”

“Thanks. I will. But more study first, you have the history of the place in that back room, maybe you should write something yourself. Being the journalist.”

“Too busy with births deaths and marriages, Sam, and the antics of the Benderby’s and Cossatino’s. You know that Benderby is demolishing the mall and putting a marina in its place? Talk of building a hotel, boosting tourism. Talking of running for mayor, you know, the first stop on the way to the presidency?”

“A crook for a mayor?”

“Wouldn’t be the first, won’t be the last. But one thing is for sure, that kind of news sells papers.”

It did, but I had a feeling the Benderby’s were all about creating a distraction, and something else was going on at that mall site.

…

Motive, means, and opportunity – Episode 1

…

The Jaded Detective

…

The victim was found just after dawn by a man walking his dog.

Detective Louis Bryson was just about to call it a day, or in this case since he was on the graveyard shift, call it a morning, when the call came in.

Why was it, he thought, that victims were always discovered by someone walking a dog. Maybe the dog was walking them, because at that hour of the morning, if he owned a dog, he would be on autopilot.

And that was because Detective Louis Bryson was not a morning person.

He hated mornings, he hated traffic, and he hated people, especially in the morning peak hours. Everyone always seemed angry and irritable. It was bad enough going home, against the flow. Worse when he had to drive out to a crime scene.

Like now. The only thing saving his sanity was classical music.

The crime scene was a car parked in a designated parking area of the Queens Botanical Gardens. How the car got there, who the victim was, and why the victim was there were questions he was going to ask.

He was stopped at the gate by an officer assigned to keep people out. He showed his shield and the officer let him pass.

Crime scene investigators and the medical examiner were already on the scene, as was another detective, Sam Worthey, who was usually assigned to work with him. Bryson was a hard man to work with, but Worthey had become used to his eccentricities.

Worthey had started walking towards the car the moment he saw Bryson pass the cordon and was at the door when Bryson stepped out.

Bryson had seen the lone car sitting off the roadway, back in rather than driven in, telling him the killer knew he had the time to do what he had to and that it was not a quick or opportunistic killing. At first glance, this looked to be deliberate and planned.

A quick look around showed that it was unlikely there would be any witnesses who could identify the possible killer from the buildings, or the roadway that bordered the park. He saw the man, and the dog sitting obediently by his side, who discovered the victim.

Worthey followed his eyes and when it stopped on the man he said, “The man who discovered the victim, Jack Bentine. The dog’s name is Freddie, believe it or not, and they were going for a walk starting shortly after 7 am from a residence three streets away, on their usual early morning exercise in the park, for the dog that is, and found the deceased at approximately 7:15. Not the best start to the day.”

“Do I need to talk to him?”

“No. Got the details, and asked him to come to the station to sign a statement. Pretty shaken up.”

“Then tell him to go.”

Bryson watched Worthey go over to the man, have a brief word, and then come back.

Bentine shook his head and left with the reluctant dog. He was going to miss out on his morning exercise.

Bryson walked towards the car and stopped about 20 feet short. He looked closely at the ground, moving slowly towards the side of the car. No footprints. The surface was rough but very hard. Pity, it hadn’t snowed overnight and left behind some very clear footprints.

He asked the investigators in and around the car to give him a few minutes, and he waited until they moved out of the way.

The door was open. A closer look showed the man had been shot in the side of the head, blood spatter stretching to the other side of the car.

The victim was still in the driver’s seat. The driver’s side window hadn’t been wound down, and the bullet had been shot through the glass.

So, had the killer been waiting, either in the parking space or somewhere near? He looked around. Nowhere to really hide. So, was it possible the killer was waiting for the victim to arrive, which could mean the victim knew his killer? It didn’t seem to fit the facts. The scene seemed to Bryson to be a little off.

Another look inside the car showed the key to the car was in the driver’s hand, so that meant the victim had arrived, took the key out of the ignition, and was about to get out of the car. Would he do that if the killer was standing in the spot? Possibly not. Bryson thought in the same position, he would just wind the window down, and not get out of the car.

Last night was very, very cold.

So that would mean the killer wasn’t visible to the victim when he arrived.

The victim was dressed in a suit, tie still on, so he had come from somewhere requiring formal clothing, work, a meeting, or dinner?

He took a couple of steps backward where Worthey was waiting. He motioned the investigators to return.

“Do we know who he is?”

Worthey was holding an evidence bag with a wallet in it. “Yes. James Burgman, 45, currently single, but recently exiting from a very nasty divorce, in which his ex-wife is very angry.”

“And you know this because?”

“I read the newspapers. It’s been in the news. I didn’t need the wallet to identify him.”

“Approximate time of death?”

“Josie thinks sometime between midnight and two am. She’ll know more when she gets the body.”

Josie was a good pathologist and was rarely wrong in her first estimation.”

“CCTV?” He had to ask just in case he missed something.

“One camera covering the carpark.”

Worthey pointed to a spot where there were tree branches and, if he looked carefully, the metal of a pole. Not easy to see it for the branches.

“And the bad news?” He could detect the disappointment in Worthey’s tone.

“Casing only. The unit has been in the repair shop for over a month waiting for a new board. The fancier they are, the easier for them to fail.”

Or had it been sabotaged by a well-informed or well-prepared killer? Whoever it was, this wasn’t a crime of opportunity.

“Was there a mobile phone or anything else?”

“We haven’t found one yet.”

Perhaps the killer took it to cover the fact he may have called him or left a message to come to this park. It might be a break if Burgman had a mobile phone account.

“Right. I’ll tackle the wife, and let her know what’s happened. You see if you can track down a mobile phone or account, where he worked, and if possible, what he was supposed to be doing last night.”

Worthey groaned inwardly. There was another case he was working on, but it looked like it would have to wait. “On it.”

…

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

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

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

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

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

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

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

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

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

Then there’s the title, like

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

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

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

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

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

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

PIWalthJones1

An excerpt from “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.”

onelastlookcoverfinal2

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — Z is for Zanzibar

…

My hobby was something that only a select few had, and that was searching rubbish dumps for useful items.

But there was one exception.

I didn’t search the average rubbish dump, only those I knew were used by organisations and companies that dumped old technology,

If I was lucky, it would be a government department, and the stuff deemed no longer useful to anyone. I often found old computers, without memory or storage of course, but otherwise intact, and I had an excellent museum of computers, from almost the very first.

It was amazing what some companies disposed of, and in one instance I picked a complete, working, mainframe computer. It filled a substantial part of the barn.

Then there were a half dozen communication radios, not the sort that had a short range, no, these devices had almost worldwide coverage. They were also long-wave radio receivers, and I was able to pick up AM radio stations all over the word, and, sometimes, CB transmissions. It came with several sets of manuals, very thick books that made it daunting reading, so they remained in a wooden crate until boredom set in.

But the radios, were, for now, my new toys to play with.

Late one night I was switching between frequencies, looking for anything that might be interesting, and just caught the end of a transmission, “This is a code Zanzibar, I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Will call same time tomorrow.”

Code Zanzibar?

It had to be someone out there somewhere in the world playing a prank.

Perhaps there would be more, so I would tune in tomorrow, fifteen minutes earlier to see if there was any more to the message.

Meantime, full of curiosity, I wondered if there would be anything in any of the books that came with the radios.

I didn’t sleep that night, going through each one practically page by page because the indexes were missing. It was one of those unexplainable oddities, that made me wonder if there was anything in them that the owners hadn’t wanted anyone to find. That in itself seemed even more odd because if it was the case, why didn’t they destroy them?

Somewhere around shortly before dawn, tired, and bored from reading, I fell asleep.

After yet another bollocking from my father about letting my foolish hobby get in the way of work, I had to work extra hard to make up for it and was too tired to continue my studies. I meant to read more before the transmission time, but luckily remembered to set the alarm,

When the alarm went off, I woke with a jolt and nearly forgot why I set it. I got to the radio just before the transmission.

Then I heard it.

“This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent.”

I flicked the switch to send a message, and said, “This is station M. This is station M. Can you identify yourself?”

I had discovered in the documentation that the radio set had been set up in what was designated Station M, and that it was one of 26 around the country.

There was no reply, just the same message, “This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent.” For exactly three minutes, then the sign-off, “Will call same time tomorrow.”

Back to the books, I was in the middle of the sixth of seven volumes, at page 1,457, of 2,500 when I saw the heading “Warning Codes”, and then shuffled through 26 pages until I found “Zanzibar”.

When I read the explanation my heart almost stopped.

“Zanzibar – The threat of an alien attack is imminent – designates that actual alien aircraft have been positively identified and heading towards earth”

What the…

When I read some of the other codes, it showed varying descriptions for a number of events involving aliens, and at first, I thought this referred to other countries than our own, but then, on another page I realised that aliens meant aliens from outer space.

And the fact everyone but a few debunked the idea there was other life out there, it made no sense. That transmission could not have come from anywhere on Earth. At least, I didn’t think so, because there had been nothing in the documentation about similar stations in other countries.

Still utterly gobsmacked, I kept reading and found a page where certain information hadn’t been redacted. That was something else. Before the books had been thrown away, a lot of information had been redacted.

Why hadn’t it been destroyed, if it was that sensitive?

This page had a name, Professor Edward Bones. It looked like it had been missed.

Perhaps I could call and ask him what this all meant.

I spend hours trying to match the surname with the locale of where I found the stuff, thinking the original Station M would be nearby. It wasn’t easy because the name wasn’t in the current phone book, so I had to dig a little deeper and find where historical phone records were kept.

That got me the Professor’s address and phone number, and the University he worked at. A search on his name told me he was associated with SETI which had to do with tracking communications, if any, from outer space.

I called the number, but it was decommissioned. No surprise. If I did the math, the Professor would be a hundred and twenty-two if he was still alive, I did the next best thing, I went to the address.

It was a hundred and fifty miles, a long way to go and pin hopes on finding something. The university was on the other side of the country so going there was out of the question. It was hard enough to get my father to let me have the day off for this trip.

It was a gated community just off the main highway, a group of houses set aside on their own, now looking rather worse for wear. There was no longer a gate, but the was a guard house, holes on the roof and broken windows, a divided driveway with what was once lawn and flower beds, all now overgrown leading to a fountain in the middle of a roundabout that led, one way to houses, one way to a shopping centre and the other, sports fields.

It looked to me like this was a purpose-built community, perhaps to look after the radio receivers, waiting for a call that may never come.

And just had.

I drove to the Professor’s house and parked out front. It looked in better condition than those on either side, and when I looked in, saw signs of habitation. Someone was living in it. Not the professor’s ghost I hope.

I waited.

It was nearly dark before a battered Ford pickup stopped in the driveway and what looked to be an old man get out.

He saw me as I got out of my car, and come towards him. He didn’t look surprised, which was worrying.

“Did you know Professor Bones,” I asked? It was unlikely.

“My father, yes. Are you from the government? I have nowhere else to go.”

“No. I’m not. Did you know much about what your father did?”

“Why? Is this going to be another character assassination piece? Are you a reporter?”

“Me? No.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I came to ask someone, anyone, if they knew what Cade Zanzibar really means. It can’t possibly mean there’s an imminent alien invasion.”

His expression changed instantly, and it was clear he did know what it meant.

“How do you know anything about Station M, that was top secret, and no one knows, no one still alive that is, other than a few fools back in Washington.”

“I rescued the radio receivers and documents from a dump. I collect old technology. It was just sitting there. I took it home, connected it up, and listened. For the last two nights, there’s been this transmission, ‘This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent’.

“My God. Where are they now?”

“My place.”

“Where?”

I told him.

“We have to go. Now. Take me. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

It was the stuff of science fiction comics. Transmission had been received, many years back, from what was believed an alien race under attack from another. He hesitated before he said it was believed there was life on Mars, but selling the idea there were Martians didn’t go too well. However, the government decided to piggyback onto the moon landings, and several other missions, one on the Moon, one to Mars, one to Jupiter and another to Saturn.

Not on the planets. But space stations orbiting the planets, sort of early warning stations. That first transmission had the implied threat that the aggressive aliens were heading towards Earth.

Apparently not as fast as was suspected. The stations were built, volunteers were sent on the premise they might never come home, and supplies were sent via a launching pad on the moon. While we were still discussing the possibility of launching missions to the other planets, it had already been done, And no one knew.

Expect the Professor, who lost the plot when the government shut down the program and virtually abandoned these people in the outer space stations.

And that was the purpose of Station M. To maintain communications with the space stations, and the moon base. When they were closed, the stations disappeared. Where I visited the Professor’s son, that was the whole base, kept isolated, and under very tight security.

“All I can think of is that one of the space stations is still in operation, manned by someone who has to be one of the oldest people alive, or they figured out how to automate a message given certain parameters. Anyway, if there’s a transmission tonight, we’ll soon find out.”

All I could think of was that I’d just unearthed the biggest secret of all time. One that it was likely I could never tell anyone about.

Unless there really were aliens coming to attack us.

A minute or so later, the transmission came in, “This is a code Zanzibar; I repeat a Code Zanzibar. Attack is imminent, I repeat attack is imminent”.

Bones had already looked over the units and certified they were in full working order and showed me the sequence of switches that turned on two-way communications.

After the message, he switched to transmit, “This is Station M, repeat, this is Station M receiving you. Please advise details.”

He switched back to receive and static burst out of the speaker. This went on for a minute, then a weak voice. “Is that you Freddie?”

“Yes. The Prof’s son. Who are you?”

“Alistair Montgomery. I was last to arrive when I was six. There are two of us left. I think Saturn and Mars have ceased. What happened back there?”

“Funding. Lack of results. Bean-counting accountants thought ramping up for wars at home was more important. We knew it would happen one day.

“Five years, Freddie.”

“Your transmission? Code Zanzibar. Is it relevant, or just to get our attention?”

“It’s real. We saw about 50 large ships go by on the long-range radar. Heading for the earth, not moving very fast. I estimate they would take several days to reach to outer limits of our Thermosphere.”

“They didn’t come to see you?”

“No. Sad, because I was hoping to be the first to meet an alien. That might yet be you.”

“Are you going to be OK up there? I can’t tell you we coming to get you.”

“We knew what we were signing on for. But it would be nice if you could keep in touch/.”

“Do what I can. Over and out.”

He went around the back of the unit, and I heard what sounded like the ejecting of a cassette tape. When he came back, he showed it to me. “This should make the bastards sit up and take notice.”

He grabbed his coat. “We have to go. Take me to the nearest airport.”

We made it outside to the car when three black SUV’s pulled up abruptly and a dozen armed men got out and surrounded us.

Then a man in a suit got out of the lead vehicle and came over.

Bones recognised him.

“I didn’t think it would take you long. Been monitoring for transmissions, have you?”

“We knew your father didn’t follow orders but had no proof. Who are you,” he glared at me.

“I rescued the radios.”

He sighed. “Bloody contractors. Never do as they’re told.” He shook his head. “Cuff them and throw them in the car.”

They might have, had it not been for one minor matter. In the half-light of night, it suddenly went quite dark, except for the car headlights, until suddenly the whole area was lit up like a movie studio. We all looked up and…

The aliens had arrived.

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 23

Where did that ship come from?

…

When I stepped out on to the bridge number one was waiting, “we received a distress call a few minutes ago, and we’ve been trying to get the ship back to get the details. Then, it just appeared.

Not far off the Port bow, another ship, about half the size of ours was not moving, and it was clear we were doing a circuit to check he outside if the ship.

“It’s the ‘Ionosphere’, one of the research vessels, but according to our records, it should be off Jupiter.”

“Is there anyway we can find out if anyone is alive on board?”

“Our sensors are not clever enough to discern life forms, at least nit yet. They’re working on it, and it’s going to be in the next upgrade. We basically restricted to what’s going on outside.”

“Then we’d better send a shuttle, see what’s going on. Gather a team, take the military rather than security, and a systems expert, and head it up yourself.”

“I’ll let you know when we depart.”

“Make it sooner rather than later, there may be people who need help. Better add a doctor to the team.”

He nodded and headed towards the elevator, calling up the shuttle bay.

The ‘Ionosphere’ was one of three older research vessels with a crew of about 290, mostly scientists. The fact it was drifting was not a good sign.

Chalmers was the duty scientist on the bridge, and I went over to his station.

“Are you familiar with the ‘Ionosphere’?”

“Yes sir. Spent about 6 months on the first exploration to the edge of our universe, surveying and analysing Pluto.”

“Am I correcting on assuming she was lately at Jupiter?”

“Yes sir. She had been deployed to Saturn first, then Jupiter.”

“You hadn’t heard officially or unofficially she was due back at earth space dock any time soon?”

“No sir. In fact I was just communicating with a colleague on board a day or so back, who said they had, or though they had discovered an anomaly in space, and had deviated towards it to investigate. Whatever it was, it had sent some of their instruments crazy.”

Number one’s voice came over the communication system, announcing the shuttle had left the bay and was encountered to the other ship. A minute later we could see it.

In the same instant, a thought crossed my mind, one that might explain how the ship was not far from us, and on the same course.

“Can you tell me if if Jupiter and Uranus are in alignment, along our projected trajectory?”

“As a matter of fact, they are.”

I was not the greatest scientific mind on the ship, that was why we had a first class scientific team aboard, but I could think outside the box, where some of the scientific minds were closed to ‘out there’ possibilities.

That’s why it didn’t seem impossible to me that the Ionosphere ‘hitched a ride’ in what might be called a wormhole, that sort of anomaly that Jerome Kennedy had been talking about. It struck me that these worm holes could be like black holes and ships could enter them and come out the other side, a very great distance away, in a very short time.

It would explain how the enemy ship had disappeared, but it didn’t explain why we were able to follow a trail.

That would be a matter for Kennedy

Number one was back on the communications system with a report. “We’ve docked and come on board. At first we thought everyone was dead, there were people on the floor and hunched over in their seats, but the environment is intact and work, and they are mostly unconscious. I have gone directly to the bridge and we’ve woken the Captain. He has no idea what happened, they were investigating what he calls a ripple, and then nothing till we woke him. We’re going to look at the logs and see if what happened has been recorded.”

“Very good.”

Fifteen minutes possibly longer passed when he reported back, not exactly in the serious manner I would expect. “You are not going to believe this, sir, but the ship has just travelled a distance that would normally take them several months, in less than an hour. They were at Jupiter, sir, but that was, according to their log, no more than two hours ago.”

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 61

Here’s the thing…

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

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

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

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

…

A late picnic

…

We spoke no more of bloodlines, and instead spread out the surprises she had brought. Cheeses, cured meats, her mother’s creation learned long ago in the mother country, and wine from their Italian winery.

As a quirk of fate, she had lined the basket with old copies of treasure maps, and after indulging in the food and wine, looked them over.

There were six different maps, each with a different detail as to where the treasure might be buried. One had it on the edge of the lake, a lake by the way that had now disappeared, another at the foot of the hills, identified by a cutting high above the spot.

Another was on the mountainside, after following a track alongside the non-existent lake and past several buildings, one appearing to be a church.

I knew where that church was, not almost a ruin, but it was not alongside a lake or anything that might have been a lake in the past. Or it could have been another church, definitely a ruin and gone, in a different place.

This was the problem interpreting maps that were drawn, purportedly, in the late eighteenth century when the land would be pristine and roamed over by native Americans. It was why some of the maps had the word Seminole on them, to identify the land, perhaps, or the people.

While I should have been listening to the history, I didn’t, and therefore missed the fact that a lot of the Indians had died out before the pirate captain arrived with his treasure, or whatever he might have buried, if in fact, he came at all.

I was beginning to have doubts.

Of course, the Spaniards were lurking around those parts too, and they were all about treasure, especially that stolen from South America but that was centuries before. Was the pirate captain Spanish or part Spanish perhaps?

Questions, nothing but questions.

“Those coins that were found of the coast. Were they Spanish?”

“Good question.”

“It seems the Spaniards were here, once upon a time. Anything is possible.”

The joke, or irony, would be that if there was a treasure, it was off a Spanish ship that ran aground in a storm off the coast, and all of the maps and rumors were true, but for a very different reason.

That brought to mind a recent discovery of coins elsewhere in Florida, and I couldn’t help thinking that Boggs had also heard about the discovery and had conjured up in his mind that the treasure his father had been seeking existed and had embarked on this odyssey.

“I’ve got a couple of metal detectors,” Nadia said. “Maybe we should go wandering along the shoreline and see what there might be.”

“I’m sure it’s been done to death already.”

She smiled. “I’ve got nothing better to do, have you?”

“Sleeping in.”

“You can do that when you’re dead. Until then, there’s a treasure to be found. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, about 10ish.”

Treasure! I was beginning to hate it.

She tossed the leftovers into the basket and dragged herself off the floor when we finished up. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

…

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.

It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high-profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.

And then sometimes it is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first, you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.

For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the newsreader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.

But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, the murder of a woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.

The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.

I watched, at first fascinated at what I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.

Not until another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.

Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peephole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.

Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.

It was fear.

My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.

And in one very confused and probably near-death experience, I thought I saw my mother and thought what was she doing in Rome?

…

I was the archetypal nobody.

I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.

They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.

I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.

Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.

This conference was about countering that trend.

The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.

She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.

I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.

Then came the shot.

Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.

Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.

I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.

I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.

If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.

On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.

It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.

That was the good news.

On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.

Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.

I think death would have been preferable.

…

Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.

She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.

“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”

“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”

“What happens now?”

“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”

I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.

…

My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service. He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.

The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.

My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.

For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me. But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you. So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.

I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.” I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.

“It’s not. They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here. There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”

“Then why are you here? Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”

“That is why you have another visitor. I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first. I have come, basically to ask you for a favour. This situation has afforded us with an opportunity. We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”

Curious. What sort of opportunity was he talking about? Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that. “What sort of opportunity?”

“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do. They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country. I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him. I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were. And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done. But. There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”

I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal. I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”

His expression didn’t change. “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can. They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel. I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home. What do you say?”

There was only one thing I could say. Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?

“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex. Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”

“Good man.”

…

After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.

The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”

That was a relief.

While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.

She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.

The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”

“Yes.”

“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”

“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”

She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.

“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”

She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”

I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.

But I was annoyed.

“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.

“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”

“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.

She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”

“Well, it was overkill.”

“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”

“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”

Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.

“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”

She nodded.

“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”

“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”

“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”

I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.

“You don’t think it was one of my men?”

“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”

“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”

I could see their dilemma.

“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”

That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”

She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.

I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.

“We need a signature on this document,” she said.

“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”

“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”

They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.

“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.

“I am unfortunately unavailable.”

I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”

She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”

“Then I’ll pencil you in?”

She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”

“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”

A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”

…

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — Y is for Yellow

…

When I woke up that morning it was like every other day. Everything was familiar. Except…

The first thought that popped into my head was a question, “Why did I walk through the blue door?”

Usually, it was those few minutes when the aches and pains of old age were something to look forward to the moment I got out of bed.

But…

The blue door?

Here’s the thing. I don’t remember walking through a blue, or other coloured door. When I thought about it, it had been in a dream where, the night before, I had wished I could go to a place where the pain was negligible, and, more importantly, the family were at peace instead of at war, over, of all things, our father’s will.

I hadn’t thought that money would be everyone’s first thought, but I was wrong. I guess the amount he left behind was large enough to fuel that inherent monster in all of us, greed.

Being the only one not motivated to dispute the will, and being the principal beneficiary, I was over it, and in fact was ready to wipe my hands of the whole business, and let the lawyers take most if it in fees, leaving the rest with next to nothing.

All of it had come to a head and good old-fashioned pugilism. Blows were exchanged, words that couldn’t be taken back, said, and threats made. What was meant to be a congenial meeting of family members to discuss the will, very quickly degenerated into a disaster.

No surprise then that I would metaphorically step through any coloured door to escape reality. There had been a green door, a red door, a blue door, a yellow door and a brown door. Blue was my favourite colour.

OK, so another fragment of the dream returned while I was staring at the ceiling and thinking it was not like that the last time I looked. Each of the doors represented a different outcome in my life. Then I realised the MC, dressed in a ring master’s outfit, yes, there was a circus element.

Obviously, my mind wanted to go somewhere, anywhere but where I was right then.

I looked sideways at the form that had burrowed under the blankets, not the sort of thing Margret, my wife of many long-suffering years did. She hated my family to begin with and we had distanced ourselves from them. It was not a thing I did to please her, I hated them too.

Having come back to nurse my father to the grave, the last six months had been difficult. The relatives, known and obscure, had come from everywhere, smelling blood in the water.

Her hand was on the pillow, and I gave it a squeeze.

A head popped put, a smile, and then shock. Not hers, mine.

It was her younger sister Margery.

“What the hell,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

I remembered having a think for Margery before I met Margaret and had been resentful and bitter when Margaret stole me away. But, as a first love, she had never quite left my mind.

“Have you been dreaming again? Yesterday you thought you’d turned into your father.”

Good Grief. Behind the blue door was one of my fantasies. I shook my head.

“Where’s Margaret?”

“Forgetful too it seems.” She sighed as if this was normal for me. “She died two years ago. Cancer. I came back to see how you were, and you were broken. Then I discover you had this crush, so we gave it a fling. Married last year, don’t regret it, just hated Margaret more for stealing you.”

My dreams summarised in seven sentences.

“OK. That sounds about right for me. What about Dad?”

If my life with Margaret was over then everything else could be changed. I could only hope.

“Still hanging by a thread, knowing the longer he drags it out the more he can torment the family. It’s going to be a blood bath at the will reading. God, I hate money. Can’t live with it, can’t live without it.”

“Isn’t that women for men and men for women?”

She punched me in the arm. “Don’t try and make me feel better. On the other hand,” she leaned over and kissed me. “Please make me feel better.”

It was the one thing I remembered about Margery, how much fun it could be with her. She was one of the few what you see is what you get girls and I had loved her quite intensely until Margaret came along and turned me into the dull and responsible version that my father approved of.

That was when my two brothers both irresponsible troublemakers abused the privilege of their position, squandered their inheritances, and then went cap in hand to our father for support and instead got disinherited. Now, knowing what he was worth they were like Hyenas circling their prey, waiting to swoop.

I wasn’t going to burst their bubble by telling them that disinherited meant no recognition in the will. I’d seen a copy where the bulk of the estate was left to the responsible one, me. They got nothing.

Margery was right. It was going to be a bloodbath.

I visited my father every day. He had been a heavy smoker and suffered because of it. Now breathing was almost impossible and the cancer was going to kill him. Did he regret any part of his life or anything he did? No. What was the point? You do the best you can. There’s always someone telling you what you did was wrong, but there’s no such thing as being perfect.

Except for our mother, his first wife, was perfect. And I agreed with him.

He was looking better. To me, that meant the end was close, that short period of remission before death. Time to order up the priest to administer the last rights. He might have been a bastard and a crook, but he was also steadfastly religious.

“The jackals were in. Never saw a worse pair than those two. Their mother would be ashamed to call them hers.:

“No. She had a higher degree of tolerance than you. She expected more of me, like you, but they could do no wrong. In a way it was her fault they turned out the way they did. Are you sure you want to cut them out?”

“Teach them a lesson. They’re survivors. People like them always are. You can take pity on them if you want, but once you open the door you won’t be able to close it.

That conversation was different, but then so was the woman I was married to. Perhaps there was some sort of joke in this alternate universe, that my father just shunted all of his problems into me.

If the blue door was what I wanted rather than what I had, the red door was hell. I mean, it was a red door. What was I expecting?

The green door was all sweetness and light, everyone was sickly kind and thoughtful without a hint of discord and enmity. Even my father was the epitome of generosity and kindness.

Behind the brown door was a void. It was like stepping from the light into the dark. There was no one but the voices in my head, and if I’d stayed there too long, I would have gone mad.

That left the yellow door. There was a reason why I’d been dragged three ought each, leaning more about the people I knew or thought I did, and in an odd sort of way discovering more about myself.

I knew that I’d spent most of my life compromising, taking the easy way, doing what was expected of me and not what I wanted. I guess that was what life was meant to be like. So few of us ever got to do what we wanted, mainly because we couldn’t afford to, and that was basically it. Money ruled our lives.

I looked at that yellow door for a long time, believing it was going to be more of the same. A horrible father, obtuse relatives, greedy little sycophants who’d willingly sell their souls to the devil for 20 pieces of silver.

Did I want to see more about a life I should have had and didn’t get?

And there it was, the yellow door beckoning, and who was I to resist?

I opened the door and went in. It was a room, with a desk, two chairs on opposite sides of the table, and a sign on the back wall that said, “Please sit”. Below that was a two-way mirror, that only reflected one way.

An interview room in a police station?

Five minutes later a door opened beside the mirror and a woman came through.

My mother.

Or a very young version of her, before my memories of her started. I had not known she was so beautiful, or blonde.

I said nothing but watched her sit, then when settled, smiled.

“Well, Walt, this is a fine kettle of fish.”

Metaphors? Who was this woman?

“Why am I here, and just to be clear, you are my mother.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. This is your imagination, Walt, and I could be anyone. But, you have used a memory of your mother.”

“So, you do know about me?”

“More than I care to, but yes. You’ve come to a crossroads in your life, and you have to make a decision that will affect the rest of it. You can choose to live or you can choose to die. You’ve always made the right choice, Walk. Always. Quite often to your detriment, or to please others, while all the time suppressing your hopes, wishes and desires. Admiral but depressing.”

She was right. But it wasn’t that simple.

“I had no choice.”

‘You always had a choice, Walt. You just chose the most expedient. Like marrying Margaret rather than Margery. Of course, you knew that was a huge mistake. So did your father and I which is why we paid Margaret to steal you away before Margery’s bad ways destroyed you, like she was destroying herself. You loved Margery, I know, but love was never going to be enough. You needed solid and dependable. That was Margaret.”

“What else did you do?

“Too many to be listed. Just be assured we did it for your own good. And, fortunately, it had led you here, now. I guess if your father hadn’t been the bastard he was, we wouldn’t be here, but he was dependable like that. And lazy, leaving all his messes for you to fix up.”

“Like my bothers?”

“Nice boys, but utterly useless. We knew that from the moment they could speak. You were our only hope, Walt. Those two, all the love in the world was never going to fix them, and that’s apparent now in spades. You must look after them, Walt. Your father wouldn’t, but you are not your father.”

“Margaret?”

‘You’ve been planning to leave her. She’s financially independent and will have no claim on the inheritance. Like I said, we gave her a fortune, so you can leave. Find someone else.”

“Margery?”

“If you can find her. Last we knew of her whereabouts, it was a commune in Tibet, or on the side of a mountain.” She shrugged. “That PA of yours, Ms Pendle, she seems a good sort. “has a thing for you, too.”

Ms Pendle was a little too staid for me. But then, perhaps I was the same and didn’t realise it.

“Right, enough yammering Walk. Time to go.” She stood. “Just remember, the future, your future, is n your hands, no one else’s.”

I woke, in the same bed, in the same house, looking at the same roof, and when I looked on the other side of the bed, the same hidden form with a hand on the pillow.

I touched it, thinking it might be Margery, but it was Margaret.

I watched her wake and wondered if it was true, she had been paid to get me away from Margery.

“You were late in last night.”

“I was with my mistress.”

She snorted. “You, with a mistress?” She shook her head. “When did you become a comedian?”

I decided on a change of subject. “Did my parents pay you to get me away from Margery?”

The smile disappeared and a frown appeared on her face. “Who told you?”

“Mother, just before she died. Wanted to go with a clear conscience.”

She thought about what sort of answer to give me, then said, “It was the right thing to do. They wanted you to have a future, not flame out before you were 35. Margery would have killed you, Walt.”

“Well, your job is done. I made it. Today is the first day f the rest of my life, and while you may be in it, it will not be as my wife. I thank you for your service.”

“To be honest, I thought you’d divorce me long before this. I did love you, you know. I guess we just sort of grew out of love in the end.”

It seemed so, well, I had no idea what it seemed like.

“What are you going to do with the family?”

“Annuities. They live within their means or go to hell.”

“And you?”

“First day and all, Margaret. I have no idea.”

It was odd to discover Margaret had a case packed and ready to go, she had for a long time. Everything else she owned; she didn’t want. It would be, she said, like taking her memories with her, and she was past that.

We had a last breakfast together, one last kiss, and she was gone. No, she wasn’t parting with the Audi A5.

I was going to go into the office but decided not to, and instead called the lawyers and for the next hour told them what I wanted done.

Then, I went out onto the patio, put on some melancholy jazz, and stretched out in one of the sunbeds, my last thought before dozing off, was the endless possibilities of what I was going to do.

I was lost in a mist, going upriver in a boat, slowly wending towards the mountains. It had started out very warm, and the further inland we went the closer it got. I had the feeling I was not alone on the boat, the figures were indistinct shadows, flitting about in the background.

Then it started to rain, and I woke with a start.

I realized I was at home and the automated sprinkler system had started.

When I went to get up, I realised something or someone was holding my hand and a looked over.

Margery.

“What are you doing here?”

“My, my, Walt. I thought you would be more pleased to see me.”

“I am. But…”

” Margaret called me about a week ago. She told me what had happened all those years ago and apologised. She said you two were splitting up, and if I wanted to get first in line, I’d better get my butt home. I just knew she had something to do with splitting us up. Not that it wasn’t a good idea, I was in a bad place then.”

“Now?”

“Now I know better. And the best thing about it. We have a lot of years to catch up, perhaps it will take the rest of our lives. Never stopped loving you, Walt. Not for a minute.”

“Nor I you. I was just coming to find you.”

“Then everything is as it should be. Now, let’s get out from under these sprinklers before one or other, or both of us get pneumonia.”

…

Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance

One writer's experiences, and battles with words

Category: Mystery

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 63

Motive, means, and opportunity – Episode 1

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

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

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — Z is for Zanzibar

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 23

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 61

An excerpt from “Mistaken Identity” – a work in progress

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — Y is for Yellow

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One writer's experiences, and battles with words

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