Category: Mystery

“The Devil You Don’t” – A beta readers view

It could be said that of all the women one could meet, whether contrived or by sheer luck, what are the odds it would turn out to be the woman who was being paid a very large sum to kill you.

John Pennington is a man who may be lucky in business, but not so lucky in love. He has just broken up with Phillipa Sternhaven, the woman he thought was the one, but relatives and circumstances, and perhaps because she was a ‘princess’, may also have contributed to the end result.

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

That is a story that slowly unfolds, from the first meeting with his nemesis on Lake Geneva, all the way to a hotel room in Sorrento, where he learns the shattering truth.

What should have been a high turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point every thing goes to hell in a handbasket.

He suddenly realises his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.

The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.

All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.

…

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

…

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 in 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 news reader 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, murder of 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 that 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 an 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 peep hole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff had 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 thinking 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.”

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

The cinema of my dreams – It’s a treasure hunt – Episode 90

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.

…

Mrs Boggs has a gun and will use it

…

The sheriff was looking at me.

“Don’t you have a negotiator?”

“Tried.  We have fifteen minutes before she starts shooting them.”

“Given the circumstances, surely there is a more simple solution.”

“She’s not in a position where we could neutralize the problem.”

I could see the scene in my mind.  Benderby’s passion for privacy was going to be his undoing.

“Why me?”

“She wants the truth about her son’s death.”

“I wasn’t there when he was killed.”

“You were when they confessed.”

“So were you?”

“The recording was inadmissible evidence, a confession gained under duress.”

“Then it doesn’t matter what I say, the same argument applies.”

“Just tell her what she wants to hear and get the gun.  We’ll take care of the rest.”

“And if she shoots Sam in the process?”  Finally, my mother decided to speak.

“I don’t think she will, but we will take precautions.”

“I’m not going to change her mind, but if it saves her life, I’ll try.”

I didn’t see how the bulletproof vest was going to help if her aim was off, a very genuine possibility.  It made me feel like I was overweight, and it restricted movement.

A large crowd had formed outside the venue, and it was hard to tell what they were thinking, other than this was yet another random act of gun violence.

The deputies cleared a path, and we went into the large room that was usually full of diners.  People within a six-table radius had moved away, leaving Benderby, and Alex, sitting somewhat stultified, glancing in the direction where Elsie Boggs was.

She was not visible from where we were standing, yet it appeared she could see us.

“That’s far enough, Sheriff.  Just send Sam here, and back off.

As the sheriff backed away, I walked slowly towards the table where I could now clearly see Benderby and Alex, and then I felt a shiver.  His first wife, rarely seen in public, and daughter, Alex’s younger sister were also at the table.  She had left him long before Benderby had embarked on his questionable ventures.

Wrong place, wrong time, and possible collateral damage.

I stopped about fifteen feet from both Elsie Boggs and the Benderby’s.   The two women were visibly terrified.

Elsie Boggs said nothing, which surprised me after asking for me.

“If you want justice for your son, this is not going to achieve it.  At least consider letting some of these people leave.  They have nothing to do with this.”

“No.  They’re witnesses.”

“To what exactly?”

“Alex’s confession.”

“It isn’t a confession if it’s under duress.  It won’t be admissible in a court of law, and you know as well as I do that Alex would confess to anything if he believed it would save himself.”

“It’s not him he’s going to save.”

I heard once the effective range of a handgun was about twenty feet, and in the hands of an amateur far less.  I was not sure if Mrs. Boggs knew how to use it, but she was certainly holding it steady, using both hands, like I’d seen on TV.

I suspect the weapon was Rico’s, because Boggs had shown me a gun he had found hidden away in the closing in the spare bedroom where Rico had been staying before being arrested.

I remembered it had a safety lock, but I couldn’t see it from where I was standing.

But the threat was real, she was aiming the gun at Alex’s sister.  That was not going to help her case when this was over.  It also brought into focus her state of mind, which was more than likely all over the place after losing her son.

I had to try, and talk her out of this course of action.

“This is not the way to get things done.  It’s a matter for the police, and I’m sure they will investigate any claims you make.”

She shook her head.  “The sheriff is in Benderby’s picket.  There will be no investigation.  Their minds are already made up.”

She was right of course, and without any real assurances the sheriff was going to do anything, regret seemed little point to stop her.

“Look…”

She raised the gun towards the roof, over the heads of the Benderby’s, and shot a round into the ornate plasterwork, breaking it and showering them with plaster dust and normal dust.

It caused three of them to cough.

Two distinct points were resolved at that moment, the safety was off, and she could shoot.  Would distance be the only factor?

“You’re running out of time, Alex.”

I saw a slight movement in what would have been her peripheral vision, more armed police moving into several more accessible places, one improving the firing line for a marksman to eliminate the problem.

Unfortunately, she saw it too, and shot another round in that direction, hitting a female police officer who was one of three with weapons drawn.

Mrs. Boggs situation just went from bad to worse.

“I told you all to leave,” she yelled, “so whatever happens now is on you.”

The other two officers had to hold their fire because returning fire might hit one of the Benderby’s.  I hadn’t realized until then that she had also positioned herself so the Benderby’s became shields.

And if she shot at me, she would have to take the Benderby’s out of her sights, which might give a quick-thinking, or quick moving officer a chance of a shot.

This was where I should come up with some calming words, but it was clear that the last foray by the sheriff’s people had rattled her.  The gun was getting more unsteady in her hands.

“Alex,” she said, a tinge of hysteria on her tone, and an edge that indicated time was running out for someone at that table, “You’ve got five seconds.”

Alex was not the bravest of souls, but, sitting at that table with his father, maybe he feared being a failure in front of him, than losing a sister.

He turned towards her, and said, “Go to hell.”

Five seconds later it was over.

Mrs. Boggs changed the target and shot Alex in the head, changed aim, and shot Benderby, and before either body hit the floor, three officers shot Mrs. Boggs. 

The moment Alex spoke his words, I dropped to the floor, only registering what had happened after the five shots, and watching Mrs. Boggs collapse to the floor.  No husband, no son, Rico in jail, she had nothing left to live for.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No.  That wasn’t possible.

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

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

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

At least we agree on that, she thought.

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

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

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “It is that.”

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

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slight abrupt in manner, perhaps as a result of her question, and the manner in which she asked it.

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

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

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

 

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

Was that what she was expecting?

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

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

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

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

Rebellion was written all over him.

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

“Mr. Henshaw?”

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

“Then my name is Michelle.”

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

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks.  Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, so do I.”

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

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

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

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

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

“After a fashion.”

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

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

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

“Whatever for?”

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

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

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

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

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

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

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

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

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

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

Dinner now over, they separated.

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

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

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

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

 

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

lovecoverfinal1

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 11

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Just the person to see next

 

I couldn’t imagine what those details were.  But if it was a setup, it was a very elaborate one, by people who knew our systems and procedures.  Naturally, the first thought that sprang to mind, someone who was working here, or used to.

Then I had another thought, what if none of us was meant to survive the operation, and hat we had been selected specifically because we were new to field operations.  At the briefing, we had been told this was simple surveillance, observe and report, nothing more.

Usually we had one experienced member and three new team members, the experienced member was there to continue on the job training and evaluation.  What worried me was that an experienced member could be taken out apparently as easy as the others.

And my money was not on the guy I’d cornered.  Of course, I could be wrong, and no doubt circumstantial evidence would go a long way towards proving that, but in my estimation, a cornered man like he was, with a thirst and talent for killing, would not have hesitated to kill me before I’d got three words out.

I believed him.  He was scared and, now that I thought about it, confused.  That was anything but the m.o. of a conscienceless killer.

The wrinkle that hadn’t been accounted for was the explosion.  No one could have predicted that, or its effect on the operation.  It might well have saved him, except that I didn’t play by the rules and reconnected with him.  Maybe he had felt safe after taking out the others, and assuming I’d been taken down by the explosion.

Except, if I didn’t think he did the killing, who did, and why?  Severin?  Just who the hell is this Severin?  There’s been no indication he wasn’t one of us.

I was pondering that question when the woman returned and sat down again.  This time her stare wasn’t quite as glacial.

“Describe this Severin.”

She opened her notebook, and had her pencil ready.  Odd that she should be taking notes in pencil.

I described him.  Five feet eight inches tall, 250 pounds, thinning black hair, making him anywhere between 35 and 50, though I thought he was mid-forties.  He wore a tweed suit, rather an odd choice for the climate, and had the aroma of cigarette smoke hanging about him.

Every free moment I saw him, he had a cigarette, so I thought he was quite possibly a chain smoker, and from that, perhaps a man with bad nerves, or who worried a lot.  Now I knew he was not one of us, that could be interpreted as thinking he might get caught.

But he was confident, and outgoing, which meant he was quite sure he wouldn’t get caught, and that meant, quite possibly there was someone within our department that was working for or with him and had covered his comings and goings.  Either that or he had a universal passcode key to come and go as he pleased.

When I finished the description I could see a flicker of recognition.  IT was possible she knew who he might be, and if so, I was betting she knew him by another name.  I asked if that was the case.

“You know who this man is, don’t you?”

The stern reproving look returned.  “What makes you think that?”

“I read faces.  Yours is not a poker face.”

“Well, that disappoints me because I like to play poker.  Perhaps the people I play with have a different view.”

“I’m usually a good judge of character.”

“It’s let you down this time.”  She stood.  “Before you go, one of the supervisors here would like a word with you.  His name is Nobbin.  He works out of another office and is coming here directly.  After that, you’re free to go.”

She didn’t wait to say goodbye, and I was glad I managed to keep a straight face long enough.

Nobbin.  Just the man I wanted to see.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 17

In the old days it would be ‘Houston, we have a problem’

…

I thought about staying in the day room, not hiding, but on the pretext of getting that report ready for the Admiral, but it was only a fleeting thought.

I had been the captain of a cargo vessel, how much hard could this be?

I stepped onto the bridge, and it all felt different.

The second officer had been waiting by the door, and said, ‘We’ve picked up several alien vessels on the long range scanner, like nothing we’ve seen before.”

“Not like the vessel that you just saw? It can’t be our lucky day to find two new species within hours of each other, though I guess it’s not impossible.”

And considering we humans had been in space, and nearly to the edge of our galaxy for nearly ten years, why wait until now to make themselves known?

We arrived at the navigators console and he had the alien vessels displayed.

On screen, they were quite small, and trying to increase magnification turned them into blurs. I hadn’t seen the other ship. “Tell me we have a photograph of the alien vessel.”

“We have.”

The navigator displayed the alien vessel beside the two new ships, and at first glance they didn’t appear to be similar. We’d have to wait until we were closer.

And see if they were hostile, or not.

“How soon before we make contact?” I asked the navigator.

“About seven hours, sir.”

“Good. Keep on the trail of that vessel. Our orders are to retrieve the captain and Myers. Oh, and you’ve been promoted to Acting Number One,” I said quietly to the second officer.

“They’re not sending a replacement?” Clearly he wasn’t expecting it, and judging by his expression, not exactly happy about it.

“That is still to be decided. You have the bridge. I’ll be down in Engineering if you need me.”

Another trip in a suspect elevator that had a few creaks and groans before it delivered me safely to the engine room.

It was more a large open space that was very quiet, with banks of consoles and people in specially coloured uniforms to designate their department. Bridge crew were designated dark Green, Engineering navy blue.

I knew others were not exactly enamoured with their uniforms, but someone, or some group, had put a lot of thought into them. As for the design, well, that was a hot topic at any time among the crew.

The chief engineer, Scottish of course, had an office to himself, and had the accoutrements of his achievements scattered about, along with more interesting photographs of himself with many of the more famous people back on earth.

I had no such keepsakes.

He saw me coming and stood as I entered the office. It took a few seconds for it to register that it was a mark of respect to the captain, even though he was older, wiser, and far more experienced.

“Congratulations.”

He held out his hand and I shook it.

“I wish it was in better circumstances.”

“What exactly happened?”

“We were boarded. How they knew the captain was in his day room is anyone’s guess, but the alien beamed aboard, like we transport supplies.”

“We have yet to prove its not harmful, so these aliens must be different.”

“Except they take the same form, and speak our language.”

“No doubt using a translator. And if they can do that, then this is not the first time they have seen us.”

“But it’s the first time we’ve seen them?”

“Well, that’s a little more tricky because I think we have encountered them before. Your Admiral just uploaded a few files, and it seems we have encountered them before, though not quite so up close and personal.”

I didn’t like the way he referred to the Admiral as my Admiral, or perhaps I was not across his vernacular.

“He omitted to tell me that when I spoke to him.”

“It was in the middle of the night, and we were to get a briefing once we reached the edge of our galaxy. Van was across it, and was going to tell the crew in a few days, but this Venus thing popped up.

You know how it is, never a dull day in space.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 67

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.

…

Boggs, Nadia, a run in with Alex

…

I hadn’t seen Boggs for days, and worse, the last time I did see him, we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.

It was a long way to fall from when, what seemed less than a week, we were the best of friends.

It seemed his obsession with the treasure hunt had usurped any possibility of being civil, or any understanding that there might be more pressing matters in my life, like having to help support my mother.

Perhaps he didn’t realise the nature of my necessity to actually get a job and bring some money onto a household that was struggling just to exist.

For that matter, I had to wonder just how he and his mother managed to exist now that Rico was behind bars with little chance of escaping a prison sentence.  Oddly, I felt sorry for him, but I was beginning to believe that Alex and the Benderby’s were responsible for the archaeologist’s death and had used Rico’s boat to stitch him up.

As for Boggs, there was that lingering doubt in his mind that I had crossed to the dark side, associating myself with Nadia, a sworn enemy, and treasure hunting rival. 

It was a thought that crossed my mind too and could be argued that she was just using me as a means of getting to the treasure for her family given that she might assume that I stood a better chance of deducing where it was because Boggs had a head start on everyone else, and was still stumbling around in the dark.

That she was willing to help, by means that could have only been facilitated by her family didn’t go unnoticed, and I was a lot warier now of sharing everything I knew with her.  I was not that naive to believe she was interested in me for any other reason.

It didn’t really matter because whether I would share any or all information with her or anyone else was largely irrelevant.  I was inclined to believe it didn’t exist, or if it had, it was more likely that someone had found it long ago, and like the Cossatinos later on, promoted the myth for the purpose of exploiting people’s gullibility.

This was, I guess, one of those ‘between a rock and a hard place’ moments.

A sudden itch on the back of my neck made me turn around and look back in the direction of her room, and I noticed a flutter where the curtain was.  Had she been waiting to see if I had gone?

I hated the idea of being suspicious of people’s motives, but the name conjured up all manner of expectations, and I could only imagine what it was like to live with that.  Would she ever live a normal life, or even know what normal was.

Did any of us?

“Smidge.”

A voice that would strike terror into the heart of anyone like me.

Alex.  Loitering outside the vicinity of Nadia’s hotel.  Was he spying on her?

“Alex.” 

Beside him was one of his father’s henchmen and it didn’t look good.

“What are you doing here?”

Had he just arrived on his way to see her, or had he been lurking in the shadows?  My money was on the latter.  He had been the jealous boyfriend once, and it was hard to see him changing.

Truth or dare?  Truth.  “I was visiting Nadia.  But I wouldn’t start assuming it was for any reason other than for her to be questioning me about Boggs’s progress on his treasure hunt, which, by the way, is zero.  My guess is you are having more success.”

“Why would you think that?”

“The flash boat on the water, I suspect you’re trying to find a trail of coins from bay to beach in the hope of establishing where it came ashore.  I’m sure you have some fancy metal detection going on from the boat.  So, any success?”

“Why would I tell you?”

“Why wouldn’t you?  I’m sure telling Boggs is hardly going to make his investigation move along faster than it is.  What would help is the Captain’s logbook, and that I suspect was the archaeologist’s trump card, and he died before imparting its whereabouts.”

It was pure speculation on my part, but Alex always lacked a poker face, even back in school when he got into trouble.  His expression changed just slightly.  So, there was a logbook.

“Does your father know what you’re doing?”

“This had nothing to do with my father.”

“Perhaps I should tell him that, including your obsession with Nadia.”

Something I should have realized long ago, and just crystallized in my mind, though I was not sure why was the fact Benderby had become almost a regular visitor at our place.  If I thought about it, it explained why my mother had suddenly started taking more care in her appearance, and how it came to pass I could get a job in a place where very few could. 

Benderby had always had an interest in my mother, and suddenly I realized they had been to school together, and the words of my father spoken once in anger made sense.  He was not her first choice.  She may have been Benderby’s first choice back then, but I doubted his family would have sanctioned it.

I wondered what Alex would have thought of that revelation.  Since his mother’s death, Benderby had started seeing more of her, and that had to add to Alex’s dislike of me.

“Not a good idea smidge.”

“Not a good idea to be calling me Smidge, Alex.”

A nod from Alex, the henchman took a step forward and grabbed my shirt, and then rammed into the wall.”

Alex laughed, and then suddenly went quiet.

Another voice joined the conversation.  “Tell your goon to let him go or I’ll cut your throat from ear to ear.”

Nadia.  Her tone scared me.

“You’re not that stupid,” Alex said in a tone that told me it scared the hell out of him too

“I’m a Cossatino, since when did stupidity rate a mention.  We’ve been doing stupid shit forever, and you’re about to join the party.”

“You don’t want to do this.”

“Actually Alex, I do.  It’ll get rid of one big problem I have with you, and it’ll get rid of a serial pest.  People will thank me.”

I could see her now, behind him, dressed in black, and my first thought, was she was a ninja.  I could see the knife at his throat, and she moved it slightly, and he jerked, drawing blood.

“Let him go,” Alex muttered.

The goon let go of my shirt and stepped back.

“Now go, Alex.  Don’t come back.  And don’t annoy Smidge again, or you’ll have me to deal with.”

He looked me up and down with a look of distaste.  “This isn’t over.”

Nadia gave him a shove and stepped between him and me.

“It is, Alex.  I know what you did to that chap you dumped on Rico’s boat.  You might not have killed him, but you’re ultimately responsible for his death, and I’m sure the sheriff would like to hear about it.  So, go away Alex, and be a good boy and we’ll all keep our little secrets.”

Angry yes, sullen answered resentful, equally so, but reluctantly agreeable.  “If you say so.”

A nod to his goon and they left.

There was something else hanging in the air, that statement about keeling little secrets.  He’d kept something over her, she had admitted as much to me, but the tables had been turned.  But what it was she had over him, it was more than just the archaeologist.

“What was that about?”  I had to ask.

“The Benderby’s have lots of secrets Sam, not just Alex.  I played a card and it paid off.  He won’t bother you again, not seriously anyway.”

“Should I be thanking you, or have I just been dragged down a rabbit hole?”

Perhaps I might have worked it better because she did save me from a certain beating.

“You don’t trust me, do you?”

Stating the obvious, there was no easy way out of that question.

“You said it yourself.  You’re a Cossatino.  I want to believe you, and strangely, given history, I like you perhaps more than I should.”

“Good boys and bad girls, it’s usually the other way around.  I wanted to hurt him, believe me, and I meant it when I said we do stupid shit, but I’m trying to be better than that.  I want to be better than that.  It’s why I need to get away from this place.”

“Then why do you just go?  For that matter, why did you come back?”

“Unfinished business.”  She took my hand in hers.  “And I like being with you.  You have a way of making me feel like I can change.”

“You are different.”

“Am I though?  I don’t feel like it right now.”

“Well, I am grateful you came along.”

“Good to be a help for once.  What’s our next adventure going to be?”

“A picnic in the hills.  I want to look at a few caves.”

“The one where Ormiston reportedly went missing?  You seem to be on a very macabre Odyssey.  What did the newspaper archives turn up?”

“An interesting coincidence.  I’ll let you know when I’m free next.”

“I’ll be waiting.”  She leaned over and kissed me lightly on the lips, then leaned back to look me in the eyes.

What I wanted then couldn’t be put into words.

Thank God she blinked.

I kissed her on the cheek, shook my head slightly, and said quietly, ” You will be the death of me.”

“Maybe,” she said softly, ” but you will die a very happy man.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

“Strangers We’ve Become”, a sequel to “What Sets Us Apart”

Stranger’s We’ve Become, a sequel to What Sets Us Apart.

The blurb:

Is she or isn’t she, that is the question!

Susan has returned to David, but he is having difficulty dealing with the changes. Her time in captivity has changed her markedly, so much so that David decides to give her some time and space to re-adjust back into normal life.

But doubts about whether he chose the real Susan remain.

In the meantime, David has to deal with Susan’s new security chief, the discovery of her rebuilding a palace in Russia, evidence of an affair, and several attempts on his life. And, once again, David is drawn into another of Predergast’s games, one that could ultimately prove fatal.

From being reunited with the enigmatic Alisha, a strange visit to Susan’s country estate, to Russia and back, to a rescue mission in Nigeria, David soon discovers those whom he thought he could trust each has their own agenda, one that apparently doesn’t include him.

The Cover:

strangerscover9

Coming soon

 

Writing about writing a book – Day 3

Yep, in changing characters and timelines and thinking about the plotline between Bill and Ellen, a lot has changed, well, perhaps not a lot, but some fundamentals in the relationship.

Whilst I am determined, for some unknown reason, to write the first draft by hand, it leads to using a lot of paper and wearing out several self-leading pencils.  I have a bin with screwed up paper, and yes, if I get it in, it’s three points.  A lot don’t make it and lie forlornly beside and in front of the bin.

If only I had a cleaner to clean up.  When I’ve become a best selling author.

I look at the pages I kept.  God, I didn’t know I was that messy.

Coffee first.

I start typing the first draft on the computer using my trusty old version of Microsoft Word, only because I know how to use it.

I have Scrivener but haven’t yet worked out all the bells and whistles.  That will come, no doubt, with book number two.

But, as you might think, I am getting ahead of myself.  I have yet to finish the first.

A cool breeze blew briskly across meadows of tall grass, giving the impression of the ocean in a storm.  High above, clouds scudded across the sky, occasionally allowing the sun to shine through to bathe the ground in sunshine, intensifying the richness the greens and browns.

It was spring.  Trees were displaying new growth, and flowers were starting to show the promise of summery delight.  An occasional light shower of rain added to the delightful aromas, particularly where the grass had recently been mown.

I was there, too, with my grandmother, the woman who had, for the most part, brought me up at her country residence.  But, as I got older, the dream changed and sometimes there were storm clouds on the horizon, or I was caught in the rain, alone and frightened, or lost in the woods in the dark.

There were other visions like these from my childhood, now a million years away somewhere in a distant past that was hard to remember or say where and when they belonged.  It was a pity some were now based on images stolen from the start of a movie seen on TV late at night as I was trying to get to sleep.  Or that the psychiatrist had said there was some trauma from my early childhood, trying to work its way out.

Like every other morning, these images came to me as I was hovering somewhere between conscious and unconscious, just before the alarm went off.  Then it did, filling the room with a shrill noise that would have woken the dead.

I cursed, and then dragged myself over to the other side of the bed where I’d put the alarm clock, and hit it, killing the shrill sound.  I’d put it there so I would have to wake up to turn it off.  And, worse, I’d forgotten to turn it off the night before because it was, technically, the first day of my holiday.

Not that I really wanted one because since Ellen left, my life consisted of work, work, and more work.  It kept my mind off being alone, and in an empty apartment except for the books, a bed, a table and two chairs, a desk, and well-worn lounge chair.  I’d been there for a while and still hadn’t bought any new furniture or anything else for that matter.

And the last holiday I’d gone on had been organized by Ellen only a few years ago in Italy after our two daughters had finished school and graduated almost top of their class.  We’d both thought it might help mend the damage, and for a while we were happy, but happiness was too fleeting for me, and soon after the rot had set in, and it was the beginning of the end.

I remembered it only too clearly, coming home, opening a letter addressed to her, and finding proof of what I think I’d known all along.  She was having an affair, had been for quite some time.

It should not have been a surprise given what I had put her through over the years, since my discharge from the Army and later the nightmares active service had fuelled, but it was what it was and sent me spiralling to a new low.

But that was two years ago.  I came out of the fog a year after that.  Ellen was away most of the time with a new partner she never told me about, and the girls, who shared a unit not far from mine came to see me from time to time

But for all of that, all I now had left were memories.

I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.  I was on holidays.  No work, no pressure, nothing. 

I thought about going back to my grandmother’s house and visit, but my grandmother was no longer there, and my mother, who was, was too judgemental, and I didn’t need to be told, yet again, how I had let the only woman for me slip through my fingers.

I could do almost anything.

I’d almost managed to doze off again when the phone rang.

I jumped to its equally shrill sound cutting through the silence.  It had to be a wrong number because no one at work would call me and I didn’t have many friends, at least none who would call me at this hour.

I let it ring out.

Blissful silence.  For five minutes.


Then it rang again.

Ignore it, I thought.  It had to be someone from the office.  I’d told them all not to call me, not unless the building was burning down and they were all trapped in it.

And even then, I’d I said I would have to think about it.

Burying my head under the pillow didn’t shut out the insistent ringing. 

Almost reluctantly I rolled back, pulled the telephone out from under the bed, and lifted the receiver to my ear.

“Bill?”

It was Carl Benton, my immediate superior; an insipid, loathsome, irritating little man, the last person I would want to speak to.  He’d insisted I take this leave, that the office could survive without me, adding in his most condescending manner that I needed the break.

I slammed the receiver down in anger.  It was a forlorn gesture.  Seconds later, it rang again.

“I seem to remember you were the one to tell me to go on holiday, that I needed a holiday.  I’m off the roster.  It can’t be that important.  Call someone else.”  I wasn’t going to give him the opportunity to speak.  Not this morning.  I was not in the mood to listen to that squeaky, falsetto voice of his, one that always turned into a whine when he didn’t get his way.

And hung up again.

Not that it would do any good.  I knew that even if I was in Tibet, he would still call.  Then I realized it was too early for him to be in the office, and if he was, he would have been dragged out of bed and put in a position where if he didn’t produce results, they might realize just how incompetent he was.

At last, my holiday had some meaning and smiled to myself.  I’d make the bastard sweat.

A good days work if I say so myself.

I only wished I was better at typing, but it was a self-correcting ribbon and would suffice.

Tonight it would be the sleep of the just.

Tomorrow, more plotting, more characters.  I need a friendly head of a department, one that suffers Benton, a name for the assistant, and what are the circumstances that drag him back into work?

Death, murder, police, or security?

And all I thought I had to do is write!

© Charles Heath 2016-2020

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’.

Read an extract tomorrow.