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.

…

Did it upset me that Boggs was a little snarky?  Yes, a bit.

We’d been friends for a long time, the sort who had stuck together at school to keep arm’s length from the bullies and work together on projects and homework.  That friendship had become more important after his father disappeared, and I had believed he appreciated it.

Until this treasure thing.

It hadn’t been there, looking over everything.  The fact of the matter was he had been too young to understand any of it, and his mother wisely kept the extended details of her husband’s obsession away from him, and it was quite by chance he stumbled over his father’s effects in the attic.

Had she destroyed that stuff then perhaps we’d all not in this position?

Life had been more predictable, we avoided Alex and Vince, Nadia was nowhere to be seen, and life just rolled along in unemployed heaven.  Of course, that would have had to change, as it had, because my mother couldn’t continue to support a son in his late teens, and at that age, I should have been looking for both work, and to move on with my life.

The state of the economy, and the town’s fortunes, made that difficult, and I guess it would have been a matter of time before I left, like nearly all of my contemporaries had to the bigger towns and cities for more opportunities.

Benderby and the factory had staved that off, for now.

Other than that, I was rather pleased with the job I had, not too taxing, amenable hours so I could do other stuff, and although the only downside was working with Alex, all I had to do was avoid him, and the warehouse was a large building.

I went home to change and found my mother there, sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of coffee.

“You’re home early,” I said when I saw her.

“On a break.  Had to go to the bank, and it wasn’t much further to come here.  Muriel tells me you’ve been talking to Nadia Cossatino.”

Talking to Nadia to her was the same as spending time with her.  And to my mother, the Cossatino’s were public enemies, close to the number one.

“You taught me to be polite and speak when spoken to.”

It was always good to quote her rules back to her when she was trying to admonish me.

“You know what the Cossatino’s are, Sam.”

“She doesn’t act like one, not now.”

“You know why they sent her away, don’t you?”

Sent away?  That was not what I heard, but then, as a so-called child, what we were told and what was reality were two entirely different things.

“I thought I did, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me the grown-up reason?”

“She stabbed a girl, and instead of going to juvenile detention, they sent her home to Italy where she couldn’t get into any more trouble.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did she stab another girl?”

“Do the Cossatino’s need reasons for what they do?  She’s not a very nice person, nor are the family very nice people.  Remember that the next time you see her.”

“She’s nice to me, and I prefer to be polite.  But I’ll take what you said and be careful.”

That said, I was dismissed, lecture given.

I changed and came back to pack a meal for the evening break.  Mother was still sitting at the table.

“I thought you’d be on your way back to work.”

“Not going back today.  I’m not feeling very well.  How is the job going?  I never get to see much of you these days.”

“I’m helping Boggs when I can.”

“Isn’t he on that treasure trail his father started?”

“Yes.  He found a box of his stuff in the attic, and we’ve been trying to make sense of it.”

“There is none.   There was no treasure, just a bunch of maps Boggs’s father made for the Cossatino’s to con people out of their money.”

“What about Ormiston?”

“He was a bigger fool than Boggs.  You don’t want to be humoring Boggs with such nonsense.  You concentrate on doing your job properly and let him follow his father down that rabbit hole.  I feel sorry for Muriel, having two of her family sucked into that mess.”

“And what if it is real?”

She gave me a look that told me the only thing that was real would be her wrath if I persisted with it.  “OK,” I said.  “I’ll try and reason with him, and get him to give it up.”

It was then I noticed the flowers over by the window, a very expensive-looking bouquet in an ornate vase.

“Do you have a secret admirer?”

She looked a little puzzled, then realized what I was talking about.

“Joshua sent them over, thought it might cheer me up.”

Joshua was Alex Benderby’s father, my employer.  Odd that he would be sending my mother flowers.  We were not anywhere near his social circle.

“He’s a kind man, Sam, and we have been friends since school.  I could do with some cheering up.”

I was not sure what she meant by that, but I hope it didn’t mean he would come visiting.  Knowing Benderby was a curse, not a benefit, and I hoped my job wasn’t contingent on her being nice to him.

I shuddered at the thought, said no more, and left for work.

My job was supposed to be my sanctuary, where I could get away from home, the depressive nature of living in the town, and Boggs and his treasure hunt.

It wasn’t an escape from Alex, and not only did he work in the same building, but treated it as his fiefdom, and resented the fact I’d ‘wormed’ my way into his domain.

Under that boastful and arrogant exterior, he really was just an insecure little boy.

But very, very dangerous.

He was leaving when I arrived, having switched from night shift to day, a blessing.  His alternate for the night shift was an uncaring old man who was approaching retirement and didn’t want anything to screw up his exit.

He let me do whatever I wanted so long as it didn’t blow back on him, and I took extra care not to cause offense, or raise any flags.  Stuff came in, stuff went out, the stock register was up to date, and nothing ran out.

It was as simple as that, and even so, Alex still couldn’t get it right so we covered for him.

Alex stopped at the door on the way out, a bad sign.

“You want to tell that clown of a friend, Boggs, to stop poking around the caves.  They’re not a place for amateurs.”

“I didn’t know he was poking around the caves.  Nor that you were.  Any particular reason?”

“It’s called spelunking, dimwit.”

I knew that but wasn’t going to make an issue of it.  He was lucky he could pronounce it let alone know what it was.

“They’re just caves, Alex, with nothing more than a few limestone pinnacles, and bat shit on the floor.  Unless, of course, you think the pirate captain hid his treasure in one of them.  I can’t see how, or why.  They’re a long way from the coast.”

“We’re not looking for treasure.  It doesn’t exist.”

“Then why warn Boggs off?”

He shook his head.  “You’re as daft in the head as he is.  Just tell him not to get in my way.”

With that, he was gone.  A huge sigh of relief, and a long peaceful night ahead of me.

Until the phone rang.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

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

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

And, so, it continues…

…

Jackerby came back and sat down.  It was clear he was annoyed his lunch was interrupted.

“Atherton’s not among those Leonardo brought back.”

Johannsen silently breathed a sigh of relief.  While he was still outside there was hope he would not get hurt.  If he had the sense to keep his head down.  Anyone else, Johannesen would not have cared.

“Who did Leonardo bring in?”

“Some woman called Martina, the one he says is in charge of the resistance.  He said he raided their last stronghold, killed everyone except the three people he knew were in the resistance.  They’re now in the dungeons.”

“We should be down there asking questions.”  A pointed glare from Wallace carried the message, what are you doing here?

“No use.  He nearly killed them, and it’ll take a while for them to recover.”

“To find out where Atherton is?”

“It seems that was the least of his concerns.  Apparently, she apparently humiliated him so he was more interested in payback.”

“It wouldn’t be hard to humiliate a fool like him,” Johannsen muttered.

Wallace glared at him.  “You should have more faith in our Italian friends, Richard.”

“My faith in him extends only to the fact he will drink the cellar dry.”

Wallace shrugged.  “Once he’s served his purpose…” and left it at that.  “Have you got onto London and asked them for further information on Mayer?”

“I think, by now, they would have tumbled to what’s going on here.  Especially after I saw Atherton come out of the radio room just before Jackerby arrived.  I asked the operator, and he gave me a coded message, but it’s not like any code I’ve seen.”

“And you’re telling me this now?”

“At least he didn’t smash it, which is what I would have done.  We haven’t heard any more from High Command other than to say the traitor was thought to be heading for Innsbruck and coming over the mountains near the Brenner Pass.  They’ve got people looking, but nothing as yet.”

“Now we’ve lost Carmichael, do we have a description of him?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  At least something is happening.”


After lunch, Johannsson went down to the dungeon to check on the prisoners.  Wallace had assigned their ‘welfare’ to him.  It was a difficult assignment seeing they arrived both exhausted, weak, and then subjected to an initial interrogation that determined whether or not they got medicines or food.

Most were left to starve.  Any women were sent to the soldier’s barracks, where they were out of his control.  None had ever come back, and he was ordered not to go check on them.

All told, there were 12 still in cells, with three due to be executed later that day.  All had worked in an armaments factory and had admitted to having information about the bombs that were being dropped over England.

Another six had yet to say what information they had, and had been subjected to severe torture, the handiwork of two of Jackerby’s men, and who Johannsen thought had been trained by the Gestapo.  In fact, he believed they were Gestapo, and that Jackerby, though he didn’t have the uniform, was a ranking SS officer.

Not a man to cross.  Leonardo would find that out soon enough.

The most recent three, the resistance fighters were put in separate cells next to each other.  The guards had been told to listen to any conversations they had, and report.  As yet, none of them had spoken.

Considering the condition they arrived in, that was no surprise.

He stood outside the cell holding the woman they called Martina.

The leader.

She hadn’t moved from the moment she had been dropped there.

A guard appeared beside him.

“Nothing yet?” Johansson asked him.

“I doubt they’ll speak again.  If that’s what Leonardo does to his so-called countrymen; I’d hate to see what he does to his enemies.”

“You let me know if she says anything.”

The soldier nodded, then went back to his station.

The other two were men, one old, one younger.  An odd group to be part of the resistance.  The woman he could understand and was the key. 

He now believed Atherton would come to rescue her.  Like any good British soldier, his empathy would be his downfall.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2023

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like.  For instance:

And the story:

It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.

The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.

He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent.  We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on.  Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.

Where was he going?

“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter.  He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing.  Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain.  He’s just sped up.”

“How far away?”

“A half-mile.  We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”

It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”

“Step on it.  Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do.  The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.

Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster.  We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.

Or so we thought.

Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility.  The car was empty, and no indication where he went.

Certainly not up the road.  It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit.  Up the mountainside from here, or down.

I looked up.  Nothing.

Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”

Then where did he go?

Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.

“Sorry,” he said quite calmly.  “Had to go if you know what I mean.”

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.

I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.

It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him.  It’s just a matter of time.”

© Charles Heath 2019-2021

Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe”  available soon.

I wandered back to my villa.

It was in darkness.  I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.

I looked up and saw the globe was broken.

Instant alert.

I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there.  I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either.  Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.

Who?

There were four hiding spots and all were empty.  Someone had removed the weapons.  That could only mean one possibility.

I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.

But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.

Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.

There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch.  One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage.  It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief.  It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.

It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely.  It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.

The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground.  I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side.  After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks.  It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that.  I’d left torches at either end so I could see.

I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch.  I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end.  I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door.  It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.

I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.

I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.

Silence, an eerie silence.

I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting.  There wasn’t.  It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.

I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was.  Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.

That raised the question of who told them where I was.

If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan.  The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental.  But I was not that man.

Or was I?

I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness.  My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void.  Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly.  A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.

Still nothing.

I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job.  I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.

Coming in the front door.  If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in.  One shot would be all that was required.

Contract complete.

I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door.  There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting.  It was an ideal spot to wait.

Crunch.

I stepped on some nutshells.

Not my nutshells.

I felt it before I heard it.  The bullet with my name on it.

And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea.  I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.

I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.

Two assassins.

I’d not expected that.

The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part.  The second was still breathing.

I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives.  Armed to the teeth!

I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian.  I was expecting a Russian.

I slapped his face, waking him up.  Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down.  The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally.  He was not long for this earth.

“Who employed you?”

He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile.  “Not today my friend.  You have made a very bad enemy.”  He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth.  “There will be more …”

Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.

I would have to leave.  Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess.  I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.

Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally.  I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.

A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved.  Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.

Until I heard a knock on my front door.

Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?

I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm.  I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.

If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation.  Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.

No police, just Maria.  I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.

“You left your phone behind on the table.  I thought you might be looking for it.”  She held it out in front of her.

When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”

I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”

I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.

“You need to go away now.”

Should I tell her the truth?  It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.

She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity.  “What happened?”

I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible.  I went with the truth.  “My past caught up with me.”

“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss.  It doesn’t look good.”

“I can fix it.  You need to leave.  It is not safe to be here with me.”

The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened.  She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.

I opened the door and let her in.  It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences.  Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge.  She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.

I expected her to scream.  She didn’t.

She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous.  Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about.  She would have to go to the police.

“What happened here?”

“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me.  I used to work for the Government, but no longer.  I suspect these men were here to repay a debt.  I was lucky.”

“Not so much, looking at your arm.”

She came closer and inspected it.

“Sit down.”

She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.

“Do you have medical supplies?”

I nodded.  “Upstairs.”  I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs.  Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.

She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back.  I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.

She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound.  Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet.  It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.

When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”

No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.

“Alisha?”

“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you.  She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”

“That was wrong of her to do that.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.  Will you call her?”

“Yes.  I can’t stay here now.  You should go now.  Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”

She smiled.  “As you say, I was never here.”

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2022

Here’s the thing…

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

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

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

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

…

Three a.m. is meant to be so quiet; you could hear your heart beating.

Ten to, all hell had broken loose when one of the conveyor belts broke, and a replacement was needed, and the engineers were on the clock.

Ten past, the hullabaloo had died down, and back at the desk, I was contemplating a long scotch to calm the nerves.  Drinking on the job was not condoned, but not unheard of.  I opened the drawer and looked at the bottle, then thought the better of it.

And, when I looked up, Nadia was standing in front of the desk.

She was as quiet as a ninja, and just as dangerous.

“Never a dull moment,” she said, dragging a chair over and sitting down.  “I got here a half hour ago and all hell was breaking loose.”

“Conveyor broke.  No one wants to see production stop or slide.  Too many questions.”

“Fixed?”

“Of course.”  I made a note to order a replacement.  Better to have two in store, just in case.

“How did you get in?”

Security was tight, not like it used to be, especially after what happened to me.

“I know the guards, they know I’m not a threat.”

I could beg to differ, but I was glad to see her.  “Did you know Alex was a caver?”

“A what?”

“One of those people who go scrambling through caves.”

“I doubt it.”

“He used the word spelunking.”

“Which is?”

“Exploring caves.”

“He’s no explorer, I bet he’s looking for the treasure.”

“And so has a million others before him.  I seriously doubt the treasure will be in a cave in the hills, which is where all the known caves are.  Of course, that doesn’t necessarily include the so-called underground river under the mall, but apparently isn’t.”

“You heard?”

“That the flooding was not necessarily the result of a flood of water from the mountains, yes.  A problem with the foundations, it has been suggested.”

“A fact Benderby is working overtime to cover up.”

Nadia seemed well informed.  I was guessing the Cossatino’s could see an opportunity to blackmail Benderby, if they had proof.  I wouldn’t put anything past them.

“You know something I don’t?”

“We always know something others don’t.”

“Have I got a dark secret?”

“That depends.” 

She smiled, and it worried me.

“Your mother and Joshua Benderby used to be very good friends when they were at school.”

Old news, well, not so old news, but if I hadn’t seen the flowers…

“What are you insinuating?”

“They had a fling before your mother realized what sort of a man he really was and picked your father instead.  But, from what I’m told, they were close, and there wasn’t a lot of time between the breakup and you coming along.”

Odd, but that was just the thought that entered my mind at the exact instant she said it.

“But, I look nothing like the Benderby’s.”

“Benderby didn’t look anything like his parents either, it’s a generational thing, so you might want to find a photo of his father and mother, you know, just to settle the nerves.  Or a DNA test.”

It was the last thing on my mind.  Imagine being a stepbrother to Alex.  Wouldn’t that get his nose out of joint, going from the only son and heir to sharing the mantle?  I was older than him, too, which gave me more of a claim on the fortune.

No.  Not a chance in the world.  There wouldn’t be enough money to assuage the horrors of that family.  It would be bad enough if they got together now, which wasn’t as unlikely as it sounded.  His wife had died, and he hadn’t remarried, or, for that matter, found someone else.  Yet.

“Have you come with any other news?”

“No.  Just a picnic basket.  I thought you might want a late, late supper.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022