Category: Mystery

The cinema of my dreams – It all started in Venice – Episode 9

Watching the watchers

…

My day’s entertainment was spotting the surveillance and then watching the surveillance.  It was an aspect of my job that was really strange, but it was important to keep an eye on your enemies, if only to be ready for the unexpected.

I didn’t expect anything to happen, for the time being, taking Larry at his word that, for some reason, he needed Juliet to win my trust before he made an approach.

And yet there was always an air of unpredictability in these matters, so I decided that if the opportunity arose, I’d surprise him.  In any case, I had a feeling Larry might get impatient and arrive with a small army before too long.

The librarian, to all those who didn’t know who she was, was the quintessential librarian on holiday.  She was very much a loner, who was quite capable of appearing like a lost schoolgirl on one hand, and someone very much at home, and at ease, in her environment.

She also had an air of danger about her, so she would be when push came to shove, a formidable opponent.

I couldn’t say the same for the Frenchman because there were times, I didn’t quite believe he was anything other than an abrasive Frenchman.  The only thing that kept me interested was the fact I couldn’t shake him.

I’d managed to lose the librarian several times, long enough to observe her, before I let her find me again.  Until the last time when she lost me, I came up behind her.

I’m not sure what I was thinking, but surprise often brought out a person’s true character.

When she turned around, his sixth sense finally kicking in, she jumped

“We have to stop meeting like this,” I said.

“We haven’t met before.”

“You were at the hotel this morning, and I got an icy look from you just before you left.  From them 9n, every time I turn around, there you are.”

“Coincidence, I assure you.”

“I hope so, because I cannot for the life of me wonder what your interest could be in me.”

“None.”

“Are you staying at the hotel?”

There had to be a point where. If she was a normal person, she would find this encounter creepy, and begin to think I was a stalker.  Not so far, which meant that she hadn’t time to formulate the proper response to our first meeting, outrage. Or at least genuine fear.

She had fallen back on training, training that I was familiar with.  The question then was, she might not be working for Larry, but Rodby.

“I can’t see that it’s any of your business.”

“Well or might be.  If you are a tourist, I live here, and know the city well, and could be at the very least an English-speaking guide.”

“I’m not in need of a guide.  I’m only here a few days and talking to you is wasting time.  If you’re following me, don’t.”

A last look up and down, definitely checking out what sort of threat I was, she then wandered off, cool and calm demeanor reacquired.

And, I thought, cover blown.  One down and one to go.

It might have been disconcerting to fund the Frenchman and Juliet having coffee at a small Cafe opposite a church on one of the wider streets in Venice.

After running into the librarian in St Mark’s square, I decided to walk a large circuitous route to Rio Terra Foscarini, at the end of which was a church and a Vaporetto terminal.

I was at the top of Campo Morosini, and saw them before they saw me, which left me with two options.  Crash the party, or leave them alone.  The latter seemed the best idea, and I doubled back and decided to check out the film festival events for the days.

Something else, which might be a worry, I had noticed the Frenchman had stopped following me.  At least now I knew who she was working for.

Changing my mind again, I decided to go home and contemplate my next meeting with Juliet.

Waiting, not far from the doorstep, was Alfie.

“Knew you’d get around to coming home sometime today.  How are you?”

“Confused.”

“Well, that’s not a good state to be in.”

I opened the door and let him pass in front of me.  A quick look to see if anyone was watching, there was no one that I could see, then closed the door.

If only that could shut out all the problems.

“Why are you confused?”

“Has Rodby put another dog on my tail?”

“You mean that woman you accosted in the souvenir shop?  Not aware of one, but you know Rodby, trusts no one and tells you only what he thinks you want to hear.”

So Alfie was not above telling me lies.  Or maybe he didn’t know, but I found that hard to believe.  And it was disconcerting to learn he knew of my every movement.  Was her surveilling me too, or just tracking me.  And how did he know about the librarian?

“She’s just one of two keeping an eye on me.  The other is a Frenchman, and I just saw him and Juliet having coffee.”

“Details.  What’s your plan for tonight?  You should be taking Cecilia.”

“She’s busy.”

“Not that busy that our affairs cone first.”

“It’s not that important.  I’m sure when she’s finished, she’ll be crashing the party.  But, in any case, there is no plan.  I’m not sure whether I want to interrogate her, or just play along.  Where’s Larry?”

“Still in Sorrento.”

“You will tell me the moment he leaves?”

“Of course.  If you want me to take care of the woman and the Frenchman, let me know.”

“Won’t that alert Larry that we’re on to him?”

“Possibly, but people disappear here all the time.”

“I don’t think we need to be that drastic.  Yes.  Let’s see what happens tonight.”

“Have fun then “

I was not sure who I had to worry about the most.  Rodby or Larry.  They both seemed overly obsessive.

…

© Charles Heath 2022

A to Z – April – 2026 – S

S is for – Speaking of the dead

…

There was no point in asking Jack.

He was the witness who had fourteen different answers for the same situation; in fact, it changed every time you asked him.

I used to think that he did it deliberately, that it was his way of avoiding responsibility, and it worked.  No one asked him to do anything or asked his opinion, and that threw all of it on me, the younger and only sibling.

For that reason, I left home as soon as I could.   Away from my parents, who expected so much, and my brother, who was oblivious to the problems he was causing me.

Of course, there was always going to be something to drag me back to that place.

Very early on a Saturday morning, the one day I got to sleep in, the cell phone rang at the ungodly hour of 5:03 am.  I remember the time because I also remembered who was calling.

My brother Jack.

I was not in a good mood.  “What?”

“Fine way to talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.  Don’t call me again.”  And then I disconnected the call.

I made the fatal mistake of not switching off the phone.

5:07am.  Jack.  He was going to keep calling.  I sighed, got out of bed, picked up the phone and pressed the green answer button.

“Make it quick, I’m missing out on a much-earned sleep-in.”

“OK, if that’s the way you want it.  Mum and Dad are dead.”

Jack was the original little boy who cried wolf.

“Of course they are.  Are you sure they’re not at the mall shopping?”  He had tried this story once before.  He had half the town in uproar until they found him having coffee at a small cafe, and somehow made it all my fault.  As usual.

“No.  They would have told me.”

“They never tell you anything because you never can relay anything correctly.  Just hang tight, they’ll be home soon enough.”

“They’ve been gone a week, nearly eight days.  I think they’re dead.”

More than likely, they’d gone on a holiday, told him, and he’d forgotten or got it jumbled up in that complicated mind of his.  “There’s nothing wrong with them.  They will be back.”

I hung up, this time switching off the phone, and went back to bed.

…

It was never going to end there.  Nothing that involved Jack did, and his calling had brought all the bad memories flooding back, bad enough that there was no point going back to sleep.

I had to wonder if, after all these years, my parents finally decided they’d had enough of him and just left.  Certainly, the last time I had seen my mother, she was at the end of her tether.  They had come to visit me in the big city, as they called it, and I got the impression that being away was a relief.

I tried calling my mother’s phone, and it rang out.  It was charged, and on, not the state I’d expect if something had happened to her.  My father didn’t have a phone; he said they were the devil’s toys to seduce us, and there were times when I agreed with him.

An hour later, my cell phone rang again.  An unknown number.  Usually, I didn’t answer them, but for some odd reason, I did.

“Richard Westly?”

“Yes.”

“Sheriff Jackson, Black Ridge County Sheriff’s Department.  I assume you live in the old house at the end of Bridge Street?”

“I did.  Haven’t been there for a dozen years or so.  Why?”

Earlier this morning, the next-door neighbour came over to check on them and found the house broken into, and all three occupants were dead.  We believe all three are victims of foul play.”

“All three?”

“Your father, your mother, and your brother Jack.”

“When did they die?  When did Jack die?  Does anyone know?”

“The medical examiner is here, and the preliminary assessment is that they have been dead between four and seven days.”

“Jack too?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible.   I was just speaking to him about an hour ago.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

“Anyone can have a bad day” – a short story

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 was longer than usual, I got home late to find the building’s security system malfunctioning, and after everything that could have gone 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 felt stuffy, so 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 realised 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 localised blackout, or perhaps a brownout. We had been having problems across the city with the 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 that it was a burner may have had something to do with it.

About to 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 that the battery was depleted. I noticed then, although 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 recognise 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 by 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 of 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 slammed 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 popped 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 allows 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 realised 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 the 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 bed very soon.

“You tell me?”

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

“The simple truth is 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 there.”

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 had happened, and then, all of a sudden, I couldn’t breathe.

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

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

© Charles Heath 2021-2025

‘What Sets Us Apart’ – A beta reader’s view

There’s something to be said for a story that starts like a James Bond movie, throwing you straight in the deep end, a perfect way of getting to know the main character, David, or is that Alistair?

A retired spy, well, not so much a spy as a retired errand boy, David’s rather wry description of his talents, and a woman that most men would give their left arm for, not exactly the ideal couple, but there is a spark in a meeting that may or may not have been a setup.

But as the story progressed, the question I kept asking myself was why he’d bother.

And, page after unrelenting page, you find out.

Susan is exactly the sort of woman to pique his interest.  Then, inexplicably, she disappears.  That might have been the end of it, but Prendergast, that shadowy enigma, David’s ex-boss who loves playing games with real people, gives him an ultimatum: find her or come back to work.

Nothing like an offer that’s a double-edged sword!

A dragon for a mother, a sister he didn’t know about, Susan’s BFF who is not what she seems or a friend indeed, and Susan’s father, who, up till David meets her, couldn’t be less interested, his nemesis proves to be the impossible dream, and he’s always just that one step behind.

When the rollercoaster finally came to a halt, and I could start breathing again, it was an ending that was completely unexpected.

I’ve been told there’s a sequel in the works.

Bring it on!

…

The book can be purchased here:  http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

…

A to Z – April – 2026 – S

S is for – Speaking of the dead

…

There was no point in asking Jack.

He was the witness who had fourteen different answers for the same situation; in fact, it changed every time you asked him.

I used to think that he did it deliberately, that it was his way of avoiding responsibility, and it worked.  No one asked him to do anything or asked his opinion, and that threw all of it on me, the younger and only sibling.

For that reason, I left home as soon as I could.   Away from my parents, who expected so much, and my brother, who was oblivious to the problems he was causing me.

Of course, there was always going to be something to drag me back to that place.

Very early on a Saturday morning, the one day I got to sleep in, the cell phone rang at the ungodly hour of 5:03 am.  I remember the time because I also remembered who was calling.

My brother Jack.

I was not in a good mood.  “What?”

“Fine way to talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.  Don’t call me again.”  And then I disconnected the call.

I made the fatal mistake of not switching off the phone.

5:07am.  Jack.  He was going to keep calling.  I sighed, got out of bed, picked up the phone and pressed the green answer button.

“Make it quick, I’m missing out on a much-earned sleep-in.”

“OK, if that’s the way you want it.  Mum and Dad are dead.”

Jack was the original little boy who cried wolf.

“Of course they are.  Are you sure they’re not at the mall shopping?”  He had tried this story once before.  He had half the town in uproar until they found him having coffee at a small cafe, and somehow made it all my fault.  As usual.

“No.  They would have told me.”

“They never tell you anything because you never can relay anything correctly.  Just hang tight, they’ll be home soon enough.”

“They’ve been gone a week, nearly eight days.  I think they’re dead.”

More than likely, they’d gone on a holiday, told him, and he’d forgotten or got it jumbled up in that complicated mind of his.  “There’s nothing wrong with them.  They will be back.”

I hung up, this time switching off the phone, and went back to bed.

…

It was never going to end there.  Nothing that involved Jack did, and his calling had brought all the bad memories flooding back, bad enough that there was no point going back to sleep.

I had to wonder if, after all these years, my parents finally decided they’d had enough of him and just left.  Certainly, the last time I had seen my mother, she was at the end of her tether.  They had come to visit me in the big city, as they called it, and I got the impression that being away was a relief.

I tried calling my mother’s phone, and it rang out.  It was charged, and on, not the state I’d expect if something had happened to her.  My father didn’t have a phone; he said they were the devil’s toys to seduce us, and there were times when I agreed with him.

An hour later, my cell phone rang again.  An unknown number.  Usually, I didn’t answer them, but for some odd reason, I did.

“Richard Westly?”

“Yes.”

“Sheriff Jackson, Black Ridge County Sheriff’s Department.  I assume you live in the old house at the end of Bridge Street?”

“I did.  Haven’t been there for a dozen years or so.  Why?”

Earlier this morning, the next-door neighbour came over to check on them and found the house broken into, and all three occupants were dead.  We believe all three are victims of foul play.”

“All three?”

“Your father, your mother, and your brother Jack.”

“When did they die?  When did Jack die?  Does anyone know?”

“The medical examiner is here, and the preliminary assessment is that they have been dead between four and seven days.”

“Jack too?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible.   I was just speaking to him about an hour ago.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

‘The Devil You Don’t’ – A beta reader’s view

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

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

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

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

What should have been solace after disappointment turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything 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

…

The cinema of my dreams – It all started in Venice – Episode 8

Cecilia and Juliet – trouble

…

How do you run into someone by accident, or randomly when it is neither an accident or random?

There was that problem of looking obvious, that it was staged, that, well you get the idea.

O was hoping staying at the same hotel on the same floor would solve the problem, but when I thought about it, living in Venice, why would I be staying in a hotel?

There was that unofficial reason I’d told Cecilia, that I was renovating, just in case of prying ears, but I was a bit slow in picking up on the new surveillance team Larry had out on Juliet, do he’d know what  I was up to, and if he informed Juliet, then it would ruin the surprise.

It all depended on whether or not the surveillance team was aware of who I was, which could be unlikely, given Giuseppe’s lack of recognition of my identity.  Larry’s mistrust of her might yet work to my advantage.

Then there was the name Juliet knew me by which was not the one Cecilia knew me, so I had to make sure that story was straight between us just in case she was with me when I ran into Juliet.

The trouble was, it was becoming a logistical nightmare.

So, it was rather a surprise when we finally did run into each other, in the restaurant the following morning after Cecilia arrived, and we were just sitting down.

I hadn’t seen Juliet, tucked away in a corner, not until she called out.  And I was with Cecilia, who was the consummate actor.

I heard my name and turned.  Cecilia looked over then sat.  I went over.

“What are you doing here, of all places?”

Was there a note of suspicion or surprise in her tone?

“I’m with an old friend, Cecilia, she’s in Venice for the film festival.  She’s an actor you know.  I didn’t until she called me.”

Juliet gave Cecilia the once over, then looked back at me.  I could see the unspoken question, ‘you still haven’t answered the question’.

“She needed a place to stay and my place is a renovator’s nightmare, so I decided to stay here with her for the duration.”

“Together?”

Not the first thing I expected from her.

“No, separate rooms.  She’s a bit above my pay grade.”

“Oh.”

“We’re off to the festival, she’s agreed to show me around, but if you’re free tonight perhaps we could meet up?  Dumb question, but what are you doing here?”

“I’m staying here.”

“Are you.  No surprise, of course, it’s a good hotel.  I guess we have the same taste in hotels.  Good to see you again, but I’d better go.”

I’d looked around a few times and Cecilia was making to sort of gestures an impatient movie star, ex-girlfriend type might make.

“You’d better go.  I’ll think about it.”

I could see her, ‘this is not a coincidence, look in her eyes and thought it oddly amusing.

Back at the table where Cecilia was waiting, she had been looking covertly in Juliet’s direction.  I sat down.

“She an old girlfriend, or something?”

“Or something.”

“You can tell.  I could feel the death stare.”

“That train left the station a long time ago.”

“Then someone forgot to tell her.  That whole encounter seemed very odd from where I’m sitting.”

“It was.  I asked her for dinner, but I’m not expecting a reply.  It caught me off guard.”

“Then a small suggestion, get your head back in the game.”

She was right.  Catching me by surprise put me on the back foot, and being so meant that the distraction could cause trouble.  I could remember back to the old days, and the training instructor’s words, ‘it only takes a fraction of a second, and you’re dead’.

He was right, it had happened once and I barely survived, coincidentally just before the first time I met Juliet.  That incident kept me vulnerable, a feeling I had hated at the time.

I glanced over at Cecilia, submersed in a text exchange on her cell phone, the conversation playing out in expressions, one of which was quite dark.

But, nevertheless, at least one of us was prepared.  I wondered if Rodby had spoken to her.  He knew of my association with Juliet, before Violetta, and the effect it had on me, especially after the mission that had almost left me broken.

And that, I thought, was another reason for my momentary loss of control; the effect she had on me when I was not prepared, not like the last encounter.  Taking me by surprise, she could still bring those old feelings to the surface, feelings I didn’t want to deal with.  I was still getting over the loss of Violetta which until this moment I had thought I was in a good place.

The text exchange ended.

“Trouble in paradise?” I asked.

“Men can be such idiots sometimes.”

“I know.  Who is he and do you want me to deal with him?”

“A pleasant thought, but no.  I can do that, but you might have to deal with Juliet by yourself.  Oh, she’s coming over.”

By the time I looked up, she was next to me.  “Tonight, here.  Bring your friend if you like.”  Juliet gave her a meaningful glare.

“Sorry, got to attend to man troubles.”

“Sorry to hear that.”  Back to me.

“Eight OK?”

“Fine.  See you then “

I watched her leave the restaurant, not sure what she hoped to gain other than once again to put me on the back foot.

“She has surveillance, the girl who looks like a librarian on holiday, by the door.”

I’d seen her before.  “There’ll be another.  Larry seriously doesn’t trust Juliet.”

“Of course.  French guy, pink shirt, so obvious you’d not think it was him.  Watch yourself.  I have to go for a while but don’t worry, I can find you later.  We need to talk about tonight.”

“Yes.  Later, then.”

…

© Charles Heath 2022

A to Z – April – 2026 – R

R is for – Release

…

I woke up that morning believing it would be the first day of the rest of my life.

I stretched and luxuriated in the comfort and warmth of the bed, after a dozen years of suffering a very hard, uncomfortable, cold cot, if it could be called that.

Prison life had been harsh. Being unjustly imprisoned had been harsher, and the years of battling to have the evidence that finally exonerated me finally paid off.

Release.

Perhaps it was not a coincidence that the day I stepped out of the prison was the day the snow started, the first of the season, bringing with it the winter chill. I would not have survived another winter in that place.

Perhaps it was also not a coincidence that the ex-girlfriend of the man I had supposedly murdered in a jealous rage arrived on my doorstep the same day I was released. It was her evidence, circumstantial at best, but convincingly relayed in the courtroom, a performance even the newspapers said was worthy of an Academy Award.

She still firmly believed I was guilty, evidence or not, and that I would be damned to hell.

That might be true, but not from the so-called murder of her ex-boyfriend, but the deeds I had to do to survive in what could only be described as hell on earth. I tried to tell her that I’d paid my dues, as unjust as they were, and that was the end of it. She had got her pound of flesh.

The parents of the ex-boyfriend were not as unforgiving and wished me well. They had never believed that I was guilty, no surprises because their son and I had been the best of friends from a very early age, when they moved into the house next door.

Those years were gone, as was the house, and everything else. It had been burned to the ground by a bunch of vigilantes riled up by Samantha, who marched on the house just before my arrest. Nobody was blamed for the deaths of my parents, caught in the fire, but the judge did admonish Samantha in a monologue that all but handed the blame to her. It was, he said, going to be a battle for her conscience.

Now I had nothing.

My lawyer said it was a clean slate, and to put what I needed into a backpack, and get on the first train out of town. There was nothing for me, no reason to stay.

The very thought in my mind when I woke and looked out at the sea of white, and the steady downfall of snow drifting down from the sky. The forecast was snow for a day or so, then clearing. It would halt the trains, so I would be here for at least another day.

Enough time for Samantha to round up another mob and come burn down the hotel.

That was reason enough not to get out of bed.

Except…

The phone beside the bed rang, one that had a shrill insistence about it.

I slipped out from under the covers, shivered slightly in the cool morning air, then picked up the receiver.

“Yes?”

“There’s a Miss Whales here to see you.”

Miss Whales. It was a name that lurked on the fringe of my memory, in the life before prison section, and was not quite coming to me.

“Did she state her business?” I assumed it was a reporter here to get my story, one that they were hoping, no doubt, I would be suing the state for false imprisonment.

“No, but she is insistent she sees you.”

“OK. I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”

…

During the time it took to throw on some warm clothes, I ran the name through my recollection of people I’d met, and her name didn’t come up. I expect she was a reporter, or perhaps a junior from a law practice looking to get me to hire them for the law case against the state.

I took the stairs; it was only two floors worth, and I needed to warm up. For some reason, the passageways and then the foyer felt cold. The front desk clerk saw me step off the last stair and nodded over towards the fireplace, where some large logs were burning.

Sitting on one of the chairs was a woman, about my age, who looked like someone’s mother. I had no doubt she would appear to be disarming and polite, but then strike like a cobra. It was how I came to view both Lawyers and reporters.

She had seen me coming from the stairs and stood as I approached.

“Mr Peverell?”

“You could hardly mistake me for anyone else.” Maybe not the first words I would have said, but I was still tired and steeling myself for a pitch.

I saw her mentally brush aside my attitude and smile. “How are you this morning, not that the weather is being polite.” I saw her glance outside through the large panoramic windows. The carpark was slowly disappearing.

“Not the sort of day to be out on a whim,” I said. I still couldn’t place her.

“No, indeed. Please,” she motioned to a chair by the fire, two together.

I sat. She sat, then arranged the layers. It had to be quite warm with the coat she was wearing. She had removed the fake fur hat. It actually looked good on her.

“What is so pressing that you had to see me?”

“I need your help.”

“How could I possibly help you or anyone with anything. You do realise I have just spent twelve years locked away from the real world. I’m lucky to remember my name, let alone anything else.”

Yes, the warden and his officers had tried very hard to take everything from all the other prisoners, some of whom would never get out of that prison.

“Of course. But let me introduce myself. My name is Bettina Whales. I’m a private investigator, and I have been commissioned to find out who murdered David Lloyd-Smythe.”

Odd, but then, it just occurred to me that now I was exonerated, the real killer was still out there. It had been on my mind briefly the day before, but I decided I was over it. The murder had robbed me of 12 years of my life. Enough was enough.

But there was an element of curiosity. “By whom?”

“Your wife, of course.”

I shook my head. She had dumped me so fast once I was arrested, it made my head spin. Of course, her parents had probably kidnapped her and kept her prisoner from the day I was arrested until yesterday, but I thought if there was a way she could just tell me why she had abandoned me, it might have been tolerable, but she didn’t.

I had decided long ago that she was gone, and I would never see her again.

I shook my head. “I don’t believe you. You are here for some other reason; one I’m not going to like.”

She smiled. “She said you’d say that. And I’ll admit when she explained why you would, I had to say I agreed with you. But she can tell you herself. She’s right over there, coming in the door.”

I stood, faced her, and watched mesmerised. Twelve years had not aged her, not like they had me, and she still had that ability to take my breath away. And she still could command a room simply by walking through it. All eyes, and particularly the men, were on her.

Then she was in front of me. That loose way of standing, the smile, the disarming manner.

“You thought I had forgotten you?”

“I didn’t know what to think, other than a part of me had died.”

“And I am sorry about that, but you know my parents. I had to disappear, lest shame be brought upon the family. Been in Europe, in a castle no less. It took me an age to find the people running your case to get you out, and then I had to surreptitiously hire an army of lawyers. The lady behind is the one who found the evidence that got you off. She’s the best of the best. Now we’re going after the person who put you there, the real killer.”

Just like in the old days, the take-charge girl, even if you didn’t want to do anything. She, like her father, had no ‘off’ button.

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Don’t be silly, Pev.” She looked at the private investigator. “Get yourself a room if you haven’t already. Pev and I had things to talk about.” She looked back at me. “I can see you threw something on, so we can go back to your room and talk. Or whatever.” She took my hand. “We have twelve years to catch up. Then we’re going to hunt down the bastard that took you away from me. Miss me?”

I gave her hand a squeeze. “I did.”

She smiled. “Good. I hope you have a good room.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026

“Can I help you?” – A short story

I had once said that Grand Central Station, in New York, was large enough that you could get lost in it.  Especially if you were from out of town.

I know, I was from out of town, and though I didn’t quite get lost, back then I had to ask directions to go where I needed to.

It was also an awe-inspiring place, and whenever I had a spare moment, usually at lunchtime, I would go there and just soak in the atmosphere. It was large enough to make a list of places to visit, find, or take a photograph of from some of the more obscure locations.

Today, I was just there to work off a temper. Things had gone badly at work, and even though I hadn’t done anything wrong, I still felt bad about it.

I came in the 42nd Street entrance and went up to the balcony that overlooked the main concourse. A steady stream of people was coming and going, most purposefully, a few were loitering, and several police officers were attempting to move on a vagrant. It was not the first time.

But one person caught my eye, a young woman who had made a circuit of the hall, looked at nearly every destination board, and appeared to be confused. It was the same as I had felt when I first arrived.

Perhaps I could help.

The problem was that a man approaching a woman from out of left field would have a very creepy vibe to it, so it was probably best left alone.

After another half-hour of watching the world go by, I had finally got past the bad mood and headed back to work. I did a wide sweep of the main concourse, perhaps more for the exercise than anything else, and had reached the clock in the centre of the concourse when someone turned suddenly and I crashed into them.

Not badly, like ending up on the floor, but enough for a minor jolt. Of course, it was my fault because I was in another world at that particular moment.

“Oh, I am sorry.” A woman’s voice, very apologetic.

I was momentarily annoyed, then, when I saw who it was, it passed. It was the lost woman I’d seen earlier.

“No. Not your fault, but mine entirely. I have a habit of wandering around with my mind elsewhere.”

Was it fate that we should meet like this?

I noticed she was looking around, much the same as she had before.

“Can I help you?”

“Perhaps you can. There’s supposed to be a bar that dates back to the prohibition era here somewhere. Campbell’s Apartment, or something like that. I was going to ask…”

“Sure. It’s not that hard to find if you know where it is. I’ll take you.”

It made for a good story, especially when I related it to the grandchildren, because the punch line was, “and that’s how I met your grandmother.”

© Charles Heath 2020-2025

A to Z – April – 2026 – R

R is for – Release

…

I woke up that morning believing it would be the first day of the rest of my life.

I stretched and luxuriated in the comfort and warmth of the bed, after a dozen years of suffering a very hard, uncomfortable, cold cot, if it could be called that.

Prison life had been harsh. Being unjustly imprisoned had been harsher, and the years of battling to have the evidence that finally exonerated me finally paid off.

Release.

Perhaps it was not a coincidence that the day I stepped out of the prison was the day the snow started, the first of the season, bringing with it the winter chill. I would not have survived another winter in that place.

Perhaps it was also not a coincidence that the ex-girlfriend of the man I had supposedly murdered in a jealous rage arrived on my doorstep the same day I was released. It was her evidence, circumstantial at best, but convincingly relayed in the courtroom, a performance even the newspapers said was worthy of an Academy Award.

She still firmly believed I was guilty, evidence or not, and that I would be damned to hell.

That might be true, but not from the so-called murder of her ex-boyfriend, but the deeds I had to do to survive in what could only be described as hell on earth. I tried to tell her that I’d paid my dues, as unjust as they were, and that was the end of it. She had got her pound of flesh.

The parents of the ex-boyfriend were not as unforgiving and wished me well. They had never believed that I was guilty, no surprises because their son and I had been the best of friends from a very early age, when they moved into the house next door.

Those years were gone, as was the house, and everything else. It had been burned to the ground by a bunch of vigilantes riled up by Samantha, who marched on the house just before my arrest. Nobody was blamed for the deaths of my parents, caught in the fire, but the judge did admonish Samantha in a monologue that all but handed the blame to her. It was, he said, going to be a battle for her conscience.

Now I had nothing.

My lawyer said it was a clean slate, and to put what I needed into a backpack, and get on the first train out of town. There was nothing for me, no reason to stay.

The very thought in my mind when I woke and looked out at the sea of white, and the steady downfall of snow drifting down from the sky. The forecast was snow for a day or so, then clearing. It would halt the trains, so I would be here for at least another day.

Enough time for Samantha to round up another mob and come burn down the hotel.

That was reason enough not to get out of bed.

Except…

The phone beside the bed rang, one that had a shrill insistence about it.

I slipped out from under the covers, shivered slightly in the cool morning air, then picked up the receiver.

“Yes?”

“There’s a Miss Whales here to see you.”

Miss Whales. It was a name that lurked on the fringe of my memory, in the life before prison section, and was not quite coming to me.

“Did she state her business?” I assumed it was a reporter here to get my story, one that they were hoping, no doubt, I would be suing the state for false imprisonment.

“No, but she is insistent she sees you.”

“OK. I’ll be down in fifteen minutes.”

…

During the time it took to throw on some warm clothes, I ran the name through my recollection of people I’d met, and her name didn’t come up. I expect she was a reporter, or perhaps a junior from a law practice looking to get me to hire them for the law case against the state.

I took the stairs; it was only two floors worth, and I needed to warm up. For some reason, the passageways and then the foyer felt cold. The front desk clerk saw me step off the last stair and nodded over towards the fireplace, where some large logs were burning.

Sitting on one of the chairs was a woman, about my age, who looked like someone’s mother. I had no doubt she would appear to be disarming and polite, but then strike like a cobra. It was how I came to view both Lawyers and reporters.

She had seen me coming from the stairs and stood as I approached.

“Mr Peverell?”

“You could hardly mistake me for anyone else.” Maybe not the first words I would have said, but I was still tired and steeling myself for a pitch.

I saw her mentally brush aside my attitude and smile. “How are you this morning, not that the weather is being polite.” I saw her glance outside through the large panoramic windows. The carpark was slowly disappearing.

“Not the sort of day to be out on a whim,” I said. I still couldn’t place her.

“No, indeed. Please,” she motioned to a chair by the fire, two together.

I sat. She sat, then arranged the layers. It had to be quite warm with the coat she was wearing. She had removed the fake fur hat. It actually looked good on her.

“What is so pressing that you had to see me?”

“I need your help.”

“How could I possibly help you or anyone with anything. You do realise I have just spent twelve years locked away from the real world. I’m lucky to remember my name, let alone anything else.”

Yes, the warden and his officers had tried very hard to take everything from all the other prisoners, some of whom would never get out of that prison.

“Of course. But let me introduce myself. My name is Bettina Whales. I’m a private investigator, and I have been commissioned to find out who murdered David Lloyd-Smythe.”

Odd, but then, it just occurred to me that now I was exonerated, the real killer was still out there. It had been on my mind briefly the day before, but I decided I was over it. The murder had robbed me of 12 years of my life. Enough was enough.

But there was an element of curiosity. “By whom?”

“Your wife, of course.”

I shook my head. She had dumped me so fast once I was arrested, it made my head spin. Of course, her parents had probably kidnapped her and kept her prisoner from the day I was arrested until yesterday, but I thought if there was a way she could just tell me why she had abandoned me, it might have been tolerable, but she didn’t.

I had decided long ago that she was gone, and I would never see her again.

I shook my head. “I don’t believe you. You are here for some other reason; one I’m not going to like.”

She smiled. “She said you’d say that. And I’ll admit when she explained why you would, I had to say I agreed with you. But she can tell you herself. She’s right over there, coming in the door.”

I stood, faced her, and watched mesmerised. Twelve years had not aged her, not like they had me, and she still had that ability to take my breath away. And she still could command a room simply by walking through it. All eyes, and particularly the men, were on her.

Then she was in front of me. That loose way of standing, the smile, the disarming manner.

“You thought I had forgotten you?”

“I didn’t know what to think, other than a part of me had died.”

“And I am sorry about that, but you know my parents. I had to disappear, lest shame be brought upon the family. Been in Europe, in a castle no less. It took me an age to find the people running your case to get you out, and then I had to surreptitiously hire an army of lawyers. The lady behind is the one who found the evidence that got you off. She’s the best of the best. Now we’re going after the person who put you there, the real killer.”

Just like in the old days, the take-charge girl, even if you didn’t want to do anything. She, like her father, had no ‘off’ button.

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Don’t be silly, Pev.” She looked at the private investigator. “Get yourself a room if you haven’t already. Pev and I had things to talk about.” She looked back at me. “I can see you threw something on, so we can go back to your room and talk. Or whatever.” She took my hand. “We have twelve years to catch up. Then we’re going to hunt down the bastard that took you away from me. Miss me?”

I gave her hand a squeeze. “I did.”

She smiled. “Good. I hope you have a good room.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025-2026