Category: Mystery

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 79

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.

…

Finding the treasure, or something else

…

It was time to go.

She had stayed with me the whole time, and made sure I’d seen her phone the whole time.  I was sure it was deliberate, and there would be repercussions at the end of this exercise, success or not.

She made no mention of it the whole time too, but it was stewing behind her eyes, and I could feel it.  It was a trait of my mother’s when dealing with my father, whom she never really trusted, and not without reason.  He had let her down, us down, more times than I could remember.

We had just enough light to find our way to the base of the cliff.  The weather forecast was for a cloudy night and the prospect of rain around midnight, when I was hoping we’d either found what we were looking for, or it was a bust.

The wind had picked up after we left the cave and was gusting intermittently by the time we were in position, so between the darkness and the wind, the climb was going to be ‘tricky’.

Boggs said he was up for the challenge.  I was not so sure. 

It was not far upwards to the ledge, but by the time he started, the moon had gone behind the cloud cover, the wind had picked up, and the temperature had dropped dramatically.  A minute later, he had disappeared into the darkness, leaving only a trailing rope behind that I was loosely holding.

The wind overtook the noise of him ascending, and the hammering of pitons into the rock crevices, so it felt like we were alone on the beach.  Nadia was standing about 10 feet away looking upwards.

Was she tracking Boggs progress, or waiting for something else?

The moon shed little light on our position, in between passing clouds, not enough to work solely by it. We had torches, and intermittently I could see approximately where Boggs was, and it seemed to me he had been at the same spot for at least ten minutes.

Had he reached an impasse?

We had no means of communication, I wasn’t going to call out to him, nor, I was sure, would he call out to me.  At least, only if it was necessary.

Then, I felt a slight tug on the rope, the sign her had made it to the ledge.  If he had not found it, the plan was we would leave, and go back to square one.

I went over to Nadia.  “We’re up, you’re next.”

“I’d rather stay on the ground.  I don’t need to be scaling rocks.”

“We agreed, we’d all go up.”

“Are you sure this is not about you having trust issues.”

“No.  It’s time, unless you know something I don’t.”

“Like?”

“You tell me if there are any surprises waiting for us up there?”  It was as close as I was going to get saying that she had betrayed us, and, knowing what was waiting, didn’t want to be there to face our disappointment.

“When have I had time to arrange anything.  You’ve been with me the whole time.”

I had, though it was not for that purpose, but not an unreasonable assumption on her part given the circumstances.

I shook my head.  I think deep down I was expecting some sort of development, even though I had hoped that she would be as good as her word.  It also annoyed me that she was making it so I was put in a position where the only assumption she could make was that I didn’t trust her.

It was like being painted into a corner.

And it was clever on her part because she left the onus on me, absolving herself of any blame, whether on not she was telling the truth or not.

I was the bad person.

“As you wish,” I said.  “Go home, there’s no need for you to stay.  It’s probably the last place you should be when everything goes pear shaped.”

“I’m happy to be the last line of defence.”

“When the shit hits the fan, Vince isn’t going to care whether you share the same surname or not.  Best you’re not here at all.”

“Are you expecting him?”

“We’re trespassing on Cossatino land.  If he finds out…  Best if you were not here, seriously.”

“You do realise what he’ll do if he does find you.”

It was a statement, not a question, and yes, I did.  And I’d kept Boggs waiting long enough.  “I’ll let you know what we find.”

Enough sparring, I turned and headed back to the base of the cliff. 

Scaling the cliff was not that hard, Boggs had said to keep a tight hold on the rope and used the pitons he’d places strategically as footsteps on a ladder.

When I reached the ledge, Boggs was waiting and pulled me up the last of the climb onto the narrow alleyway between rocks.

“Took your time,” he muttered.

“Nadia is having reservations about joining us.”

“Sending the lambs to the slaughter, eh.”

I’d expected that reaction, and I could see how he’d reach such a conclusion.

“She is not a climber.”

“Neither are you, but…”

“I don’t think it matters which side she’s on, in the end.  We’re not here by invitation, especially if Vince turns up.  Let’s get on with it before we get cold feet.”

“You don’t have to be here, you know.”

“Actually, I do.  You asked me along for the ride, and I let you down.”

I’d thought about it, and it seemed to me everyone, one way or another, had let him down.  If I put myself in his shoes, I’d be terribly disappointed.

“You’re here now, that says a lot.  But, enough talk, let’s see where this goes.”

I looked up and could just see the overhang, an almost flat slab of rock almost suspended in mid-air.  If it fell, we might be crushed, on it would land on or crumble, over the outer wall, which in itself looked to be part of the original wall split away.

What was once most likely a ledge, was now was tunnel.  The ledge would have been much wider, before the fall, and in this current form, narrower than it used to be.  If there was a chest or two to take away, it wouldn’t be wide enough.

I followed behind, the small torch beam picking out the sharp edges and avoiding jutting pieces of rock, making progress slow.

Ahead I could see Boggs had stopped, and was examining the wall.  When I joined him, he was standing in front of wood panelling.  A closer inspection showed it to be a door.

“That’s a good sign,” he said.  He rapped on the door and it sounded dull, like it was hollow.

To one side there was a rusty handle and a large lock, equally rusty.  I picked up a rock and with one hit, it snapped of and clattered on the ground.

I then pounded on one of the wooden panels and it disintegrated.  It had rotted over time, how much time was moot, and didn’t take much to bash an opening wide enough to fit through.

The air coming out was quite pungent, if not foul.

“Not exactly a welcome.”

“It smells of death.”

Boggs gave me a look that might have translated to ‘keep your opinion to yourself please’.

“Well soon find out.”  After selling the torch light as far in as he could, and not seeing any immediate danger, stepped over the threshold.

“Beware of any possible boobytraps.”  I’d seen too many films with similar situations, and if there was treasure in this cavern, the pirate would not let it be taken without a fight.

“Seriously, Sam.”  He turned a put his light on me. “That’s just a myth perpetuated by Hollywood.”

“Just saying, be careful.”

I saw him shrug, and turn back.  Perhaps as a nod to my warning, he reached out, checking for trip wires, as I ailed my torch at his feet, and saw what looked to be a rope strung six inches above the ground.  It looked as rotting as the door timber.

“On the ground,” I said.

He moved his light to join mine, saw the rope, and traced it from the floor, upwards to the roof.  If he had tripped over it, might it bring the roof down, or part of it?

He stepped back, kicked through it, and it disintegrated into dust.  Nothing happened.  It had to be the rope had rotted and couldn’t be used to spring the trap. 

“So far, so good.”

A flimsy rope wasn’t going to stop him.

“Just be careful.”

We used both torches to light both sides of the cave, and the roof, just in case.  The torch light did not reach the end, so it was slow progress.

Twenty paces later, we came to a larger cavern, and a quick look around showed parts of it had been man made.  A shiver went through me, and I thought that might be a ghost passing through me.

“You feel that?” I asked Boggs, now several steps in front of me.

“It’s just cold Sam.”

“I reckon there’s a body down here, somewhere.”

Suddenly his torch stopped, near the floor, adjacent to what looked like a ledge.  The corner of the cavern.  There were torn rags scattered. 

I joined him and added the light from my torch, widening the display.

The involuntary gasp was mine.  A skull, still attached to the skeleton, partially covered by cloth sitting in the corner, as if that was his final resting place.

“I was not expecting that,” Boggs said, the slightest of cracks in his voice.

I shuddered. 

I moved my torchlight along the wall, and found two more skeletons, both lying down on the ground in front of the ledge, as if they had been dragged there.  It wasn’t hard to deduce how at least one died, a sword appeared to be through the middle of the torso.

“Pirates who didn’t like their share of the treasure,” he said.

“Or raiders, who weren’t expecting guards?”

All three looked as though they were from the 17th and 18th centuries, and had not been disturbed for a long, long time.

A view of the cavern showed nothing else, except for what looked like beds made of straw on the ledges, and several chests that were in better condition than the door to the cave.  There was more clothing and other supplies, like pewter mugs and plates, and pottery bottles, some of which had liquid in them.

We didn’t say much, there wasn’t much to say. 

Except the obvious, we were the first visitors in a long, long time.

There was a passage off to one side, not visible from the entry point to the cavern, and now that we had established there was no treasure, headed towards it.

Boggs shine his torch in the entrance, and it appeared longer than the beam travelled.  The sides of this cavern were damp, and I could hear a slow dripping sound in the distance.

If my orientation was right, we would not be going,  further into the cliff, but running parallel with the shoreline.

“Ready?”  Boggs asked. 

There was no mistaking that hint of fear in his voice but whether he didn’t feel safe, or perhaps because of what we might find, like more dead pirates, I was feeling equally apprehensive.

‘As I’ll ever be.”

He took a few tentative steps, checking the walls as he went.  I followed.

It was damp underfoot, and several times I stepped in a small puddle.  We were surrounded by the aroma of salty water and a mouldy dank smell of dampness.

The next cavern was just beyond the initial torch beam, but slowly came into view as we approached it.  This cave showed signs of being dug out, and the cavern definitely so.  This was not a natural part of the cave system.

This cavern was slightly larger than the last one, had just one ledge which had three chests set out equidistant on it.  It was the first sight our torches displayed.

Was this the treasure?

Boggs headed straight towards them.  I was a little more circumspect, and slowly ran my torch around the rest of the room, until I found another body.

This one was definitely not as old as the other three.  In fact, my guess, it was either Ormiston, or, dare I consider it possible, Boggs senior.

By this time Boggs had opened the first chest and muttered, “nothing”, letting it slam down quite loudly and making me jump.

“Hey,” I said, “There’s another body here, but it’s not a pirate.”

He swung around and pointed his torch on the body, and gasped.  “No.  It can’t be.” 

He went over and knelt beside the body.  The clothes were still intact, and although damp and grimy, were still recognisable.

I saw him check the pockets first of the coat, then the pants, finding what looked like a wallet.  He carefully opened it, then fell backwards, surprise or disbelief.

“Is it.”

He held up the wallet.  “My father.  How did he get here?”

“No treasure in the chest?”

“Empty.  If it was there, it’s long gone.”

So, Boggs senior had known where the treasure was, as he had said, just before he disappeared.  Had he led the others here, and they had incapacitated him, then left him to die?

I checked the other two chests, the second nit holing treasure, but another body, jammed into the space, in slightly better condition than Boggs, but there was no mistaking the cracks in the skull.

It was another man, and if I was to make a guess, it would be Ormiston.  Had Boggs and Ormiston joined forces, or had they turned up at the same time and attacked each other.

“I think that the body in this chest is Ormiston,” I said, closing the lid to the chest.  “It would be interesting to know if they ran into each other, and whether they had found the empty chests too.”

Boggs hadn’t moved.  I could see him struggling with the fact he had found his father, and the location of the treasure, where it had once rested. 

The fact Ormiston had head injuries suggested the treasure was here, and someone had removed it.

Cossatino?

But, the question was, how did they get here if they didn’t come in via the door we’d broken down.  There was another cave leading off this cavern, but it looked as though it led into the hill, rather than head towards the shoreline.

I was heading towards that entrance when I heard a scream cut short, coming from the direction we had just entered the cavern.

Nadia?  Had she changed her mind, followed us, and found the pirates?

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

In a word: Page

We as authors always like to see two little words in every review, page turner.

Alas, sometimes they’re not, but usually this applied to non fiction simple because they’re reference books. Then another two words apply: boat anchor.

The good stuff is usually over the page.

Page in this instance refers to a leaf in a book, which generally has many pages.

Then the is a page boy, not what you’d find lurking around these days but were more common in days past, but refers to a boy in training to become a knight, or an errand boy for a nobleman.

These days a page boy opens doors and runs messages in a hotel.

Another variation is being paged over the P.A. system, always a major cause of embarrassment because you and everyone else thinks your in trouble.

Of course, before there were mobile phones, there were pagers, and sometimes in the deathly silence of the classroom, it went off. Definitely not advisable to have one on you if you are trying to sneak up on someone. Same goes for the modern equivalent, the mobile phone.

For the person who uses a word processor, you are familiar with pages, and having the software generate page numbers, of course, not for the title page, and a different numbering for other pages like an index, before the story starts.

Complicated? Sometimes.

And many years ago a boss of mine often used to say I needed to turn over a new page, and it did make much sense to me. That might have been because I was young and stupid. But, later on I realised what he was really saying was that I needed to turn over a new leaf.

Kind of strange, but then a lot saying are.

And did I?

Eventually.

And just to end on a high note, Paige is also the name of a girl, I think, and one I’ve decided to use in a story.

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps it was time to set Susan free.

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

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

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

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

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

Maria nodded and left.

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

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

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

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

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

An apology was the last thing I expected.

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stood.  “Last chance.”

“Forever?”

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

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

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

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

No kiss, no touch, no looking back. 

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2025

strangerscover9

“The Things We Do For Love”

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

But can love conquer all?

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

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

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

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

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

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

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

But can love conquer all?

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

The cover, at the moment, looks like this:

lovecoverfinal1

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 22

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.

An unlikely ally?

When we were far enough away, not far from the bridge that crossed the Thames towards the Houses of Parliament, and with the London Eye in the foreground, I slackened my pace.  There were enough people around to afford us cover if Maury and his team realised quickly enough what we had done to escape.

“What now?” she asked.

“Go back to your people, tell them you’ve been compromised, but only on the basis that your flat was tossed, don’t mention Nobbin or Severin unless you feel compelled you have to, and make sure you don’t go back to the flat.  Both of them will have it staked out by now.”

“And what are you doing to do?”

“Try and play them off against each other, which probably won’t work.  I’m not nearly good enough at this caper yet.  Unfortunately, I’m going to have to talk to both of them and tell them I’m onto McConnell, though that will hardly be a surprise to either of them.  After that, find somewhere safe to figure out what to do next.”

“Who was that back at the station?”

“A chap called Maury, and I think he’s one of Severin’s hatchet men.  He was one of those who trained me and several others.”

“You do realise what you’re saying?”

“That my situation is so screwed up, yes, I know.”

It was when I stopped to think about it.  Trained by a rogue group no one knew about, or so they said, and transferred to another group, but not told about it, well, not officially, anyway.

“Maybe we should keep each other’s back.  I mean, if what you say is true, if I go back to my people and tell them about this, it’s likely I’ll be putting a target on my back too.”

True.  I had considered that, but not that we might team up.  It would introduce a third group to the game, and it might be one too many, or act as a catalyst leading to catastrophic consequences.

“What are you saying?”  I asked her, just in case I was misinterpreting what she was saying.

“I’m not safe, you’re not safe, together we might be.  I might have something useful about O’Connell, but I wouldn’t know if it was useful of not.  You at least know what to look for, and basically who to avoid.  Who knows, we might make a great team.”

We might.  But it would have to be predicated on trust, and, right now, I was not sure if I could trust her.  That pen thing, she might have precipitated it, and was working with Severin.  It seemed logical in the circumstances.

But what was that saying, keep your friends close, and your enemies closer?  I’d soon find out.

“Ok.  What do you think we should do first?”

“Find a hotel, an obscure one, nearby, and you call your so-called friends, and see what happens, as you said.”

I nodded.  “Sounds like a plan.”

And, I thought to myself, ideal for her if she was insinuating herself into my world, much the same as she had in O’Connell’s case.  In was now in my nature to suspect everyone and everything, because a few words of one lesson came back to haunt me.  We trust people because we instinctively want to believe them, and in this line of work, the people we come across are good and sincere storytellers.

It was a question of how much truth they weaved into their story, that made it believable.  I wanted to believe her, but the facts, circumstantial or otherwise, pointed me in the other direction.

I would have to wait and see and make sure I was prepared for the worst.

It was Jan’s idea t stay near the Charing Cross station in a hotel that I would not normally stay in because of the cost.  I let Jan do the check-in and when we arrived at the room, I discovered she hadn’t booked two rooms, but a Studio Suite with two single beds and a sofa bed.

Apparently, we were brother and sister, which made sense after I had overheard some of the conversation with the check-in clerk.  I didn’t hear what her excuse was for lack of luggage.  Perhaps the airline had lost it, but I had to admit the girl could think on her feet.

Once inside the room, it felt cramped, but the beds looked comfortable, and it had a minibar.

“Before you make any calls, you need to disable the GPS in your phone.”

“They’ll still be able to track it.”

“Not if you are on it for a short period, and we are outside the hotel.”

Well, before that I need a drink.”

“So, do I.  Give me a minute to freshen up and we’ll go down to the bar.  It’ll be a lot cheaper than the minibar.  Then I think we both need to get some supplies.”

I wondered if this is what it was like to be married.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

An excerpt from “If Only” – a work in progress

Investigations of crimes don’t always go according to plan, nor does the perpetrator get found or punished.

That was particularly true in my case.  The murderer was incredibly careful in not leaving any evidence behind, to the extent that the police could not rule out whether it was a male or a female.

At one stage, the police thought I had murdered my own wife, though how I could be on a train at the time of the murder was beyond me.  I had witnesses and a cast-iron alibi.

The officer in charge was Detective First Grade Gabrielle Walters.  She came to me on the day after the murder seeking answers to the usual questions like, when was the last time you saw your wife, did you argue, the neighbours reckon there were heated discussions the day before.

Routine was the word she used.

Her fellow detective was a surly piece of work whose intention was to get answers or, more likely, a confession by any or all means possible.  I could sense the raging violence within him.  Fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Over the course of the next few weeks, once I’d been cleared of committing the crime, Gabrielle made a point of keeping me informed of the progress.

After three months, the updates were more sporadic, and when, for lack of progress, it became a cold case, communication ceased.

But it was not the last time I saw Gabrielle.

The shock of finding Vanessa was more devastating than the fact that she was now gone, and those images lived on in the same nightmare that came to visit me every night when I closed my eyes.

For months, I was barely functioning, to the extent that I had all but lost my job and quite a few friends, particularly those who were more attached to Vanessa rather than me.

They didn’t understand how it could affect me so much, and since it had not happened to them, my tart replies of ‘you wouldn’t understand’ were met with equally short retorts.  Some questioned my sanity, even, for a time, so did I.

No one, it seemed, could understand what it was like, no one except Gabrielle.

She was by her own admission, damaged goods, having been the victim of a similar incident, a boyfriend who turned out to be an awfully bad boy.  Her story varied only in that she had been made to witness his execution.  Her nightmare, in reliving that moment in time, was how she was still alive and, to this day, had no idea why she’d been spared.

It was a story she told me one night, some months after the investigation had been scaled down.  I was still looking for the bottom of a bottle and an emotional mess.  Perhaps it struck a resonance with her; she’d been there and managed to come out the other side.

What happened became our secret, a once-only night together that meant a great deal to me, and by mutual agreement, it was not spoken of again.  It was as if she knew exactly what was required to set me on the path to recovery.

And it had.

Since then, we saw each other about once a month in a cafe.   I had been surprised to hear from her again shortly after that eventful night when she called to set it up, ostensibly for her to provide me with any updates on the case, but perhaps we had, after that unspoken night, formed a closer bond than either of us wanted to admit.

We generally talked for hours over wine, then dinner and coffee.  It took a while for me to realise that all she had was her work; personal relationships were nigh on impossible in a job that left little or no spare time for anything else.

She’d always said that if I had any questions or problems about the case, or if there was anything that might come to me that might be relevant, even after all this time, all I had to do was call her.

I wondered if this text message was in that category.  I was certain it would interest the police, and I had no doubt they could trace the message’s origin, but there was that tiny degree of doubt about whether or not I could trust her to tell me what the message meant.

I reached for the phone, then put it back down again.  I’d think about it and decide tomorrow.

© Charles Heath 2018-2020

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 78

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.

…

The final treasure hunt

…

Boggs was unusually quiet, but that might be because he wasn’t in charge.  We were at the cave Nadia and I had found shelter from the storm, and he was busy checking the climbing equipment and making sure he had everything.

Then he set both Nadia and me up with the gear we’d need to follow him.  Neither of us was an experienced climber, but it was simple he said, he’d more or less pull us up once he found the cave.

If there was a cave there.

It was possible the seismic activity had closed it off, and it was gone forever, but he was choosing to be positive and believe it would be well hidden until he was right on top of it.

Certainly is not visible from below, it simply looked like any other rockface but with indentations where little shrubs were growing, and it certainly could not be seen from above because of the cliff overhang, nor could it be seen from the side, because it was not possible to get high enough or near enough.

Boggs said he knew a lot about rock formations, and his preliminary inspection in the late afternoon suggested there might ledge about 10 yards above the sand line.  He had put in a few pegs and climbed to a spot under the overhang where there was a small ledge, and what looked to be a narrow pathway that zig-zagged seemingly through the rock but resisted the urge to follow it.

Both Nadia and I kept watch, but nothing else was stirring on that part of the shoreline.  The idea was to go after dark when it was less likely anyone else would be around.

Now, as darkness fell, he was full of nervous energy, the sort that one had before participating in an event.  This might finally be the end to his, and his father before him, search for the treasure, and even I was caught up in the moment.

I had just one more task before we stepped out the door, to send a prewritten text message to Charlene, just in case everything went pear-shaped.  It was possible it might, but right then, it was the last thing I was expecting.

What if there were riches beyond avarice awaiting us?  It was now only a matter of time before we knew.

After escaping the sheriff’s office, and saying all the words he wanted to hear, for my mother’s sake, I called Nadia, then went to see her, taking extraordinarily silly means to avoid being followed, because the idea of seeing her after being warned off might cause a reaction.

It was probably the most rebellious thing I’d ever done, and it was secretly thrilling, to the point of that pit in the stomach that was meant to be a warning that something bad was going to happen.

I could now understand the nature of addiction.

And in the semi-darkness, she seemed more like an ethereal spectre, albeit a lot more whimsical.

“The Sherriff just warned me that associating with you is putting my life in danger.”

“The Sherriff?”

“My mother is getting him to put pressure on me to stop seeing you.  My mother is firmly of the belief you are tarred with the same brush as the rest of your family.”

“I take it the fact you’re here now means you don’t agree with either of them.”

“Or I find living life on the edge is preferable to no life at all.  My mother wants me to be boring and predictable, and live my life like she does.  But, she had a bad boy streak, marrying my father the criminal.  She knew what and who he was long ago, one of Benderby’s henchmen.”

“Do you want to be boring and predictable?”

“I don’t want to be a criminal, even though it has a certain allure, and is probably the only other job you could get in this area.”

“Things aren’t that bad,” she said.

“They are.  You know as well as I do, kids who’ve left school only do one of two things.  Leave town for the big smoke, or get a crap job working for either criminal enterprise.  No one wants to work in the factory.”

It was hard to deny the facts.  And those that didn’t do anything, were either dead or close to it.  I wasn’t exactly enamoured with my job at the warehouse, but it was legitimate, if not underpaying, job, and I knew I should be grateful.

“Anyway,” I said, “it’s all moot now.  Both Boggs and I agree the treasure if it’s anywhere is somewhere on that cliff face, he was climbing before he was cut down.”

“So, you’re saying my family tried to kill him?”

“More or less.  You don’t cut a climber’s rope unless you mean him harm.”

“I’d prefer to call it a warning.  They probably think he was trying to gain access to the Gove via the beachhead.  I seriously doubt Vince would see it as anything else.  I think we can expect he’ll be keeping an eye on that part of the beach from now on.”

It seemed like something he’d do, so it was going to add another layer of complexity to our incursion.  But I doubted he would be on the beach, but prefer the clifftop, and that could work in our favour.

“Be that as it may, are you in or out?”

“In, of course.  And, just in case you’re thinking I’m working for my father, and all of this has been a charade to gain your confidence, it is not.”

“I’d be a liar if I told you it didn’t cross my mind, but I believe you.”

Did I?  The was a 64,000-dollar question with half a dozen different answers, all of them leading down the path to hell.  I would believe, until she proved otherwise, and I was truly hoping she wouldn’t.  But, blood was thicker than water, as the saying goes, and now she might believe herself she was on our side, but when push came to shove, a lot could happen.

“When?”

“In an hour.  We’re going to get Boggs and his gear and go to your beach hut, and then to the cave we found.  When darkness falls, that’s when we go up the cliff.”

A clouded expression, then a smile.  “Clever, Sam.  You’re not giving me any opportunity to betray you.”

I had to admit, at that moment, it wasn’t intended, but perhaps subconsciously I had planned it this way.

I shrugged.  “It was all last minute, brought on by being hauled into the sheriff’s office.  By tomorrow we’ll all be under observation, and take away any opportunity for us to do anything.  I assume you’re still in?”

“Of course.  We should have something to eat, so I’ll order up some takeout.  Pizzas?”

And, if she wanted to, there were still a dozen ways she could betray us, and I was definitely not going to keep her under observation the whole time.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

We were so happy then.

Before the tragedy.

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

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

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

Until one day she couldn’t.

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

The doctors were wrong.

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

Justice would have to be served by other means.

I was outside the Bannister’s home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Justice.”

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

“She said otherwise, Archie.”

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

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

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

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

It was the recurring nightmare I had for years afterwards.

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

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

If only I’d not been late…

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

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

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

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

He didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He took nineteen bullets to die.

Then came Archie.

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

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

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

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

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

He was a little more worried about his sister.

I told him it was confession time.

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

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

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

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

Then she shot him.  Six times.

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

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

They were not allowed to.

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

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

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

“You’ve been a bad boy, Alan.”

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

I was beginning to think I was going mad.

I ignored him.

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

Death sounded good.  I told him to go away.

He didn’t.  Persistent bugger.

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

“Why’d you do it?”

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

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

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

“You like killing?”

“No-one does.”

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

“We?”

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

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

Trained, cleared, and ready to go.

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

People like me.

In a mall, I became a shopper.

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

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

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

I had a passkey.

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

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

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

Until the judge, the jury and their executioner arrived.

Me.

Quick, clean, merciless.  Done.

I was now an operational field agent.

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

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

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

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

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

I was Barry Gamble.

I was Lenny Buckman.

I was Jimmy Hosen.

I was anyone but the person I wanted to be.

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

Head bowed, tears streamed down my face.

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

New York, New Years Eve.

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

This time I failed.

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

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

I was done.

I’d had enough.

I gave her the gun.

I begged her to kill me.

She didn’t.

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

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

I remembered her name after she had gone.

Amanda.

I remembered she had an imperfection in her right eye.

Someone else had the same imperfection.

I couldn’t remember who that was.

Not then.

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

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

It was late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dunno.”

“You need help?”

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

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nobody.”  I was exactly how I felt.

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

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

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

“Where are your friends?” I asked again.

“Got none.”

“Perhaps I should take you home.”

“I have no home.”

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

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

“I have my moments.”

“Have them somewhere else.”

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

“Take me home,” she said suddenly.

“Where is your place?”

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

“You won’t like it.”

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

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

“Charlotte.”

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

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

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

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

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

Aunt Agatha.

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

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

“Why did you come,” Charlotte asked.

“You know why.”

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

OK, now she officially scared me.

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

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

“Certainly not my fairy godmother.”

Charlotte never mentioned her again.

Zurich in summer, not exactly my favourite place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But…

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was crying, tears streaming down my face.

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

It was like coming up for air.

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

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

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

“Welcome back.”

© Charles Heath 2016-2019

onelastlookcoverfinal2

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

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

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

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

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

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mould of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Philip Marlowe, but he’s not.

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

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

Then there’s the title, like

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

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

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

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

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

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

PIWalthJones1

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 21

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.

An unlikely ally?

 

“Wait.”

It seemed that I had managed to scare her.  Either that, or she had decided to be a little more forthcoming.  I stopped and waited until she caught up.  I was nearly at the top of the stairs.

“Look, I have to go back to my people, and I’ll get them to look into those two people you don’t seem to trust, who were they, Nobbin and Severin?”

“I don’t think you want to do that.  You start making waves, your people will send out feelers and they’ll get to hear about it, and they will know exactly where it came from, and it’ll come back and bite you.  For your own peace of mind, I’d let the sleeping dogs lie.”

She seemed over-eager to get ahead using this as a steppingstone.  I’d seen the type, in the training ranks, and in former jobs.  She was clearly assigned this job because of her looks, and she might be a good agent too, but she hadn’t thought this through.

“Are you telling me to back off?”

“I’m trying to save your life.  If I have no idea who to trust, then I have to assume both of them are theoretically the enemy.  I’m still counting the blessings I’m still alive, but I suspect that will only last until the USB is found.  The rest of my team are dead.”

Now that put the right amount of fear into her.

“If they’re willing to kill everybody that’s come in contact with this information, I doubt they’d stop at killing the both of us if we got in their way.”

“Then you have a plan?”

“At the moment that plan consists of one line.  Stay alive and find the USB before they do.  After that, I’ll see what happens.”

I caught sight of an incident, two people almost colliding, and one, I noticed, was more intent on his phone which is what caused the clash.  And, a second later, I thought I recognised one of the two.

Maury.  Severin’s offsider, and more likely cleanup man.  My guess, he was the one searching O’Connell’s flat, and Jan’.”

I think it was safe to say she was compromised.

“Ok,” I said quietly, “we have a problem, well two problems.”  And if I was wrong about her, and she was one of Severin’s people, which, seeing Maury just turned a probable into a likely, I had three.

If she was, I hadn’t seen that coming. 

“What now?”

Time to test the water.

“One of Severin’s men is downstairs, mingling, which means he knows I’m here, and maybe you two.”

I did a quick check of my scan of O’Connell’s, thinking I might have picked up a bug.  It was the only explanation why Maury was here.  And, it was likely he was not alone.

Not me.  Jan?

“Did you take anything from O’Connell’s?”

“No.  Why?”

“Are you sure.  Think”

While scanning the lower floor of the station looking, no doubt, for Maury, and anyone that might present a problem, she looked like she was recounting her steps.

“Damn.  A pen.  I left it there the last time I saw him.”  She pulled it out of her bag and went to toss it in the bin.

I snatched it, and as someone brushed past me, I dropped it into their pocket.

A flash of annoyance, then, “Hey, that cost a lot of money.”

“Then be grateful it didn’t cost you your life.  Yet.”

We waited, keeping far enough back from the stairs, but with still a good view of the station.  I kept an eye on the man whom I gave the pen as he made his way across the floor towards one of the platforms.  Luckily it was at the furthest end, and as he approached it, I saw three figures, and Maury slowly make their way towards him forming a blockade so he couldn’t escape.

“Time to go.”

She had noticed the movement too.

We went down the stairs and headed towards the first available exit.  As we were going out the door, we heard a commotion, the team obviously apprehending the wrong man, who would be wondering why four burly men were accosting him on his way home.

We didn’t wait to find out what happened to him.

 

© Charles Heath 2019