Category: Thriller

Taking the headlines and conjuring up the plot of a novel

What do you make of this lot:

What happened at a Russian missile site?  This is also tinged with nuclear fallout.

The US is consulting with allies in Asia about missile sites.  Nothing more inflammatory to a country like China, with whom relations are deteriorating at a rapid rate of knots.

Investors rush to buy bonds.  OK, that’s short term bonds not long term bonds, and that, of course, caused an inverted curve, or a preclusion to a recession.

Gold and silver investment is booming, and in times past, this could be a precursor to war.

China has a huge fishing fleet in the South China Sea.  Why, no one knows.

China is also planning naval exercises in the same area.  Are they flexing muscles or sending a warning?

They’ve also had problems in Hong Kong, but it didn’t escalate into what happened at Tiananmen Square.  But, bottom line, Hong Kong is not a place to go to or stop over any more because of a constant threat of being arrested.  I’m certainly never going there again, which is a shame because it was my second favorite Asian city after Singapore.

And, of course, there’s another flashpoint in Kashmir, which everyone seems to have an opinion, but that had been simmering for a long, long time, and probably will for years to come.

And as for the former world power, the UK, they have got past Brexit, or have they?

So, from a thriller writer’s perspective, it means that if Russia is rearming, the US is trying to pre-empt missile strikes from China, or anything is simmering in North Korea which currently doesn’t seem to be the case, it seems the savvier investors have a notion the world might be on the brink of war, and the US might be in the middle of it all.

The US appears:

  • to be in a trade war with China, or perhaps a war of words
  • are selling billions worth of arms to Taiwan, a red rag to a bull if there was ever one
  • are offering to help out in Kashmir
  • are sending ships to the South China sea to show the ‘flag’
  • are standing back and watching North Korea launch missiles
  • are emphatically denying there will be a recession, at least at home

Can we get a plot line out of all this?

Title:  Flashpoint

Synopsis:

A leaked report on a Russian missile base suggests a recent ‘mishap’ with disarming ‘old nuclear missiles’, was more than just routine issue, and a flyover by satellite shows there are more sinister and unexplainable operations in play.

Meanwhile, the arrival of a Russian nuclear specialist and a group of Chinese scientists in North Korea is quickly followed by several missile tests a week later.  Are the North Koreans, with the help of the Chinese, looking to arm their missiles with Russian nuclear warheads?

The CIA has sent two of their best operatives to find out what is really going on, one, Sam Stockton, borne of Russian parents, and who has yet to exorcise his demons from the last failed mission, and the other, Elizabeth Chen, a North Korean expert who is coming out of retirement for this particular delicate assignment.

Will they discover the truth before the world descends into a nuclear holocaust?

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 8

A trip back through memory lane.

…

We were diverting to Venus, sitting out there on screen, lonely as a cloud, if there could be clouds in space.

So, I wondered if the Captain had a special reason why I should head the team going to the freighter.

It was an opportunity to take one of the new class of shuttles, reported to be faster, more stable, and larger so that we could carry more people and cargo. It would be overkill today.

The crew assigned to collect the cargo was aboard, and my co-pilot for want of a better name was Myrtle, an officer that joined the ship with me, and had excellent qualifications.

We were going through the preflight, ready to lift off.

“First time?”

“In a shuttle, no. In space, real space, more or less.”

I don’t think I wanted to know what more or less meant.

“There’s nothing to it.”

The captain’s voice came over the speaker, “You’re cleared for departure, they’re expecting you imminently.”

“Very good, sir.”

It was never a gentle lift-off, unlike landing, and that initial jerk was an annoyance. Then engaging the thrusters, we began to move forward slowly towards the cargo door, and at the synchronised time, the doors opened and there was nothing but empty space before us.

Outside, we increased speed, turned, and flew under our ship, just to get a look at it, something I knew the people aboard might be interested in seeing, then onto the Aloysius 5 drifting off our port bow.

“Do you see what I see?” Nice to see Myrtle wasn’t blind.

“I do, and that’s worrying.”

What was it? A scorch mark on the side of the Aloysius 5, in a place where we couldn’t see it from our ship, and a direct hit on one of the exhaust manifolds. That would stop a ship dead in its tracks without wrecking it.

“Captain,” I said, hoping he was listening.

“Number one?”

“I think we have a problem.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 47

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.

…

“A hundred square miles, that must have run up the coast close to Patterson’s Reach?” I asked.

Patterson’s reach was about five miles to the north, a small town, where there was little fishing done and allegedly a lot of ferrying drugs being dropped off by large ships coming along the offshore shipping lanes.  No one could prove it, and every trap set by the coast guard had failed to find any evidence.  That meant that someone was tipping them off.

It was also the domain of the Cossatino’s who discouraged anyone else from living there.  It was said that Cossatino owned all of the lands the town sat on and the people who lived there worked for him.

“Only as far as Patterson’s reach and then inland for about 20 miles, about as far as the Faultline and perhaps the closest point between the foothills and the sea.  Ormiston had bought all the land thinking that the treasure was buried on it.  You see, he had a map too, long before Boggs senior had started forging them for the Cossatino’s.”

And in hearing that it begged the question, who had first found the original map?  If Cossatino found it, then getting Boggs senior to forge a lot of useless maps would hide where it really was.

What if Boggs ‘original’ map was yet another elaborate forgery, given to him by Cossatino to create others?  I put that thought to one side.

I wondered if Boggs had been to see her, to get some background.  If there was going to be an expert on the treasure, if it existed or not, she would know.  In fact, she probably knew old man Ormiston.

“Does that map still exist?”

“Perhaps.  It was not found in his effects after he died.  Spent his last years in an asylum.  It wasn’t not finding the treasure, or losing his fortune that sent him mad, it was Alzheimer’s, poor old man.  Whatever documents that were found when his relatives cleaned the place out were brought to the library to be stored, cataloged at some point, and one day when someone decides to write a history of the area, no doubt they want to see the collection.”

“I couldn’t look at the papers?”

“Are you interested in writing a local history.  I’m sure your hunt for the treasure and the many fruitless other expeditions looking for it would make a very entertaining chapter.”

“Maybe I will.”

If that was what it took to look at the documents.  There might be something interesting to be found.  Especially if he kept a diary.  I thought it best not to ask, and fuel suspicions.

“Elmer said there might be relations of Ormiston still around here?”

“Yes, I did say that which I now regret.  There are, but I don’t know who they are.  I knew his wife’s family name was Maunchen, and that the Maunchens came from California originally, and there’s nothing to say they didn’t go back.  Certainly, the wife would be deceased by now, and they had three daughters, all of whom would have married, and changed names.  You’d have to go digging through wedding records in at least a dozen parishes.  If you were thinking of investigating.”

“Sound like too much hard work.  Besides, the treasure doesn’t; exist.  I’m only helping Boggs to keep him from doing something stupid.”

“Like father, like son, unfortunately.  You do realize the father made some outlandish claim in the hotel one night that he had found the clue to where the treasure was buried.   Trouble was, he was prone to making outlandish claims, and by that time, a drunkard.  He went missing the next day, and has never been seen since.”

“You think he found it?”

“No.  But I’m guessing someone thought he had and killed him trying to find out.  We’ll never know.”

“A lesson to be learned then.  I’ll keep an eye on Boggs junior just in case he’s thinking of making an equally outlandish claim.”

“You do that.”

She opened a drawer and pulled out a form and handed it to me.

“What’s this for?”

“A request to look at the archives.  You have to register, and I have to give you a special card, the key to the history of Arkwon County.”

Where it said signature, I signed it.

“You fill out the rest.  When do you want me to pick up the card?”

“Monday next week.  In the meantime, be careful.”

She said it like she knew I would be walking into trouble.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

An excerpt from “The Devil You Don’t”

Available on Amazon Kindle here:  https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

By the time I returned to the Savoie, the rain had finally stopped, and there was a streak of blue sky to offer some hope the day would improve.

The ship was not crowded, the possibility of bad weather perhaps holding back potential passengers.  Of those I saw, a number of them would be aboard for the lunch by Phillippe Chevrier.  I thought about it, but the Concierge had told me about several restaurants in Yvoire and had given me a hand-drawn map of the village.  I think he came from the area because he spoke with the pride and knowledge of a resident.

I was looking down from the upper deck observing the last of the boarding passengers when I saw a woman, notable for her red coat and matching shoes, making a last-minute dash to get on board just before the gangway was removed.  In fact, her ungainly manner of boarding had also captured a few of the other passenger’s attention.  Now they would have something else to talk about, other than the possibility of further rain.

I saw her smile at the deckhand, but he did not smile back.  He was not impressed with her bravado, perhaps because of possible injury.  He looked at her ticket then nodded dismissively, and went back to his duties in getting the ship underway.  I was going to check the departure time, but I, like the other passengers, had my attention diverted to the woman in red.

From what I could see there was something about her.  It struck me when the light caught her as she turned to look down the deck, giving me a perfect profile.  I was going to say she looked foreign, but here, as in almost anywhere in Europe, that described just about everyone.  Perhaps I was just comparing her to Phillipa, so definitively British, whereas this woman was very definitely not.

She was perhaps in her 30’s, slim or perhaps the word I’d use was lissom, and had the look and manner of a model.  I say that because Phillipa had dragged me to most of the showings, whether in Milan, Rome, New York, London, or Paris.  The clothes were familiar, and in the back of my mind, I had a feeling I’d seen her before.

Or perhaps, to me, all models looked the same.

She looked up in my direction, and before I could divert my eyes, she locked on.  I could feel her gaze boring into me, and then it was gone as if she had been looking straight through me.  I remained out on deck as the ship got underway, watching her disappear inside the cabin.  My curiosity was piqued, so I decided to keep an eye out for her.

I could feel the coolness of the air as the ship picked up speed, not that it was going to be very fast.  With stops, the trip would take nearly two hours to get to my destination.  It would turn back almost immediately, but I was going to stay until the evening when it returned at about half eight.  It would give me enough time to sample the local fare, and take a tour of the medieval village.

Few other passengers ventured out on the deck, most staying inside or going to lunch.  After a short time, I came back down to the main deck and headed forward.  I wanted to clear my head by concentrating on the movement of the vessel through the water, breathing in the crisp, clean air, and let the peacefulness of the surroundings envelope me.

It didn’t work.

I knew it wouldn’t be long before I started thinking about why things hadn’t worked, and what part I played in it.  And the usual question that came to mind when something didn’t work out.  What was wrong with me?

I usually blamed it on my upbringing.

I had one of those so-called privileged lives, a nanny till I was old enough to go to boarding school, then sent to the best schools in the land.  There I learned everything I needed to be the son of a Duke, or, as my father called it in one of his lighter moments, nobility in waiting.

Had this been five or six hundred years ago, I would need to have sword and jousting skills, or if it had been a few hundred years later a keen military mind.  If nothing else I could ride a horse, and go on hunts, or did until they became not the thing to do.

I learned six languages, and everything I needed to become a diplomat in the far-flung British Empire, except the Empire had become the Commonwealth, and then, when no-one was looking, Britain’s influence in the world finally disappeared.  I was a man without a cause, without a vocation, and no place to go.

Computers were the new vogue and I had an aptitude for programming.  I guess that went hand in hand with mathematics, which although I hated the subject, I excelled in.  Both I and another noble outcast used to toss ideas around in school, but when it came to the end of our education, he chose to enter the public service, and I took a few of those ideas we had mulled over and turned them into a company.

About a year ago, I was made an offer I couldn’t refuse.  There were so many zeroes on the end of it I just said yes, put the money into a very grateful bank, and was still trying to come to terms with it.

Sadly, I still had no idea what I was going to do with the rest of my life.  My parents had asked me to come back home and help manage the estate, and I did for a few weeks.  It was as long as it took for my parents to drive me insane.

Back in the city, I spent a few months looking for a mundane job, but there were very few that suited the qualifications I had, and the rest, I think I intimidated the interviewer simply because of who I was.  In that time I’d also featured on the cover of the Economist, and through my well-meaning accountant, started involving myself with various charities, earning the title ‘philanthropist’.

And despite all of this exposure, even making one of those ubiquitous ‘eligible bachelor’ lists, I still could not find ‘the one’, the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.  Phillipa seemed to fit the bill, but in time she proved to be a troubled soul with ‘Daddy’ issues.  I knew that in building a relationship compromise was necessary, but with her, in the end, everything was a compromise and what had happened was always going to be the end result.

It was perhaps a by-product of the whole nobility thing.  There was a certain expectation I had to fulfill, to my peers, contemporaries, parents and family, and those who either liked or hated what it represented.  The problem was, I didn’t feel like I belonged.  Not like my friend from schooldays, and now obscure acquaintance, Sebastian.  He had been elevated to his Dukedom early when his father died when he was in his twenties.  He had managed to fade from the limelight and was rarely mentioned either in the papers or the gossip columns.  He was one of the lucky ones.

I had managed to keep a similarly low profile until I met Phillipa.  From that moment, my obscurity disappeared.  It was, I could see now, part of a plan put in place by Phillipa’s father, a man who hogged the limelight with his daughter, to raise the profile of the family name and through it their businesses.  He was nothing if not the consummate self-advertisement.

Perhaps I was supposed to be the last piece of the puzzle, the attachment to the establishment, that link with a class of people he would not normally get in the front door.  There was nothing refined about him or his family, and more than once I’d noticed my contemporaries cringe at the mention of his name, or any reference of my association with him.

Yet could I truthfully say I really wanted to go back to the obscurity I had before Phillipa?  For all her faults, there were times when she had been fun to be with, particularly when I first met her when she had a certain air of unpredictability.  That had slowly disappeared as she became part of her father’s plan for the future.  She just failed to see how much he was using her.

Or perhaps, over time, I had become cynical.

I thought about calling her.  It was one of those moments of weakness when I felt alone, more alone than usual.

I diverted my attention back to my surroundings and the shoreline.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman in the red coat, making a move.  The red coat was like a beacon, a sort of fire engine red.  It was not the sort of coat most of the women I knew would wear, but on her, it looked terrific.  In fact, her sublime beauty was the one other attribute that was distinctly noticeable, along with the fact her hair was short, rather than long, and jet black.

I had to wrench my attention away from her.

A few minutes later several other passengers came out of the cabin for a walk around the deck, perhaps to get some exercise, perhaps checking up on me, or perhaps I was being paranoid.  I waited till they passed on their way forward, and I turned and headed aft.

I watched the wake sluicing out from under the stern for a few minutes, before retracing my steps to the front of the ship and there I stood against the railing, watching the bow carve its way through the water.  It was almost mesmerizing.  There, I emptied my mind of thoughts about Phillipa, and thoughts about the woman in the red coat.

Until a female voice behind me said, “Having a bad day?”

I started, caught by surprise, and slowly turned.  The woman in the red coat had somehow got very close me without my realizing it.  How did she do that?  I was so surprised I couldn’t answer immediately.

“I do hope you are not contemplating jumping.  I hear the water is very cold.”

Closer up, I could see what I’d missed when I saw her on the main deck.  There was a slight hint of Chinese, or Oriental, in her particularly around the eyes, and of her hair which was jet black.  An ancestor twice or more removed had left their mark, not in a dominant way, but more subtle, and easily missed except from a very short distance away, like now.

Other than that, she was quite possibly Eastern European, perhaps Russian, though that covered a lot of territory.  The incongruity of it was that she spoke with an American accent, and fluent enough for me to believe English was her first language.

Usually, I could ‘read’ people, but she was a clean slate.  Her expression was one of amusement, but with cold eyes.  My first thought, then, was to be careful.

“No.  Not yet.”  I coughed to clear my throat because I could hardly speak.  And blushed, because that was what I did when confronted by a woman, beautiful or otherwise.

The amusement gave way to a hint of a smile that brightened her demeanor as a little warmth reached her eyes.  “So that’s a maybe.  Should I change into my lifesaving gear, just in case?”

It conjured up a rather interesting image in my mind until I reluctantly dismissed it.

“Perhaps I should move away from the edge,” I said, moving sideways until I was back on the main deck, a few feet further away.  Her eyes had followed me, and when I stopped she turned to face me again.  She did not move closer.

I realized then she had removed her beret and it was in her left side coat pocket.  “Thanks for your concern …?”

“Zoe.”

“Thanks for your concern, Zoe.  By the way, my name is John.”

She smiled again, perhaps in an attempt to put me at ease.  “I saw you earlier, you looked so sad, I thought …”

“I might throw myself overboard?”

“An idiotic notion I admit, but it is better to be safe than sorry.”

Then she tilted her head to one side then the other, looking intently at me.  “You seem to be familiar.  Do I know you?”

I tried to think of where I may have seen her before, but all I could remember was what I’d thought earlier when I first saw her; she was a model and had been at one of the showings.  If she was, it would be more likely she would remember Phillipa, not me.  Phillipa always had to sit in the front row.

“Probably not.”  I also didn’t mention the fact she may have seen my picture in the society pages of several tabloid newspapers because she didn’t look the sort of woman who needed a daily dose of the comings and goings, and, more often than not, scandal associated with so-called celebrities.

She gave me a look, one that told me she had just realized who I was.  “Yes, I remember now.  You made the front cover of the Economist.  You sold your company for a small fortune.”

Of course.  She was not the first who had recognized me from that cover.  It had raised my profile considerably, but not the Sternhaven’s.  That article had not mentioned Phillipa or her family.  I suspect Grandmother had something to do with that, and it was, now I thought about it, another nail in the coffin that was my relationship with Phillipa.

“I wouldn’t say it was a fortune, small or otherwise, just fortunate.”  Each time, I found myself playing down the wealth aspect of the business deal.

“Perhaps then, as the journalist wrote, you were lucky.  It is not, I think, a good time for internet-based companies.”

The latter statement was an interesting fact, one she read in the Financial Times which had made that exact comment recently.

“But I am boring you.”  She smiled again.  “I should be minding my own business and leaving you to your thoughts.  I am sorry.”

She turned to leave and took a few steps towards the main cabin.

“You’re not boring me,” I said, thinking I was letting my paranoia get the better of me.  It had been Sebastian on learning of my good fortune, who had warned me against ‘a certain element here and abroad’ whose sole aim would be to separate me from my money.  He was not very subtle when he described their methods.

But I knew he was right.  I should have let her walk away.

She stopped and turned around.  “You seem nothing like the man I read about in the Economist.”

A sudden and awful thought popped into my head.  Those words were part of a very familiar opening gambit.  “Are you a reporter?”

I was not sure if she looked surprised, or amused.  “Do I look like one?”

I silently cursed myself for speaking before thinking, and then immediately ignored my own admonishment.  “People rarely look like what they are.”

I saw the subtle shake of the head and expected her to take her leave.  Instead she astonished me.

“I fear we have got off on the wrong foot.  To be honest, I’m not usually this forward, but you seemed like you needed cheering up when probably the opposite is true.  Aside from the fact this excursion was probably a bad idea.  And,” she added with a little shrug, “perhaps I talk too much.”

I was not sure what I thought of her after that extraordinary admission. It was not something I would do, but it was an interesting way to approach someone and have them ignoring their natural instinct.  I would let Sebastian whisper in my ear for a little longer and see where this was going.

“Oddly enough, I was thinking the same thing.  I was supposed to be traveling with my prospective bride.  I think you can imagine how that turned out.”

“She’s not here?”

“No.”

“She’s in the cabin?”  Her eyes strayed in that direction for a moment then came back to me.  She seemed surprised I might be traveling with someone.

“No.  She is back in England, and the wedding is off.  So is the relationship.  She dumped me by text.”

OK, why was I sharing this humiliating piece of information with her?  I still couldn’t be sure she was not a reporter.

She motioned to an empty seat, back from the edge.  No walking the plank today.  She moved towards it and sat down.  She showed no signs of being cold, nor interested in the breeze upsetting her hair.  Phillipa would be having a tantrum about now, being kept outside, and freaking out over what the breeze might be doing to her appearance.

I wondered, if only for a few seconds if she used this approach with anyone else.  I guess I was a little different, a seemingly rich businessman alone on a ferry on Lake Geneva, contemplating the way his life had gone so completely off track.

She watched as I sat at the other end of the bench, leaving about a yard between us.  After I leaned back and made myself as comfortable as I could, she said, “I have also experienced something similar, though not by text message.  It is difficult, the first few days.”

“I saw it coming.”

“I did not.”  She frowned, a sort of lifeless expression taking over, perhaps brought on by the memory of what had happened to her.  “But it is done, and I moved on.  Was she the love of your life?”

OK, that was unexpected.

When I didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry.  Sometimes I ask personal questions without realizing what I’m doing.  It is none of my business.”  She shivered.  “Perhaps we should go back inside.”

She stood, and held out her hand.  Should I take it and be drawn into her web?  I thought of Sebastian.  What would he do in this situation?

I took her hand in mine and let her pull me gently to my feet.  “Wise choice,” she said, looking up at the sky.

It just started to rain.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2023

newdevilcvr6

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — M is for Memories

…

It was just a simple conversation, or so I thought.

You know how it is, stuck in a long queue, waiting for service when you strike up a conversation with the person in front of the person or behind.  Random strangers, never seen before, perhaps will never see again.

The plane had arrived late, along with the three others in quick succession, all with over 300 passengers, and being that time of night, not so many service staff.  The line was quite literally a mile long and not moving very fast. 

It was apparent the person in front of me, who looked like a university professor, had to be somewhere else and was getting impatient.

“This is ridiculous. You would have thought they’d know about the hold-ups, that every plane would arrive at the same time, and make the appropriate adjustments.”

It was a common sense thing, but apparently not deemed so by airport management.  It was the same the world over. 

“At least you won’t have to wait for your baggage.  It’ll be on the carousel by the time we get out of here.”

He sighed, pulled out a cell phone, and dialled a number, most likely the person picking him up.  They didn’t answer, and as he jammed his finger on the disconnect button, he muttered, “Fiddlesticks.”

One second, I was thinking what an odd thing to say, the next, nothing.

When I opened my eyes I was looking at a roof, in unfamiliar surroundings, with two ambulance staff leaning over me, saying, “Mr Giles, Mr Giles,” while gently shaking me by the shoulder.

My first thought was, who was Mr Giles?  I looked at one, “Where am I?”

“JFK airport, New York.”

“How, why, when?”

“You collapsed, waiting in line to pass through immigration.  The security staff called us.”

“Who is Mr Glies?”

“That’s you.”

“No, it isn’t.  My name is Jeremy Watkins.”

“Not according to your passport and ticket information.  Samuel Giles.”

No.  I’ve never heard of him.  Nor did I have any idea why I was in New York, where I came from or why I was there.  Seeing the guards surrounding me, I realized airport security staff were naturally paranoid about terrorist attacks, and given my situation, I had just become a number one suspect.

This was not going to end well.

Within five minutes of saying what I’d just said, I was taken to a room somewhere within the innards of the airport, the paramedics having determined there was nothing physically wrong with me, saying it was just a reaction to a long flight, tiredness, and stress from waiting.

All the time, I’d been flanked by three airport security staff, followed by two uniformed officers of the NYPD.  When I got to the room, a man was waiting.  He looked as tired as I felt.  My baggage was on one side of the room, and it had been thoroughly searched.  The paramedics’ work was done, and they left.  The airport security guards were also dismissed, but the two uniformed officers remained, one in the room and one outside the room.  If I tried to escape, I would not get very far.

He pointed to a seat opposite him, and I assumed I was meant to sit.  Once I had, he said, “Now, Mr Giles slash Watkins, just who the hell are you?” 

I didn’t think he was from the FBI, but just to make sure I asked, “Who are you?”

He glared at me, perhaps considering he didn’t have to tell me anything, then changed his mind.  “Detective Barnsdale, NYPD.  Someone up there,” he pointed to the roof, “Decided to make this my lucky day.  Make it easy for both of us.  I’d tend to believe you were hallucinating if you’d banged your head when you collapsed, but the medics tell me you didn’t.  I can only assume this is some sort of prank.  If it is, then I suggest you give it up.  Otherwise, if I escalate this, it’s going to get ugly.”

If he was trying to scare me, it was working.  “My name is Jeremy Watkins.  If you have access to the internet, you can look me up.  I’m an author, not exactly a runaway best-seller, but I make enough.  I don’t know how I got here, or why I’m here, and as much in the dark as you why my documents say I’m someone else.”

He brought out his cell phone and pushed a few buttons, typed in my name, and waited.  Then, his expression changed, and another glare at me.  “OK, it looks like you.  Give me some titles of your books.”

“It happened in Syracuse, the end is nigh, and the girl with blue eyes.”

A shake of the head.  “Not exactly conclusive proof. You could have looked it up and remembered them.  But you look exactly like him.”

He went back to his phone and picked up the driver’s licence with that name and address and typed that name in.  Another expression change, one that suggested he’d found nothing.  “So you are telling me you know nothing about this Sidney Giles from Houston.  It’s your photo, and this licence looks real.  And this boarding pass says you came in from Houston.”

“I can’t explain it.  No.”

He sighed.  “OK.  Take me through your last 24 hours.  What do you remember?”

That was the problem, I could not remember anything beyond the fact I had just finished a class where I’d been trying to get completely disinterested teenagers to write a story about their ideal day out, and being met with derision.  The bell rang and they all left, leaving me somewhat shattered, sitting at the desk contemplating why I’d chosen this career path.

Then Marjorie, the other English teacher who had conducted my orientation, came in and asked me how my first class went.  I couldn’t remember what I said, but the next memory was in a bar, she was there, and we were talking about writing, and the fact she was hoping to finish her first book soon, and was asking if I wanted to read it.

“I’m not sure if it’s the last 24 hours, but I’m apparently a new teacher at a college in Syracuse somewhere, who took his first class, not very successfully, I might add.”

“Nothing to indicate how you got to Houston, and then here?”

Another memory popped into my head, a rather disconcerting one.  I was with Marjorie, and we were talking about writing thrillers and how sometimes she playacted her character’s roles, the latest, an assassin who had been hypnotised believing she was someone else entirely, fitted out with a complete change of identity and then travelling to a particular city to carry out her assignment.  Who said art imitated life? This was the other way around.

“You remembered something, didn’t you?”

“I think whatever it was, it’s just a figment of my writer’s mind.  It’s too far out there to be believable.”

“Try me.”

“Apparently, I was discussing aspects of another author’s latest work in progress, where the main character is hypnotised into thinking they are someone else.  That’s just too far-fetched, isn’t it?”

The detective picked up his phone and called security and asked if there was any CCTV of the incident.  Five minutes later, a guard came with an inadequate and handed it to him.  “It’s your lucky day,” he said.

The detective looked at the footage not once but about ten times.  “The coverage shows you talking to the man ahead of you in the queue, and then suddenly just collapse.  I’m sure he says something to you, a word that sounds like Fiddlesticks.”

The next thing I knew, he was shaking me by the shoulder, and I was on the floor, totally disorientated.

“What happened?”

“You fainted.  Can you tell me who you are?”

“Sure.  Sidney Giles.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2023

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 50

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

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

Chasing leads, maybe

Just because you have a security card with your name on it doesn’t mean you are cleared.  Yesterday, maybe, but today?  Anything can happen in 24 hours, much like the political landscape.

When I walked in the front entrance and up to the scanning gate, I was just another employee coming into work.  I ran my card through the scanning device, and the light turned red.

It failed.

In the time it took for me to scan it a second time, a security guard had arrived from the front desk, and a soldier, armed and ready was standing behind me.

I didn’t doubt for one minute he would shoot me if I tried to run.

“What seems to be the problem?”  The security guard was polite but firm.

“My card that scanned the last time and worked, doesn’t seem to work now.”

I could read his expression, ‘you just got fired, and are trying to get back in.”

“Let me try.”

I gave him the card, he looked at it, no doubt to see if there was any damage, then tried it.”

“Have you any other means of identification?”

Now, here’s the thing.  This was the office full of spies and support staff all of whom could be using assumed names, different guises, or just plain secretive with their private information.  Luckily I had a driver’s license with the name on the card, but not much else.

I thought about telling him about the place he was guarding, but I doubted he would listen.

He looked at both, then handed back the license. 

“Come with me over to the counter and we’ll see if we can sort this out.”

It was not a request, nor was I unaccompanied.  I now had a soldier permanently attached to me.

When we all arrived at the desk, he joined another guard behind.

“Who is your immediate superior?”

It was a toss-up between Dobbin and Monica.  Since Dobbin spent a lot of time in his car or appeared to, I said it was Monica.

I watched him search slowly through the phone list until he found her number, then called her.

He had his back to me when they spoke, but it wasn’t for long; after a minute, perhaps two, he replaced the receiver and turned back.

“Ms. Shrive will be down in about five minutes.”  He pointed to a row of chairs against the wall, remnants from the last world war.  “If you would like to wait over there, sir.”

He didn’t hand back my card.

The wait was more like a half-hour, but I had become engrossed in an old copy of Country Life, and an article that made me consider retiring to the country in an old thatch cottage beside a babbling brook somewhere in the Cotswolds.

Until I read the price. 

The arrival of Monica came at a fortuitous moment.  Coming to the desk.

“Nnn, I was hoping you would drop by sooner rather than later.”

“My card doesn’t work.”

“Oh, that’s because we revoked it.”  She held out another in her hand.  “We’ve replaced it with one with better access, or as we say jokingly, you’ve moved up in the pay grade scale.”

I took the card and went to put it in my pocket.

“You need to register your presence, so I’m afraid you’ll have to go out and come back in again.”

I did as she asked, this time greeted by the friendly green light.  The soldier seemed disappointed that I was not free of his attention.  The security guard on the desk had alt=ready forgotten I existed.

“Come.”

I followed Monica to the antiquated elevator, we stepped in, closed the door and she pressed a button for the third and fourth floors.  It seemed creakier than usual this time.

“I’m assuming you have come in to use the computer resources?”

“Yes.”

“Good thing then we upgraded your access level.”

“And is there someone who manages access to CCTV footage?”

“Yes.  Same floor, four.  Her name is Amelia Enders.  Tell her what you need, and she’ll find it.  I assume it will have something to do with the surveillance exercise of yours.”

How could she guess, or had she been already investigating?”

“Come and see me when you’re finished.  I live on the third floor.  Literally.”

The elevator stopped on the third floor with a creak and a thump.

A smile and she headed off down the passage.

If I wasn’t mistaken, she had that cat who ate the canary look, and it worried me.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t.  It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room.  It was quite large and expensively furnished.  It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917.  At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring.  Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years.  She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity.  She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined.  After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month.  There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited.  She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends.  She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy.  Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful.  In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit.  She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine.  She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend.  That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue.  It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour.  It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms.  When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report.  After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report.  She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen.  Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room.  She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit.  She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival.  It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality.  A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

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:

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

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.

InspirationMaybe1v1

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — L is for library

…

I never really understood why I had an affinity for libraries until I stepped into the one in my grandfather’s house.

The last time I’d seen it was when I turned ten, and we visited him the day after my grandmother had died.  I remembered that day very clearly for two reasons.  First, my grandfather said I was too young to go, so I was left with the housekeeper and allowed to go into a large room with thousands upon thousands of books.  By myself.

So many, in fact, I was so immersed in them that I hadn’t realised my parents had come back and it was time to go.  Not until I heard raised voices coming from outside the window.  My father and grandfather were in a full bare-knuckle fighting stance, with my mother standing between them.

That second reason, it was also the day my father stopped talking to and visiting my grandfather.  I had seen him once, in all the time leading up to my grandmother’s funeral, and never again.  The only references to him I found were in the newspapers, along with words like patron, philanthropist, politician, and patriot.  My father said he was evil, but he never told me why.

There was a lot of fallout from that day of the funeral.  Not only had my father stopped talking to his father, but also his two sisters and brother, all of who were a mystery to me.  Later I learned that I belonged to a very dysfunctional family and that my father was the sanest of the four siblings.  Of course, that was my mother’s assessment, but I also learned later, my father marrying her had got him disinherited.

But to be honest, at 10 it didn’t seem a big deal.  I didn’t know them, and having said no more than a dozen words to my grandfather, it was not as if I knew him enough to miss him.  I did remember that library though, and that huge house by the lake.  My father never said he’d grown up there, just that his life had been spent in boarding schools and the military.  Enough of a life though, to give me a university degree, yes, you guessed it, in Library Science and Information Management.

That I knew so little about him made it all the more difficult to write a eulogy.  For him, and my mother who had basically died a few days after him.  I wanted to believe she just didn’t want to live on without him, but that was too fanciful.  She had been worn down by what I now believed was a very bitter man.  That bitterness had caused me to stop visiting home about a year before when relations between us sunk to an all-time low.  I spoke to my mother by phone every week, but it was not the same, not being able to see me, and that I hadn’t made it back before she died was a sin I would spend a long time atoning for.

Nor did I have any siblings to turn to for help.  That ship had sailed after I was born when my mother discovered she could have no more children.

But, here’s the thing.  I had not heard that either of my parents had died until I got a call from my parents’ Pastor of their church.  Had he not called, I would not have known.  My initial reaction was not to go, that was how deep the scars were from our fractured relationship, but the pastor insisted that I would not get closure if I didn’t.

I still believed it was a huge mistake as I was getting on the plane.  I told Wendy, a girl whom I had just become more than friends with that I would have to go, it surprised her because I had told her that I was more or less like her, an orphan.  I had met her after the final altercation, and I didn’t think it necessary to bore her with my parents’ odd behaviour.

By the time the plane arrived, I was past the misgivings and telling myself just to get it done and go home.  One day, two at the most and it would be all over, filed under, don’t come back to haunt me again.

Shock number one:  A girl, about my age or slightly younger, dressed in what might have passed as mourning clothes, was standing in the arrivals section where people held signs of names of people they were to pick up.  She had mine, or maybe not.  It could be someone else.  I went over to her, cautiously.

She smiled when she saw.  “My God; Lindsay, you look just like your father.”

How could she possibly know who I was, or what he looked like?  None of his family had ever made themselves known or came to see us.

“How…”

“Your photographs.  My dad is your uncle by the way, and I’m your something or other, someone explained it to me but it was too much.  Your mother sent thousands of photographs and letters to your uncle and aunts and we know about you.  It’s just a pity we couldn’t meet until the old bastard died.  Now, it’s like we’re old friends.  I’m Allie by the way.  Wow!”

Wow, indeed.  My mother the traitor!  She always seemed to have a conspiratorial look about her and now I knew why.

“Travelling light,” she said, seeing my backpack.

“Wasn’t intending to stay.”

“Can’t do that now Lindsay.  You have a lifetime of catching up to do.  I hope you have a spare week up your sleeve.”

I followed her out of the terminal to the car park. 

“Where do you want to go first?  By the way, I’m your chauffeur for the duration of your stay, and you tell me, that’s where we go.”

“Haven’t you got better things to do?”

“No.  I had to beat up my sister and brother to get this privilege.  This is not a  chore Lindsay.  And I get first dibs to talk to you about everything.”

She had a strange way of talking, so I let most of it go over my head.  “Perhaps the funeral parlour, I think the pastor said they were in one of them near the church.  Not their church, either.”

“I try not to get involved in heavy family stuff.  But I think you’ll find my father had something to do with that.  Blood is thicker than water, he says.  He says a lot of stuff I don’t understand.  Your dad like that?”

We reached the car, she unlocked it and we got in.  A RAM 2500.  Better than anything we could afford.

“Your car?”

“Mine, hell no.  This is Dad’s special truck, only comes out on hunting weekends and special occasions like weddings.  Damned if I know why he let me drive given my track record.” She shrugged.  “Perhaps it’s another of his tests.”

It sounded like a family trait because my father used to do the same.  I left her to the driving and pondered this whole other life that went on around us, ignored simply because my father hated his family.  Obviously, there was some deep-seated resentment generated at some point before he struck out on his own, and maybe I could find out.  Certainly, it seemed I was not going to be able to escape as easily as I had first imagined.

What worried me was suddenly meeting a whole host of people I’d never seen before but apparently knew everything about me.  I’d never have suspected my mother going behind my father’s back, but there was always that air of defiance in her, and in some of their arguments, they didn’t go nuclear, but she did stop talking to him or doing anything for him until he backed down.

A lesser woman would not have been much of anything up against him, which was why he married her.

Our first stop as requested was the funeral home.  There I was shown into a special room where both were in their caskets.  It was an open casket viewing, and while they had been restored to some of their former glory, my mother was almost unrecognisable.  I had the room to myself, and thankfully Allie didn’t come in because there were tears, even though I told myself there would not be.

My father, of course, never changed and looked the same forbidding person he’d always been.  I was sure somewhere within him there was kindness, but he never showed it to me.  Even so, it was still a shock to know that he had passed.

After a half hour, I came back out into the daylight.  Allie handed me a cup of coffee.

“I didn’t know if you wanted or needed something stronger, but we can drop into a bar on the way for some fortification if you like.  The next stop, I’m afraid, is the church.  Got a call to say the Bishop has arrived.  Our family has some brownie points and got the Bishop to come and say a few words.  I’m not a keep churchgoer either Lindsay.”

Were any of the younger generations?  Those attempts of his to put the fear of God in me never worked, probably because they tried too hard.  A more gentler and persuasive method would have had better results, but the priest was all fire and brimstone.  I don’t think I could remember one Sunday where the sermon had any levity in it.

“Perhaps if they tried to move into the 21st century, it might be better.  I heard that my father’s church Pastor is coming too.  He’s as old as the hills, and hopefully, he will not remember the errant and disappointing child I was.”

“Don’t count on it.  They keep everything in a big ledger, and it’s opened the day you go to heaven or hell.  Hell’s where I’m going, I’m sure of it.”

It was an amusing thought.  “Perhaps you’ll see me there, too.”

The Pastor was there with the local church leaders, and the Bishop, all very severe-looking men.  Granted it was a sombre occasion, but a little levity wouldn’t go astray.  I noted, firstly, the look they gave me was one of surprise, though I had no idea why, and secondly, they hardly approved of the mourning outfit on my chauffeur.  Granted it was low cut and the hem high, but it suited her, and in my mind rather a fashion statement, and appropriate.  This was not the nineteenth century.

That led to shock number two.  My father’s paster recognised me instantly, and the change of expression told me he remembered everyone one of my sins, some of which I still had to atone for.  That was not the reason for the shock, the fact I had to write a eulogy and read it was.  He had intimated such in the phone call but I had told him I preferred not to.  Perhaps he had been hard of hearing.

He was warm in his greeting though.  “Lindsay, so glad you could come, and, my, you have grown up into a fine young man.”

Grown-up, may, fine, that was debatable.  “They haven’t retired you yet?”  It was not meant to be antagonistic, but some memories of injustices never left you.

“There’s still a lot of God’s work to be done.  I see you have lost none of your candour.  Let us not dwell on the past, and consider only what lies ahead.  Your father was a good man, despite your differences, and his disposition.  I had urged him, in his last days, to reconcile with you, and I believe he was going to.”

“You knew a different man to me, Pastor.  But as you say, let us not dwell upon what was.  I think I said I preferred not to participate in the service.”

I saw the other Pastor and the Bishop approach.  I thought I remembered the Bishop, but not as a Bishop but as a simple priest, many years before.  The trouble was, they all looked the same to me.

“Marriot here tells me you are going to read your eulogy as part of the service.  I believe it’s the right thing to so, a fitting end to a life devoted to service to his country and his church.”

He gave me no chance of reneging, and at any rate, there was no denying a Bishop’s request, not if I wanted the wrath of God to befall me.

“Until tomorrow, Pastor Marriot said and left with the other two men.

“I can see that went swimmingly,” Allie said when she came back over.   It wasn’t hard to notice she was avoiding the Pastors and Bishop.

“An ambush.”

“Not getting out of the eulogy?”

“Apparently not.”

“Then write and read something wicked.  There’s going to be a packed house, so the audience will be in your hands.  The trouble is, people rarely bring up the bad stuff at funerals, and the lies they tell about people, it’s outrageous.  We had an in-law who died in a police shootout when he tried to rob a gas station.  Not one bad word.  It’s probably why they didn’t ask me to say anything.”

The thought did cross my mind, but no, I had enough respect for the occasion that I would say a few words.

“Well, the fun’s over,” she said.  “You now are about to meet all the people you never knew existed.”

The family had taken over a restaurant in a nearby town, and everyone had come to see the missing link.  I felt like a character out of Charles Darwin’s evolution book.

There were about 35, my father’s brother and two sisters, their children, my contemporaries, some grandchildren, and one very old lady, the sister of my grandfather who presided over the gathering like a Queen.  She was the first introduction, and from there, it was simply a sea of faces and names.

Inevitably I was asked why I had not tried to seek them out earlier, and that was complicated.  My father never told me about his family, and that one memory of my grandfather was fleeting and without context.  But the most sinister of reasons was the fact he had changed his surname, making it impossible to trace anyone.  While I knew he had siblings, I could never find them.  As for my mother, she said she would tell me the truth when he died.  That, of course, could not happen, which landed me where I was right now.  Even his priest did not know the truth until one of the family contacted him upon learning of my father’s death.

It was, quite simply, the most improbable of situations that most people could not believe possible.

The following day, over a hundred people arrived for the funeral, and it was a beautiful service on a perfect day.  My few but heartfelt words were delivered in a broken voice, by a person who should not have but was, overcome with emotion. 

Afterwards, when the bodies were lowered into their final resting place, in the family graveyard near my grandfather’s house, exactly as I had remembered it, I was sitting on the seat that overlooked the lake, wondering what it might have been like to like in such a house.  Allie had taken me on a guided tour, the house now a museum of sorts, where the family occupied the upper floors and the museum the lower, including that incredible library.

She was sitting next to me, the rock that had got me through a fairly traumatising day.

Shock number three:  She handed me an envelope with my name on it.  “We had to wait until your father died before it could be delivered.  It is a letter all of us in our generation, got when our grandfather died.”

“I’m surprised he considered me part of the family.”

“You were, and are, despite your father’s best efforts.  He knew about you, and everything you have done, until the day he died.  You can read it, or I can summarise it if you like.”

“You can tell me, I’m just too overwhelmed to read anything at the moment.”

“As you wish.  In essence, you and 7 of us, own equal shares in the old building over there.”  She nodded in its direction.  “You have a suite of rooms set aside, as each of us has, and a job helping in running the museum.  He particularly thought you would like to run the library and the research department.  There are a lot of historical documents, and books that are considered invaluable to researchers who come here from all over the world.  You might not want to, but the rest of us would love it if you did.  And there’s a pot of gold, literally at the end of the rainbow.  You can, if you so desire, become very, very wealthy.  Or just take an annuity as I do.  Too much money makes me anxious.  Now, you can stay in your rooms tonight, for as long as you want, and tomorrow we will all sit around the table and just talk.”

Just then I saw her turn towards the driveway and heard a car arriving.  She smiled.  “We also thought it might be too overwhelming on your own so we asked Wendy to come.  I hope you don’t mind?”

It was odd because she was on my mind at that exact moment she arrived, and exactly the person I wanted to see.

As I crossed the lawn and reached the car as she got out, and saw the house, there was a look of recognition, surprise and something else I couldn’t place.

“Is this where you grew up?” she asked.

“No.  I’d only seen it once when I was ten when my parents came to attend my grandmother’s funeral.  Why?”

“Because this is very, very familiar.  I lived here with my mother until I was fifteen when she died and I was sent to live with my aunt in New York.  I remember a day when a boy came, and stayed in the library, and refused to come and play with me.  I was seven, I think, at the time.  It means I’ve known you forever, even if I did hate you to pieces then.  What a remarkable coincidence.”

“Serendipity,” Allie said.  “Welcome home, the both of you.”

…

©  Charles Heath 2023

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 25

This is an old chateau at the foot of a skiing area on the north island of New Zealand. It was once predominately advertised as a guest house for hikers in the summer months.

chateautongoriro

However, with fertile imaginations, we can come up with a whole different scenario.

Like, for instance, a haunted house, owned by an old and some might say creepy family, a place where few are invited, and those that are, approach the front door with trepidation.

It could be the family estate, the sort of place grandparents live, and their children consider themselves lucky to have escaped and their children, in turn, hate going there.

Of course, the opposite to that is that everyone loves going there for the holidays when the whole family gets together.

Then, a murder occurs…

It might also be a hotel in an unusual backdrop, where fugitives come to hide, or just one person from the city, trying to get away from a bad partner, or someone working there seeking a fresh start.

The truth is, there are any number of possibilities.