An excerpt from “Sunday in New York”

Now available on Amazon at:  https://amzn.to/2H7ALs8

Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.

We met the Blaine’s at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaine’s frequently visited, and had recommended.

Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’.  It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.

It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over.  It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.

Aside from the half frown half-smile, Alison was looking stunning.  It was months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary.  On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to.  She had adored it, and me, for a week or so after.

For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.

She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars got on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds silence, and many more gasps.

Even I had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room.  Once more I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me.  Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others ‘out there’ who were more appealing.

Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight.  She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.

More than once I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”

Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together.  It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement.  Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.

The battle lines were drawn.

Jimmy was looking fashionable, with the permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it.  Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.

The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out she had straightened it.  And took the moment to look deeply into my soul.  It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.

Then it was gone.

I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me.  A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.

When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.”  It was not a question, but a statement.

I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’ but I accepted it with good grace.  Sometimes Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand.  I guessed she was talking about the new job.  “It was supposed to be a secret.”

She smiled widely.  “There are no secrets between Al and I, are there Al?”

I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.

I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al.  I tried it once and was admonished.  But it was interesting her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not.  It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.

Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil.  As I understood it, the Blaine’s were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in.  I didn’t ask if the Blaine’s thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.

And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realized I was looking at both of them.  I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand.  And yet, apparently, Alison did.  I must have missed the memo.

“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”

No secrets.  Her look conveyed something else entirely.

The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us.  It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me.  We were going to need it.

Then, a toast.

To a new job and a new life.

“When did you decide?”  Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.

Alison had a strange expression on her face.  It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind.  Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.

Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realized it would be churlish, even silly if I made a scene.  I knew what I wanted to say.  I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine, or upsetting Alison.  This was not the time or the place.  Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.

Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing.  If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decide there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control.  “It’s the little things.  They all add up until one day …”  I shrugged.  “I guess that one day was today.”

I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real?  Or; I told you he’d come around.

I had no idea the two were so close.

“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me.  I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points.  It was all I could come up with at short notice.

“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted.  “Alison was off to get some study in with one of her friends.”

“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up, and immediately got the ‘shut up you fool’ look, that cut that line of conversation dead.  Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.

It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose.  Care to join me, Al?”

A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend.  “Yes.”

I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation.  I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.

I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.

There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show.  I was quite literally gob-smacked.

I drained my champagne glass gathering some courage and turned to him.  “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up.  You know Alison is doing her law degree.”

He looked startled when he realized I had spoken.  He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed.  Or perhaps it was deliberate.  She’d definitely had some enhancements done.

He dragged his eyes back to me.  “Yes.  Elaine said something or other about it.  But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week.  Perhaps I got it wrong.  I usually do.”

“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”  I shrugged, as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again.  “This week or next, what does it matter?”

Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart.  It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; it was possible she was now telling me lies.  If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?

We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”

“Trouble, I suspect.  Definitely more money, but less time at home.”

“Oh,” raised eyebrows.  Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details.  “You sure you want to do that?”

At last the voice of reason.  “Me?  No.”

“Yet you accepted the job.”

I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him.  Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him.  “Jimmy, between you and me I haven’t as yet decided one way or another.  To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”

“Barclay?”

“My boss.”

“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay that recently moved in the tower a block down from us.  I thought I recognized the name.”

“How did Elaine get the job?”

“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”

“When?”

“A couple of months ago.  Why?”

I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker.  I felt sick, faint, and wanting to die all at the same moment.  “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time.  Too busy with work I expect.  I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”

I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted and I knew I had to keep it together.  I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down.  I sucked in some deep breaths, and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.

And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown.  Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”

Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth.  It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction.  It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.

When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and I.  I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, it didn’t matter.  If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact I took over the dining engagement did.  She knew well enough the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket.  She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.

But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points.  Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine.  She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.

Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly.  I chose to ignore her, and pretend nothing had happened, instead of telling her how much I was enjoying the evening.

She had her ‘secrets’.  I had mine.

At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me.  It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, Jimmy came looking for me.  I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse.  When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was but neither made any comment.

It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which to a large degree it was for the other three.  But I had achieved what I set out to do, and that was to play them at their own game, watching the deception, once I knew there was a deception, as warily as a cat watches its prey.

I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree.  It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.

We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaine’s back to the Upper West Side.  But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer.  She showed concern for my health, asked me what was wrong.  It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.

She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it.  Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.

And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.

It left me confused and lost.

I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.

And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

Sunday In New York

A score to settle – The Second Editor’s draft – Day 2

The time has come to work on the second draft for the editor, taking into account all of the suggested changes, and there are quite a few. So much for thinking I could put in an almost flawless manuscript.

The story, in the planning stages, has a secondary theme running, that of the players involved in the events leading up to the assault on our main character, one that his handler was not aware of.

Why was he marked for execution, along with his previous partner?

That’s another story, one that will be teased out in this secondary theme and will run full circle and have some bearing on what happens at the end of the story.

Or not.

I’m not sure I will include any of this, and it might just become part of a novella that will stand on its own. For the most part, a lot of this story is about, and driven by, people he’s never met, but know of him, and his work.

It would be too easy to say he saw something he shouldn’t, because that’s not the case. It has to do with people he has worked with and been responsible for in the past, and whether or not there had been a conversation, without understanding the relevance of what might have been discussed at the time.

That part is nebulous at best, and you can see why it might not make the final cut.

It simply depends on how the main story goes, and the word count at the end. The rough plan calls for about 80 chapters and about 70,000 words, but I’m not one for sticking to plans.

Today’s work centres around the partner his handler has chosen for him, one that he’s not going to like when he finds out, the target he’s been tasked to watch over, and the location of the conference.

Of course, getting back to work after what happened to him is not as easy as saying he’s fine, but getting him to admit it’s anything but fine will be like getting proverbial blood from a stone.

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

“Trouble in Store” – Short Stories My Way:  The re-write – Part 4

Now that I’ve gone through the story and made quite a few changes, it’s time to look at the story

Annalisa looked at the two men facing her.

Simmo, the boy on the floor, had told her that the shopkeeper would be a pushover, he was an old man who’d just hand over the drugs, rather than cause trouble for himself.

Where Simmo had discovered the shopkeeper’s true vocation, dispensing drugs to the neighbourhood addicts, she didn’t know, but it was not the first place like this they had visited.

She had always known Simmo had a problem, but he had assured her he had it under control.  Until a month ago, when he had tried something new.

It had changed him.

The breaking point came earlier that day when seeing how sick he was, she threatened to leave.  It brought out the monster within him, and he threatened to kill her.  Not long after he had changed into a whimpering child pleading with her to stay, that he hadn’t meant anything he’d said before.

All he needed was one more ‘score’ to get his ‘shit’ together, and he would do as she asked, and find help.

She believed him.

He said he knew a place not far from the apartment, a small shop where what he needed was available, and said he had the money.

That should have been the first sign he was not telling the truth because she had been funding his habit until her parents cut off the money supply.  She suspected her father had put a private detective on to find her, had, and reported back, and rather than make a scene, just cut her off so she would have to come home or starve.  Her father was no better than Simmo.

And, as soon as they stepped into the shop, Simmo pulled out the gun,

Instead of the shopkeeper cowering like Simmo said he would, he had laughed at them and told them to get out.  Simmo started ranting and waving the gun around, then all of a sudden collapsed.

There was a race for the gun which spilled out of Simmo’s hand, and she won.

That was just before the customer burst into the shop.

It had been shortly before closing time.  Simmo had said there would be no one else around.

Wrong again.

Now she had another problem to deal with, a man who was clearly as scared shitless as she was.

This was worse than any bad hair day or getting out of the wrong side of bed day, this was, she was convinced, the last day of her life.

She heard a strange sound come from beside her and looked down.  There was a trickle of blood coming out of his mouth and Simmo was making strange sounds like he was choking.

Any other time she might have been concerned, but the hard reality of it was, that Simmo was never going to change.  She was only surprised at the fact it took so long for her to realise it.

As for the man standing in front of her, she was safe from the shopkeeper with him around, so he would have to stay.

“No.  Stay.”

Another glance at the shopkeeper told her she had made the right decision; his expression said it all.  Gun or no gun, the moment she was alone with him, he would kill her.

© Charles Heath 2016-2024

A score to settle – The Second Editor’s draft – Day 3

The time has come to work on the second draft for the editor, taking into account all of the suggested changes, and there are quite a few. So much for thinking I could put in an almost flawless manuscript.

It’s a little more settled this morning, sitting down in front of the laptop and ready to go. The plan is in three different places, which is not what was meant to happen, but at various stages of the development process in the previous few weeks, I had to use different apps on my phone to make notes as ideas came to me.

If only Scrivener came on a Samsung phone!

But I will take the time to sit down and join the disparate pieces together, but as we all know that takes time, and time is of the essence.

So, today, it’s about the intermediate characters. The one I like the most is the police chief, an honest man working under a corrupt government, and military, knowing their foibles, and yet maintaining the ideal that the letter of the law will not be bent by his masters.

It makes for an interesting dynamic.

There are others, but these will be teased out as the story progresses, especially the girl in white who appears almost like an apparition.

Then, of course, there is the international media contingent in the city for the conference, of which some are not necessarily who they say they are.

‘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 realizes 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

“Oh, my, God!” – a short story


I was one of six people who answered a house-sitting ad.  What stood out was the money, as was intended.

When I arrived at the interview, held in an accountant’s office downtown, there was no suggestion that it was a trick, or that there were ulterior motives.

Just $5,000 for a week’s work.  Move-in, act as a security guard, and check all entrances and exits, and all rooms that had windows to the outside every four or so hours, particularly at night.

The reason?

The owner had to maintain residence in the house for the week, as he was going away, under a clause in the sale contract.  The reason for hiring civilians was that it was too expensive to get live-in people from a security company.

The owner freely admitted he was a cheapskate.

But for someone like me, the $5,000 was a lot of money and would help pay back everyone I owed money to.

I earnestly pleaded my case, submitted myself to a background check, and then waited to hear back.

When I didn’t hear anything by the due date, I figured some other lucky person had pleaded a better case, and then, exactly a week later I got the call.

The next day a courier delivered the keys to the house and the address.  My week started at exactly 9am the next morning.

The cab dropped Mr off at the front gate of the house, only it wasn’t a house so much as a mansion, and one that had seen better days.

It was at the end of the street, behind two large gates, and a high brick fence.  I could see the driveway on the other side, and just make out the house behind the unkempt shrubbery.

I had a bunch of keys, and it took a few attempts to find the one that fitted the lock and chain preventing the gates from opening.

I just unlocked it when another car pulled up in the same place my car had, and a young woman got out.  She rescued her sports bag from the trunk and paid the cabbie.

“Who are you,” she said.

“The caretaker for the next week.  I might ask the same question.”

“The ex-wife with nowhere to go.”

No one mentioned an ex-wife that was part of the deal. “I wasn’t told anyone else would be here, so it would be best you left.”

I slipped the lock back in place and stood my ground.  She could be anyone.

She pulled out her phone and rang a number. I heard the voice on the other end say hello.

“You can tell your deadhead caretaker that I’m staying for a few days.”

Then I watched her expression turn very dark, and then the words, “I have nowhere else to go, and it will only be a few days.”  Then silence and an accompanying ground, ending with, “You don’t want me to come after you because you know how that will end”.

She listened, then handed the phone to me.

“Hello.”

“I’m the owner requesting the service.  You are not responsible for her, but if she becomes a problem, lock her in the basement.”

Then he hung up. It was not the best answer to the problem.

“Are you going to open the gate?”

I shook my head and then pretended to fumble through the keys looking for the right one.  “You know this place,” I asked without turning around.

“No.  The bastard didn’t tell me about a lot of the stuff he owns.”  Her tone bristled with resentment.

I ‘found’ the key and opened the lock and started pulling the chain through the fence.  I could feel her eyes burning into my back.

When I swung open the gate, she barged past and kept walking.  I stepped through and immediately felt the change in the temperature.  It was cold, even though the sun was out, and I could feel an unnatural chill go through me.

By the time I closed and relocked the gate she had gone ahead and round a slight bend in the driveway.  I thought about hurrying to catch up, but I didn’t think it mattered, she didn’t have a key to the house.  Or perhaps I hoped she didn’t have one.

I headed towards the house at a leisurely pace.  I didn’t have to be there in the next instant, and I wanted to do a little survey of the grounds.  I checked some of the windows to see what access might be through any of them. Barred and locked, very little could get through.

As I got closer to the house, the overgrowth was worse, but that might have been because no one could see it from the roadside, or through the iron gate. Accessibility via the gardens would be problematic for anyone who attempted it because there was no easy access.  It was one less immediate problem to deal with.

The driveway widened out into a large gravel-covered square outside the front of the house.  It had a portico under which cars could stop and let out passengers undercover, ideal for ballgoers, which meant the house had been built somewhere during the last century.

These were aspects that would warrant me taking a look on the internet about its history.

She was waiting outside the door, showing signs of some exertion and the mad dash had been for nothing.

“I take it you have a key?”

I decided to ignore that.  I hoped she would disappear to another part of the house and leave me alone.  I had too much to do without having to worry about where she was, or what she was doing.  It seemed, based on the short time I spoke to him, that the owner had a mistake marrying her if they were in fact married.  Ex could mean almost anything these days.

Again, I made a show of trying to find the right key, though in the end it was hit and miss, and it took the fourth or fifth attempt to find it.

The door was solid oak, but it swung open easily and silently.  I had expected it to make a squeaking sound, one associated with rusty hinges.  This time she was a little more circumspect when she passed by me.  I followed and closed and locked the door behind me.

Inside was nothing like I expected.  Whilst the outside looked like the building hadn’t been tended to for years, the inside had been recently renovated and had that new house smell of new carpets and painted walls.

There was a high vaulted roof and a mezzanine that was accessed by a beautifully restored marble staircase and ran around the whole upper floor so that anyone could stand anywhere near the balustrading and look down into the living space, and, towards the back, the kitchen and entertaining area.

The walls had strategically placed paintings, real paintings, that looked old, but I doubted were originals because if they were similar to those I’d seen in a lot of English country estates they would be priceless, but not left in an empty building.

I had also kept her in the corner of my eye, watching her look around almost in awe.

“What do you think these paintings are worth?”

Was she going to suddenly take an inventory?

“Not a lot.  You don’t leave masterpieces in an abandoned house.  I suspect nothing in here would be worth much, and really only for decorative purposes so the owner can have a better chance of selling the place.  Empty cavernous buildings do not sell well.”

“What are you again?”

“No one of any particular note.  I’ve been asked to look after the place for the next week until it is handed over to the new owners.  Aside from that, I know nothing about the place, nor do I want to.  According to the note I got with the key, there are bedrooms off that mezzanine you can see up there.”  I pointed to the balustrading.  The kitchen has food, enough for the few days I’ll be here, but I’m sure there’s enough to share.”

“Good.  You won’t see me again if I can help it.”

I watched her walk to the staircase and go upstairs.  The mud map told me there were bedrooms up of the mezzanine, and also across from this area.  There was another large room adjacent to this, a games area or room big enough to hold a ball, a part of the original house, and which led out onto the side lawns.  I’d check later to see what the access was like because I suspected there would be a few doors that led out from the hall to the garden.

When she disappeared along the upstairs passageway, I headed towards the next room.  It was large, larger than that next door, and had another grand staircase leading down to the dance floor.  I guess the people used to stay in rooms upstairs, get dressed, then make a grand entrance down those stairs.

I hadn’t expected this house to be anything like the old country estates, and it was a little like icing on the cake.  I would have to explore, and transport myself back to the old days, and imagine what it was like.

She was true to her word, and I didn’t see her the next morning.  I was staying a world away from her.  I was in the refurbished old section and she was staying in the newly renovated and modernized part of the house.

I did discover, on the first day of getting my bearings and checking all of the entrances and windows ready for my rounds, that above the bedrooms on the second floor of the old section, there was a third floor with a number of smaller rooms which I assumed were where the servants lived.

I stayed in one of those rooms.  The other main bedrooms, with ornate fireplaces and large shuttered windows, smelled a little too musty for me, and I wasn’t about to present someone with an open window.  The views from the balconies were remarkable too or would have been in the garden had been kept in its original state.

In the distance, I could see what might have once been a summerhouse and promised myself a look at it later.  A long day had come to a tiring end, and I was only destined for a few hours’ sleep before embarking on my first-midnight run.   I was going to do one at eight, after eating, another at midnight, and another at six in the morning.  I’d make adjustments to the schedule after running the first full night’s program.

I brought my special alarm with me, the one that didn’t make a sound but was very effective in waking me.  It was fortuitous, because I had not expected someone else to come along for the ride, and didn’t want them to know where and when I would be doing the rounds.

It had taken longer than I expected to get to sleep, the sounds of the housekeeping me awake.  Usually a sound sleeper, perhaps it was the first night in different, and unusual surroundings.

I shuddered as I got out of bed, a cold air surrounding me, a feeling like that when I walked through the gate.  I had the sensation that someone was in the room with me, but in the harsh light after putting the bedside light on, it was clearly my imagination playing tricks.

I dressed quickly and headed out.

The inside of the house was very dark, and the light from my torch stabbed a beam of light through what might have been an inky void.  The circle of light on the walls was never still, and I realized that my hand had acquired a touch of the shakes.

Creaking sounds as I walked across the flooring had not been discernible the previous night, and it was odd they only happened at night.  The thought that the house may be haunted went through my mind, but I didn’t believe in ghosts or anything like that.

The creaking sounds followed me as I started my inspection.  I headed downstairs, and once I reached the back end of what I was going to call the ballroom.  Before I went to bed the previous evening, I drew up a rough map of the places I would be going, ticking them off as I went.

The first inspection was of the doors that led out onto the lawns.  The floor-to-ceiling windows were not curtained, and outside the undergrowth was partially illuminated by moonlight.  The day had been warm, that period in autumn leading into winter where the days were clear but getting colder.  Outside I could see a clear starry night.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the flash of a torchlight in the gardens.  I stopped and looked more carefully, but there was nothing.  I waited for about ten minutes, but there was still no movement.

I was going to have to park my imagination before starting rounds or I’d never get the job done.

I went out of the room and into the living area.  There seemed to be lights all around me, those small pilot lights that told you appliances were on standby.

I was heading towards the stairs when suddenly there was a blood-curdling scream, followed by what sounded like a gunshot, a sharp loud bang that, on top of the scream, made me jump.

The woman.

I raced as fast as I could up the stairs.  The sounds had come from there, but when I reached the top of the stairs, I realized I had no idea in which direction it came from.  Pointing the torch in both directions, there was nothing to see.

I could see a passage that might lead to the bedrooms on this level, and headed towards it, moving slowly, keeping as quiet as I could, listening for anything, or if someone else was lurking.

I heard a door slam, the echo coming down the passage.  I flashed the light up the passage, but it didn’t seem to penetrate the darkness.  I moved quickly towards the end, half expecting to see someone.

Then I tripped over, and as I tried to get to my feet, realized it was a body.  I flashed the torch on it, and it was the woman.

Dead, a gunshot wound in the chest, and blood everywhere.

I scrambled to my feet and ran towards the end of the passage, stopping at what appeared to be a dead end.  With nowhere to go, I turned.

I wasn’t alone, just hearing before seeing the presence of another person, but it was too late to react.  I felt an object hitting me on the back of the head, and after that, nothing.

I could feel a hand shaking me, and a voice coming out of the fog.  I opened my eyes and found myself in completely different surroundings.

A large ornate bedroom, and a four-poster bed, like I had been transported back to another age.  Then I remembered I had been in a large house that had been renovated, and this was probably one of the other bedrooms on the floor where the woman had been staying.

Then I remembered the body, being hit, and sat up.

A voice beside me was saying, “You’re having that nightmare again, aren’t you?”

It was a familiar voice.

I turned to see the woman who I had just moments before had seen dead, the body on the floor of the passage.

“You’re dead,” I said, in a strangely detached tone.

“I know.  I’m supposed to be.  You helped me set it up so I could escape that lunatic ex-husband of mine.”

I must have looked puzzled.

“Don’t worry.  The doctor says your memory will return, one day.  But, for now, all you need to do is rest.  All you need to know is that we’re safe, thanks to you.”

© Charles Heath 2021

“Trouble in Store” – Short Stories My Way:  The re-write – Part 3

Now that I’ve gone through the story and made quite a few changes, it’s time to look at the story

Annalisa had known the moment she had agreed, or rather having been coerced to agree, to go on this foolhardy mission, it would not be the ‘piece of cake’ he said it would be.

It was the culmination of a series of events that brought her to the revelation that it was not her he loved but her money.

And the fact the ‘recreational’ use of drugs was far more serious and far more costly than she had realized.  Until her parents cut off both her access to her bank account and credit card.

Simmo had gone quite literally ‘ape shit’ when he found out, and the full extent of what was a ‘recreational use’ of drugs became clear.  In the first stages of withdrawal, he was nothing like the boy she used to know.

But, she would go along with him this once and that would be an end to it.  She funded his habit, and their relationship, though she chose not to tell him at the exact moment because he was very threatening, in fact, it was going to be the end of everything to do with him.

As they left the apartment for the last time, an eerie calm came over her, and she revered the Simmo she used to know.  There were flashes of the old Simmo from time to time, but the ever-increasing use of drugs had changed him, changed his personality, and now there was very little left.

She thought about staying, trying to bring him back, getting him to go to a rehabilitation centre, admit he had a problem.

Stepping out of the building into the cold night air brought her back to her senses.  There was no helping him, now or ever.

It was nearly time, a few minutes before the shop closed, the time, Simmo said, when the shopkeepers’ ‘other’ customers arrived.

She hoped there were no other customers.

The plan was simple.  Simmo would show the money, a twenty dollar note wrapped around a wad of blank papers, the shopkeeper would get the bag, he would give the wad, take the drugs and they’d run, hoping he wouldn’t discover the truth before escaping out the front door.

And if he did, she asked.

He had it covered.

She didn’t like the sound of that statement or the savagery with which it was delivered.  More and more this was sounding like a suicide mission.

Simmo patted her on the shoulder.  It was time.

She looked at her watch, at 11:25 pm.

From across the road, she had watched the shopkeeper going through the motions of closing the store, bringing in the sidewalk displays, wiping the counter, and sweeping the floor.  As they crossed the road, she could see him standing behind the counter, waiting, watching the clock tick inexorably towards 11:30.

Closing time.

She preceded Simmo into the shop.  His idea was that seeing her would create a distraction.  He smiled when he saw her and frowned when he saw Simmo.  He knew the moment he saw Simmo exactly what he was there for.

© Charles Heath 2016-2024

The Cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 67

This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.

The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

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

Things are about to get complicated…


Was it all simply a dream?

If I thought the death of O’Connell and the detention of Dobbin and Jennifer was the end of it, I was wrong.  Both Monica and Joanne Arrived with several agents and took us back to the sandstone building, separated us, and then subjected us to endless questions.

I sat in the room with a guard outside in case I decided to leave, which I considered after an hour, but just as I was standing up, Monica walked in.  If I was to guess at the tactics, she had interviewed Yolanda, and possibly Jan as well before she came to me.

It was a technique we were taught, to know the answers before you ask the questions.  But, you had to assume the other people knew what the answers were, and I knew they were not in possession of all the facts.

I was not sure I was in possession of all the facts.

Monica had a file with her, quite large, put it on the desk unopened and then sat down opposite me.  I pretended not to watch.  I pretended not to care.  More lessons from agents who were now dead.  I’m not sure what sort of a recommendation that was as to how good they were.

“You seem to have a particular knack for picking up people to help you, Sam.  Annoying, and loyal.  I need more people like you, Sam.  You’ll be pleased to know they had not one bad word to say about you.”

“Hardly a recommendation if you’re going to throw me into a bottomless pit.”

“Interesting idea.  I suspect though you would know how to get out of it, or if you didn’t, had some experts hiding somewhere who would come and get you out.”

“Good to know.  So, why am I here?”

“Anna.”

“Anna is dead, she was killed in the café explosion.”

“I’d agree with you, only the body we pulled out of the café was male, what is believed to be a homeless man who was sheltering in there.  The café hadn’t been used for a year, and there were no locks on the back entrances.”

“No Anna?”

“No.”

“Yolanda said she saw Anna in the café.”

“Yolanda is no longer sure what she saw.  She admits to impersonating her, contacting O’Connell, and selling him the bogus USBs.  We recovered the money, less a hundred thousand pounds.  She claims she didn’t take any money for herself.  There were another 8 USBs all with the same files on them.  We recovered the two from Dobbin.  The same.  He was not very pleased.”

“Was he responsible for killing Severin and Maury, and O’Connell?”

“He says no.”

“Jan?”

“She wishes she stayed at MI6 and never got dragged into Dobbin’s fantasy.”

“The notion there are the formulas to create super viruses on the loose?”

“We only had Severin and Maury’s word that was the case.  The laboratory where the scientist worked and supposedly created the viruses, refute that any such data had escaped their premises, and better still, had destroyed it when they realised what was happening.  I would not put it past them to have arranged for the death of the inventor.  If the truth is known, Severin was trying to worm his way back into the fold with a whole end of days scenarios which he manages to save the day.  In other words, it’s quite possible the whole exercise was a hoax.”

“With endless dead people.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.  Dead people add credence to a scenario, it helps to sell the notion what they’re saying is true.”

So, the whole affair was simply a situation created by Severin for his own benefit.  “Dobbin thinks he was had, like us?”

“Exactly.  The trouble is we must take all threats seriously until proven otherwise.  So, the upshot of all this is, if you, Jennifer, or Yolanda want a job with the department, let Joanne know and we’ll put you into the program.  There’s one coming up next month.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

”O’Connell?  Where did he fit into all this?  I mean we were following him, he killed three of our surveillance team, and he was obviously spooked about something.  And someone was trying to kill him.  Dobbin?”

“Dobbin believes he set the whole thing up himself.”

“He had turned the seed of a hox into five million pounds.  Why didn’t he abscond with it?”

“He thought he was, with Yolanda.  We believe he let her take the money with the intention of killing her and taking it back when he got to London.  It’s convoluted but in a way, it makes sense.  Yolanda is very lucky to be alive.  So are you and Jennifer.”

I shrugged.  “Do all your operations end up like this?”

“Mostly.  If you decided to join the fold you’ll discover what we do is little more than smoke and mirrors.  Sometimes we have a win.  Sometimes.”  She stood.  “I hope you decided to join us.”

With that she left the room, leaving the door open.  No threats about spilling secrets, no signing of papers, nothing.  Perhaps she believed I wouldn’t tell anyone, but probably more to the point, who would believe me.

Maybe when I woke up tomorrow morning, I will realize it was all just a dream.

© Charles Heath 2020-2023

A score to settle – The Second Editor’s draft – Day 2

The time has come to work on the second draft for the editor, taking into account all of the suggested changes, and there are quite a few. So much for thinking I could put in an almost flawless manuscript.

The story, in the planning stages, has a secondary theme running, that of the players involved in the events leading up to the assault on our main character, one that his handler was not aware of.

Why was he marked for execution, along with his previous partner?

That’s another story, one that will be teased out in this secondary theme and will run full circle and have some bearing on what happens at the end of the story.

Or not.

I’m not sure I will include any of this, and it might just become part of a novella that will stand on its own. For the most part, a lot of this story is about, and driven by, people he’s never met, but know of him, and his work.

It would be too easy to say he saw something he shouldn’t, because that’s not the case. It has to do with people he has worked with and been responsible for in the past, and whether or not there had been a conversation, without understanding the relevance of what might have been discussed at the time.

That part is nebulous at best, and you can see why it might not make the final cut.

It simply depends on how the main story goes, and the word count at the end. The rough plan calls for about 80 chapters and about 70,000 words, but I’m not one for sticking to plans.

Today’s work centres around the partner his handler has chosen for him, one that he’s not going to like when he finds out, the target he’s been tasked to watch over, and the location of the conference.

Of course, getting back to work after what happened to him is not as easy as saying he’s fine, but getting him to admit it’s anything but fine will be like getting proverbial blood from a stone.