It had to be the worst job on the lot.

I had moved heaven and earth to get a job in the movies, not as an actor, but as one of those essential background types that kept everything going.

Props, wardrobe, clapper boy, someone significant, where I’d get my name among the other few hundred at the end of the film.

But script deliverer?  At the end of everyone’s pent up anger when the previous day went badly, after issues with the script caused filming delays and actor revolt.

And don’t get me started on the director.  Not a job I’d want.

From the moment he said through clenched teeth, “shut it down, this script is..”  and then a string of expletives, followed by “useless.”

It was.

I could have done better.

After delivering what was a last-minute change requested by the lead actor, and a small rewrite around it, I stayed to watch the magic happen.

Well out of the way of course.

It went well till they got to the last line when for some unaccountable reason, the actress burst into giggles.

I could see why.  It had a very rude connotation that some might pick up on, especially if I could.

And that was where the day ended, two pages short, adding to the other delays making the total days behind schedule to 12.

We were perilously close to being shut down.

The production company I worked for did not make A grade blockbusters.  We were more about creating quality entertaining films for the cable channels.  It was not rocket science, just have a brilliant script, good actors, a schedule, and get it done.  There were another 25 waiting in the wings, keeping everyone busy.

Yesterday it was a period romance, today it’s got a Sci-Fi ring to it, tomorrow, a romantic comedy.  Same set, different props, same actors, same crew, different script but more of the same.

It was a formula and it worked

Until it didn’t.  And usually, the reason it didn’t came down to the script.  Or an actor dies halfway through, and it’s reshot with a replacement, or shut down and come back later.

Out problem was the script. Or more specifically, the scriptwriter.

The rumour mill had been working overtime before the shoot started, that the scriptwriter was the brother of the A-List actress that was married to the director’s brother.  Some convoluted set of relationships that could easily pass as the plot of a film itself.

The thing is, he was a dilettante, thinking he could trade on his sister’s name, and no one was having any of it.  I don’t think he quite grasped the concept that his sister would not take his side if the director finally kicked him out. 

She knew the value of favours, and this was the only one she would use for him.

And what made matters worse was the script was a really good one, if only he’d stop playing with it.

Oliver Fosdyke was in his room, a small box attached to the meeting room for the crew of the shoot, where we all met the last thing to go over the next day’s shoot.

I knocked on the door, and he looked up sharply.  He’d heard what happened at the shoot.

“Directors not happy.  I expect you’ll need some ammo for the meeting, which gives you about a half-hour.  He wants tomorrow’s pages, unchanged for what he read the other day, the fix you fixed, fixed, that is so it doesn’t make the leading lady laugh.”

“The man’s a philistine.”

“He’s the director.  I don’t think you need me to tell you he can fire you.”

“I’d like to see him try?”

“OK, put it this way, he has fifteen solid hits, an Academy Award nomination, and a schedule that would break a camel’s back.  You have, oh, yes, this is your first script.  I think a little humility might go a long way, Oliver.  Aside from the fact I need this job.  You’ve got twenty-five minutes now.”

“Has my sister been talking to you? David.”

“You’d know if she had.  I’d be the one fainting on the floor.”

I came back to the meeting room five minutes early to see one of the cinematography assistants eating salad out of a plastic container.

“Where’s everyone?” I asked her.

“Meetings moved back an hour.  Director got haul up to the main office.  Hope it’s not bad news.”

So did I.

The script pages were sitting on the table, and I picked one up and scanned through it.

Damn.  The foolish man had not made the necessary changes.  This was going to be the end of him, defying common sense.  Fortunately, I’d kept the pages of the original script, with a minor change I thought was needed, and substituted them. 

Someone had to try and save him.

“You drew the short straw, you know, David.” She said.

“Oliver?”

“The man is impossible to work with.  I told HR you were good at working with impossible people, so they took you on.  Don’t thank me now, but I will want the favour repaid.”

Madeleine.  She had been at the recruitment session with a hundred others vying for 20 priceless jobs.  She had succeeded, I’d failed, only to get a phone call three days later asking if I was still interested.  I thought luck had something to do with it.

“I’m not sure, now, if I should thank you.”

“Oh, you will.  Now ask me if I want to have dinner with you tomorrow.”

I shrugged.  I didn’t understand her, or women in general.

“Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

“Yes, I would.”  She smiled, and then went back to her salad.

There were thirty people in a room that should only have twenty.  Fortunately, meetings didn’t last very long.

We got through everything, except the script.

The director picked it up and scanned through the pages, apparently satisfied.  Except, when he got to the last page…

“Kevin?  Who the hell is Kevin?  Oliver?”

Oliver looked like a deer caught in the headlights, so I jumped in quickly, “An improvisation that takes away that humorous result in the final scene we were shooting.  Oliver and I were throwing ideas around and we came back to a point you made in the first script read-through, that point where you could feel there was something unsaid but couldn’t quite put your finger on it.”

Oliver looked up, after reading the line, not annoyed, but intrigued.

“Oliver?”

“I’ll let David have his moment in the spotlight,” and gave me the death stare. 

Something was going to hit the fan when we got back to the office.

“As I was saying, we’ve moved that thing into a sort of reality because there will be a post-it note pad on the bench with the name Kevin written on it and underlined.  We’ve added two lines, but the thing is, instead of ending the way it did, Larry’s eyes go down to the bench, sees the name, and adds rather sharply, ‘who’s Kevin?’   She looks all quizzical, sees the note, and says, “I don’t know, I must have written it down for some reason, but not recently.”

“Which then feeds into the follow on from that the next day, where there is a slight tension between the two whereas everything had been bright and easy, which then leads to Larry’s suspicion that she is seeing someone else.”

Which in my view cleared up a continuity issue that the continuity people should have caught, and hadn’t.

“Then, just for interest’s sake, who is this Kevin?

I shrugged.  “It doesn’t really matter, but it could be explained with a single line from Mary’s sister when they’re discussing Larry’s apparent change in demeanour, where she notices the tap in the kitchen is not dripping, so something like, I see you got that annoying tap fixed, at which point Mary says, oh, that Kevin.  He was the plumber.  But you can see the opening for misinterpretation.”

“Real life impinging on art, I like it.  Well, done Oliver.  Make sure everyone has the script amendments before the day is out.  Nothing else?”  A look around the table, then, “Let’s make it happen tomorrow.  David, walk with me.”

As I got up, I could see Oliver.

“After the director’s done with you, can you come back?”

It was not a bad-tempered tone, but it still had an edge.  No point putting it off.

“Sure.”

In the corner, I could see Madeleine with a smirk.  Like most, she didn’t like Oliver, and I’m sure she couldn’t quite believe he could have thought of the Kevin angle.

“Far enough away from the building, the director said, “Did Oliver come up with that scenario?”

“It fits the script and follows the nuances he was getting across.  I think he just forgot, momentarily, there were some gaps in the continuity, which, I know from experience, are easy to miss unless you get to the sixth or seventh edit.  It helps when you read it out loud, like the first run through, and you picked it up.”

“OK, I’ll come right out with it, did you write those changes?”

“Do you want me to lie?”

“Why would you bother?”

“Because it’s a great script, it just has a few gaps if you like.”

“How many more are there?”

“Three, which I’ve fixed, so no one will ever know, and I don’t think Oliver will object.  Not now, anyway.”

“Well, that’s your job, keeping the bear in his cage.  Here,” he slipped some paper into my hand, keeping it covered, “Madeleine likes French Champagne.  Treat her right, OK.”

“Yes, sir.  Always.”

“Good man.  Now go get your bollocking.”

© Charles Heath 2022

Here’s the thing…

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

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

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

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

I was in the middle of a large building, sitting on a chair, a single light on above me creating a weird shadow in a circle of light.  Beyond that circle was darkness.

But I was grateful there was no blindfold or gag.

It had to be one of the buildings on Benderby’s factory site.  There were a number of older warehouses on the perimeter of the site, boarded up and in disrepair.  I had heard rumours they were going to be refurbished or demolished, no one seemed to be able to decide what to do with them.

It was deathly quiet, but if I strained hard, I thought I could hear the sound of a generator not far away.  Benderby’s had their own mini power station in case the main power grid went down, and I remembered that it was round the time for the six-monthly testing of the generators.  I was definitely inside the Benderby complex.

So, did that make my captor one of Benderby’s men?  Or was it Alex himself, trying to make a bold statement.  I didn’t think he had that sort of aggressive behaviour in him, but he was a Benderby, and they all had violent streaks somewhere in their makeup.

“Good.  You’re awake.”  The distorted voice could be either male or female.  I’d know more when I saw my assailant, bit it came from beside me and I tried to look in that direction.  It was difficult because whoever tied me up did a good job.

There was also an echo, brought on by the emptiness of the building.

“What do you want?  I’m not much good to you if you’re trying to break into the main building.  I don’t have night access.”

“I’m not interested in the main building.”

“What are you interested in?”

“You.”

I had expected to hear the word treasure, not me.

“Sadly, I’m not that interesting.”

“So you say.  But maybe it might have something to do with that friend of yours, Boggs.”

“Then it’s the treasure you’re after.”

“Me, personally, no.  The people I work for, I guess.  The word is that Boggs has a treasure map that his father left him.”

This person had to be acquainted with Rico, because only he could possibly know about that particular map, that is, if Boggs had told him, or told his mother, and Rico had overheard him.

Or Boggs had told this person, under duress, that I had the map, holding it for safekeeping.  My mind started conjuring up all sorts of terrifying scenarios, all of which ended badly.

“If Rico told you that, then he was only trying to save his own skin.  He’s been trying to barter a copy of something to the Benderby’s, a map he didn’t have and hadn’t been able to get off Boggs.  If there is such a map, then Boggs has it.”

“I’m sure he told you about it, didn’t he?”

“What are best friends for, but whether I believed him is a different matter.  He told me about a map his said his father had in his possession, and I know he’s been hunting high and low for it, but if he’s found it, then he hasn’t told me about it yet.”

I was trying to sound sincere, but fear has a way of making you sound, well, afraid.

My captor took a step forward into the fringe of the light.  Dressed in black, with a mask, the body shape looked more like a woman than a man, a figure that could be disguised by the bulky outer clothing.

“Who are you?”

“That’s irrelevant.  What I will do to you if you do not tell me the truth, is.  Boggs told me you had the map.  I believe he was telling the truth.”

So, this person had interrogated Boggs.  It would not have taken much.  Boggs was not the bravest soul I knew.  At school, Boggs had always been the first to capitulate in any confrontation.

I wondered if they had searched him.  Of course they had, and he didn’t have the map on him, which made it easier to deflect the onus to me.

But I didn’t have the map on me either.  I took the precaution of hiding it away in a place no one would find except me.  Now it was a matter of withstanding whatever this person decided was needed to extract ‘the truth’.

The problem was, I didn’t handle confrontation any better than Boggs had.

“And I’m telling you the truth when I tell you I haven’t got the map.  But I do have one of those being peddled at Osborne’s bar.  You can have that one if you like.”

I saw my captor shake their head.  Disdain, or disappointment?

Two steps further into the circle of light, and the two slaps, either side of my face, very hard.  The paid was instant and stinging, bringing tears to my eyes.  It should have brought acquiescence, but deep down defiance was building.  It surprised me.

My captor took a step back and looked down on me.  “Don’t make me have to hurt you.  All I want is the map.”

“I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

Closed fist this time, and aside from the teeth jarring, possible jaw-breaking, nose bleeding effect, I was starting to consider how long I could withstand this sort of beating.

“The map?”  Patience was running thin, anger was building.

“I can’t…”

Several punches to the ribs and stomach, taking my breath away and making it very difficult to breathe.  Pains where I’d never had pain before.  I’d had beatings at school but never like this.

Once more a step back, I could now only see the black figure through blurry eyes.

Time to plead to deaf ears, “You can beat me to within an inch of my life, but I can’t give you what I don’t have.  It’s as simple as that.”

And then I waited for the next round of punches.

A minute.  Two.

Then a new voice, out in the void, said, “He doesn’t have it.  This is a nothing but an elaborate hoax.”

Not a recognisable voice though.

A final blow rendered me unconscious.

© Charles Heath 2019

It had been one of those days, you know, the sort where you hoped, when you woke up again, it would be a distant memory if not gone altogether. Everything had gone wrong, the handover from my shift to the next, longer than usual, I got home late to find the building’s security system malfunctioning, and after everything that could go wrong had, I was late getting to bed, which meant I was going to be tired and cranky even before my shift started.

But what topped it all off was that the alarm didn’t go off. It was not as if I hadn’t set it, I remembered doing it. There was something else in play.

I rolled over and instantly noticed how dark it was. It was never this dark. It was why I chose an apartment as high up as I could, there would always be light coming from the advertising sign on the roof of the building over the road at night, or direct sunlight not blotted out by surrounding buildings.

I also left the curtains open, deliberately. I liked the notion of being able to see out, sometimes looking at the stars, other times watching the rain, but mostly to see that I was not in a dark place.

Not like now.

I got out of bed and went over to the window. Yes, there were lights, but they were all the way down on the street level. Everywhere else, nothing. It had to be a power blackout. Our first in a long time. I should have noticed the air conditioning was not on, and it was almost silent inside the room.

The apartment had windows that opened, not very far, but enough to allow some airflow, and the room feeling stuffy, I opened one in the bedroom. Instantly, sounds drifted up from street level, and looking down I could see the flashing lights of police cars and fire trucks, as well as the sounds of sirens.

The cold air was refreshing.

It took a few minutes before I realized the elevators would not be working, and I remembered the only pitfall of having a high-up apartment, it was a long way down by the stairs, and even longer going back up.

In the distance, I could see other buildings, about ten blocks away, with their lights on. It had to be a localized blackout, or perhaps a brownout. We had been having problems across the city with power supply caused by an unexplained explosion at several power stations on the grid.

Some were saying it was a terrorist attack, others were saying the antiquated infrastructure had finally given out.

My attention was diverted from the activity below by the vibration of my cell phone on the bedside table. I looked over at the clock and saw it was 3:10 in the morning, not a time I usually got a phone call.

I crossed the room and looked at the screen, just as the vibrating stopped. Louis Bernard. Who was Louis Bernard? It was not a name I was familiar with, so I ignored it. It wasn’t the first wrong number to call me, though I was beginning to think I had been given a recycled phone number when I bought the phone. Perhaps the fact it was a burner may have had something to do with it.

About the go back to the window, the phone started ringing again. The same caller, Louis Bernard.

Curiosity got the better of me.

“Yes?” I wasn’t going to answer with my name.

“Get out of that room now.”

“Who….” It was as far as I got before the phone went dead.

The phone displayed the logo as it powered off, a sign the battery was depleted. I noticed then though I’d plugged the phone in to recharge, I’d forgotten to turn the power on.

Damn.

Get out of that room now? Who could possibly know firstly who I was, and where I was living, to the point they could know I was in any sort of danger?

It took another minute of internal debate before I threw on some clothes and headed for the door.

Just in case.

As I went to open the door, someone started pounding on it, and my heart almost stopped.

“Who is it?” I yelled out. First thought; don’t open it.

“Floor warden, you need to evacuate. There’s a small fire on one of the floors below.”

“OK. Give me a minute or so and I’ll be right out.”

“Don’t take too long. Take the rear stairs on the left.”

A few seconds later I heard him pounding on the door next to mine. I waited until he’d moved on, and went out into the passage.

It was almost dark, the security lighting just above floor level giving off a strange and eerie orange glow. I thought there was a hint of smoke in the air, but that might have been the power of suggestion taking over my mind.

There were two sets of stairs down, both at the rear, one on the left and one on the right, designed to aid quick evacuation in the event of a calamity like a fire. He had told me to take the left. I deliberately ignored that and went to the right side, passing several other tenants who were going towards where they’d been told. I didn’t recognize them, but, then, I didn’t try to find out who my fellow tenants were.

A quick look back up the passage, noting everyone heading to the left side stairs, I ducked into the right stairwell and stopped for a moment. Was that smoke I could smell. From above I could hear a door slam shut, and voices. Above me, people had entered the stairwell and were coming down.

I started heading down myself.

I was on the 39th floor, and it was going to be a long way down. In a recent fire drill, the building had been evacuated from the top floor down, and it proceeded in an orderly manner. The idea was that starting at the top, there would not be a logjam if the lower floors were spilling into the stairwell and creating a bottleneck. Were those above stragglers?

I descended ten floors and still hadn’t run into anyone, but the smell of smoke was stronger. I stopped for a moment and listened for those who had been above me. Nothing. Not a sound. Surely there had to be someone above me, coming down.

A door slammed, but I couldn’t tell if it was above or below.

Once again, I descended, one floor, two, three, five, all the way down to ten. The smoke was thicker here, and I could see a cloud on the other side of the door leading out of the stairwell into the passage. The door was slightly ajar, odd, I thought, for what was supposed to be a fire door. I could see smoke being sucked into the fire escape through the door opening.

Then I saw several firemen running past, axes in hand. Was the fire on the tenth floor?

Another door slammed shut, and then above me, I could hear voices. Or were they below? I couldn’t tell. My eyes were starting to tear up from the smoke, and it was getting thicker.

I headed down.

I reached the ground floor and tried to open the door leading out of the fire escape. It wouldn’t open. A dozen other people came down the stairs and stopped when they saw me.

One asked, “Can we get out here?”

I tried the door again with the same result. “No. It seems to be jammed.”

Several of the people rushed past me, going down further, yelling out, “there should be a fire door leading out into the underground garage.”

Then, after another door slamming shut, silence. Another person said, “they must have found a way out,” and started running down the stairs, the others following. For some odd reason I couldn’t explain, I didn’t follow, a mental note popping up in my head telling me that there was only an exit into the carport from the other stairs, on this side, the exit led out onto an alley at the back of the building.

If the door would open. It should push outwards, and there should also be a bar on it, so when pushed, it allowed the door to open.

The smoke was worse now, and I could barely see, or breathe, overcome with a coughing fit. I banged on the door, yelling out that I was stuck in the stairwell, but there was no reply, nor could I hear movement on the other side of the door.

Just as I started to lose consciousness, I thought I could hear a banging sound on the door, then a minute later what seemed like wood splintering. A few seconds after that I saw a large black object hovering over me, then nothing.

It was the culmination of a bad night, a bad day, and another bad night. Was it karma trying to tell me something?

When I woke, I was in a hospital, a room to myself which seemed strange since my insurance didn’t really cover such luxuries. I looked around the room and stopped when I reached the window and the person who was standing in front of it, looking out.

“Who are you?” I asked, and realized the moment the words came out, they made me sound angry.

“No one of particular importance. I came to see if you were alright. You were very lucky by the way. Had you not stayed by that door you would have died like all the rest.”

Good to know, but not so good for the others. Did he know that fire door was jammed? I told him what happened.

“Someone suspected that might be the case which is why you were told to take the other stairs. Why did you not do as you were told?”

“Why did the others also ignore the advice.” It was not a question I would deign to answer.

They didn’t know any better, but you did, and it begs the question, why did you take those stairs.”

Persistent, and beginning to bother me. He sounded like someone else I once knew in another lifetime, one who never asked a question unless he knew the answer.

The man still hadn’t turned around to show me his face, and it was not likely I’d be getting out of the bed very soon.

“You tell me?”

He turned slightly and I could see his reflection in the window. I thought, for a moment, that was a familiar face. But I couldn’t remember it from where.

“The simple truth, you suspected the fire was lit to flush you out of the building and you thought taking those stairs would keep you away from trouble. We both know you’ve been hiding here.”

Then he did turn. Hiding, yes. A spot of trouble a year or so before had made leaving Florida a necessity, and I’d only just begun to believe I was finally safe.

I was not.

They had found me.

And it only took a few seconds, to pull the silenced gun out of his coat pocket, point it directly at me, and pull the trigger.

Two stabbing pains in the chest, and for a moment it was as if nothing happened, and then, all of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe.

The last thing I saw and heard, several rounds from at least two guns, voices yelling out on the passage, and people running.

As I lay dying, my last thought was, it had been a good run, but no one can run forever.

© Charles Heath 2021

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

…

For a story that was conceived during those long boring hours flying in a steel cocoon, striving to keep away the thoughts that the plane and everyone in it could just simply disappear as planes have in the past, it has come a long way.

Whilst I have always had a fascination with what happened during the second world war, not the battles or fighting, but in the more obscure events that took place, I decided to pen my own little sidebar to what was a long and bitter war.

And, so, it continues…

——

Mayer fought the urge to panic, and then consider giving himself up.  He remembered what the Standartenfuhrer said, and knew that it was not an option.

He slid back into the forest, then far enough back, stood, and ran, the thick snow not only hampering his speed but also covering the sound of his flight. 

He stopped and listened for the sound of the following soldiers, but all he could hear was the sound of a locomotive and his breathing.  His heart was pounding, not used to such exercise or fear.

The soldiers must have stopped where the running person had fallen, and then on the verge of the tree line when the Standartenfuhrer had been shot.

He kneeled down and struggled to catch his breath.  He had the bad the Standartenfuhrer had thrust upon him as they got out of the car, and hoped it had a map, but it was too dark to look now.

From earlier, he remembered the other side of the railway tracks had trees too, and the road that led to the border, the village, if there was one, and the railway station.  There would also be a small shunting area, freight sheds, or something else to hide in, maybe even a signal tower.

Somewhere warm, and with some light, so he could plan his next move.  He was not sure what the Standartenfuhrer Had planned, but it certainly could not be by car the whole way, and they would not make the rendezvous by walking.

The plan had to include going by train.

Brenner pass was along the main track from Austria to the south of Italy, and from an earlier look at a map, the train would go through F, Verona, Bologna, to Florence where he would find the next guide.

Details of that guide hopefully were in the bag, a bag that he would have to hide or lose if he was captured because it would give away the escape route and resistance members who helped those fleeing Germany.

If he had the time or could think straight.  The cold was making that very difficult.  And there was the shock of losing the Standartenfuhrer.

It took five minutes to regain a certain amount of calm and be able to think. 

First, he had to get back to the tree line and see where he was, in proximity to the village, and the railway tracks.

That took about ten minutes carefully picking his way through the trees.  There was no path, it was dark, and he kept hitting low branches and getting covered in snow. There was enough down the back of his neck to make him very uncomfortable.

When he reached the tree line he looked back from where he had been, about a kilometer, and he could see the torches of the soldiers milling around where he and the Standartenfuhrer had been.  The train was still there, the locomotive’s light blazing in front, lighting a short distance of the track in front of it, almost blindingly bright. 

He was not sure why it was waiting on the track.

Looking the other way, there were two sets of tracks, a wide clear area, then another track with several flat cars and a guards van sitting in darkness, all of which were covered in snow.  They were not being used, so the van might provide some shelter.

He just had to get over there, about 100 meters distant.  The problem was there were lights, not very bright, at regular distances, but short enough that a man might present a shadowy outline if anyone was looking.

If he stayed low and run fast, it might just work.

A train whistle in the distance, coming from Italy caused him to shrink back into the cover of the trees.  Another train was coming.  It was oddly busy at a very late hour.

The locomotive also had a bright light that lit up the edge of the tree line, so he had to go further back to get away from it, and wait until the train passed.  It had a lot of flat cars with tanks and troop carriers on it, going back to Germany.  There were no soldiers so perhaps the equipment was needed elsewhere, maybe that final push to England he kept hearing about.

Once that train passed, the one that had been waiting finally restarted its journey south and slowly rumbled past him.  It was almost like a passenger train with no priority had had to wait until essential war trains passed.

When that train had gone, the surrounding area descended into a quiet, also silent field.  The snow had begun to fall heavier, which would be advantageous, and after several long looks in both directions, he ran, crossing the tracks, the empty space, and then to the guard van where he hid between it and the freight car until he caught his breath.

And see if anyone had seen him, expecting whistles and shouting coming from up the track.

Another look showed that only two torches remained back where there had been frenetic activity.  He hoped they considered they had caught the people they were looking for.

He went down the side of the guard’s van to the door, climbed the ladder, and tried the door.  It was unlocked.  There was no reason why it would be locked.

He went in and shut the door, and immediately it was warmer, and certainly dryer.  IT was impossibly dark inside, so he felt around in the bag and found a torch.  Someone had been clever enough to add a torch, some first aid equipment.  The papers included a map.

He checked the cabin for windows and found the shutters were closed, so he didn’t have to stifle the torches light.  A further check showed a bed at the end of the cabin, with a blanket, musty but dry.

There was a stove, a kettle with water, and a tin of tea leaves.  He wasn’t going to start a fire, so no tea.  There was no food, so the hunger would have to remain for a while longer.  The water tasted alright, but he could melt some snow if he needed more.

A place to stay, at least until daybreak when it would be wise to get into the forest on the roadside, and head towards the village, or perhaps wait for a train and see if he could hide on it for the trip south.

First, he needed some rest.

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© Charles Heath 2020-2022