The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — I is for Imagination

…

I was told once that I lacked imagination.

It cost me a relationship and my dream job, and it still hurt.

The thing is, in a situation where, if I could have thought outside the box, it would have saved lives, particularly Sharon’s, the woman I was supposed to marry three days after the event that ended her life.

And, it was my fault. I accepted responsibility, lost my job, and rightly or wrongly, spent five years of my life in jail, perhaps not the worst thing to happen to me.

What was worse was the knowledge I could have prevented it, and saved her life and five others. That was harder, almost impossible to live with. I had never imagined what it would be like without her, because I never imagined I’d fail.

Now I could not imagine what it would be like on the outside, back in the world again, with nothing.

“So Ken, ready to take that giant step for mankind?”

Louie, one of several prison guards I’d got to know over the time I’d been incarcerated, had already delivered my stuff after breakfast after I’d said my goodbyes, and had come back to take on that last journey to the front gate

“You do realise that a high percentage of inmates re-offend within a month or two. It’s a hard world out there, full of hate and distrust. Easier just to re-offend and come back to safety.”

“I don’t intend to come back.” There were 9 other reasons why I didn’t want to return, and one big one. Lodge. He only had one name, and he didn’t need another. Survival in those first few months had been my primary concern, and he tried to make it his.

I’d been expecting a visit at breakfast, to let me know it was not safe on the outside, and that I would get my just desserts. People like Lodge did not like to lose, and he had simmered for years. Luckily he would never see the outside again.

He didn’t arrive, perhaps because they locked him up but he’d made the threat before.

“They all say that, but we’ll see. Let’s go “

Some say the air is different on the outside, but it wasn’t. The jail complex was in the middle of a large open space, miles from anywhere. It was there so even if someone escaped they would have to traverse at least a mile in the wide-open surroundings.

No one had escaped. Ever.

Outside the gate was a visitor parking area, much larger than needed, and the sun beating down on the concrete made it at least 10 degrees hotter

Louie opened the gate and waved his hand, the invitation to leave the confines of the jail. He was right. Despite Lodge, it had become a safe haven, and I wasn’t looking forward to going home.

There were too many memories there, so I’d planned to go somewhere where no one knew who I was. I just wanted to become invisible.

“Are you expecting anyone?” He asked.

“There is no one who would want to see me. They’re all probably still angry I only got five years.”

“Like I said, it’s an ugly world out there. There’s a bus in about ten minutes. Goes to the nearest town. From there you can go anywhere. Have a nice life, Jack.”

“You too Louie “

The 50-yard walk to the bus stop was like trudging through head-high water, and by the time I got to the stop I was sweating profusely.

Five minutes, I saw a lone car coming along the road and then turning off the road to come to the jail. A visitor. There weren’t very many of those people in this jail. I didn’t get one the whole time I was there. My family, mother, father, brother, and sister had effectively disowned me. They hadn’t even bothered to come to the trial.

It was not unexpected. They had disapproved of my choice of Sharon and were not coming to the wedding. I know she was disappointed.

The car slowed and turned into the car park then slowly made its way to the bus stop. Was someone else being released today?

It stopped just past the bus’s designated spot and a driver just sat there. A woman, perhaps the wife or girlfriend of one of the inmates.

Five minutes, then she got out. She started walking towards me, with a familiar shape and gait. It couldn’t be Sharon, but Sharon said she had a sister who’d moved away, who hated her family, and who had been all but exorcised from their collective memory.

Perhaps the fact she worked for the FBI might have had something to do with it because my father had told me Sharon’s family were nothing more than a bunch of petty criminals, and that I should have known better, as fellow law enforcement myself. Perhaps I should have told him that love makes us blind. The real answer, I didn’t care.

Perhaps I should have.

“Jack Orville?”

I stood. “Yes.”

“I’m Louise Ranchess, Sharon’s sister, the one they never speak of. I’ve been investigating your case.”

“Not much use, unless your family wants me to spend the rest of my life in that place behind me. Is that why you’re here?””My family were murdered about a year after you were incarcerated. Some might say it was just desserts, but none should die like that. Your case and theirs are linked, and I’ve been waiting for your release. I think you were set up. Sharon called me the night she died, said she had something for me, and that her life was in danger. I ignored that call.”

“I simply made a wrong call. And I doubt Sharon was doing anything other than messing with you. She said she loved winding you up. There’s no conspiracy here. I’m sorry for the loss of your family.”

“You were law enforcement.”

“A small county deputy, at the bottom of the ladder. Traffic violations, and petty crimes.”

“Didn’t you realize the Sherriff was corrupt?”

“He was popular. People bought him stuff, and treated him nicely because he kept them safe.”

She snorted. “Paid handsomely to look the other way. He was responsible for your debacle. He had you put on the case, no doubt saying it was your first big case on the road to bigger and better things. It should have been handled by his specialist officer, not an inexperienced rookie.”

I remembered that speech, tied to the fact I was about to be married, and the job was the stepping stone to providing my bride with everything she deserved. He knew where he was sending me and whom it involved, knowing my thinking would be compromised by my feelings. I also remembered him saying at the review afterwards he had no idea she would be at the crime scene, and by the time he realised it and arranged for another officer to take over it was too late. It was an outcome he wanted because by them I had growing suspicions of his corruption and had followed him on several occasions only to find him secretly meeting members of rival crime families. I thought he was trying to solve their differences, but it was more likely he was taking bribes to inform each of them to the other. How else could he afford a ski lodge at Aspen?

“He wanted you out of the way Jack. Long enough to finish what he started and retire as a very rich man. I didn’t like my family nor did I like Sharon very much, but they were my family and they died horribly. I can’t help them now, but you were wrongly jailed and I can do something about that. I just need your help.”

“I’m an ex-con and you’re FBI aren’t you?”

She nodded. “But treated with kid gloves because of my family. After 10 years I’m still trying to prove to them I can be trusted. I just need to break one big case.”

In the distance, I could see the bus coming. Do I take it and get on with the rest of my life, ir do I accept the offer of getting justice for being wronged, ironically getting help from Sharon’s sister? Had someone suggested this as a possible outcome of five years in jail I would have laughed at them.

Even now it seemed unbelievable. No one had cared five years ago, all everyone wanted was a rapid conviction. I had considered the Sheriff was the only one who would benefit the most from my jailing, but was too lost in grief to do anything about it, and as time passed I didn’t let it eat me up.

No point. Even now it would be just a case of his word against mine, and who would listen to an ex-con. I doubted having Louise on my side would carry much sway, given her family connection. It would just be viewed as revenge.

“My help would not be a help.”

“You want him to get away with it?”

“You know how it works. Ex-con versus respected law officer. And your boss will look at the family connection, and come to the same conclusion.”

“Not if we get solid evidence.”

“And how do we do that?”

“He’s sitting in a special room waiting to tell us, right now. I just need you to ask the right questions.”

I turned and looked at the jail behind me, and then at the bus turning off the main road. This was a recipe for disaster. I could tell from the heightened state of her manner and the octave-higher voice that there was more to this story. Something was not right.

The bus was turning into the carpark. The jail was beckoning, and would no doubt be happy to swallow me back into the fold and prove Louie right. I knew instinctively if I got in that car with her, it would be the ticket that would put me back inside.

“You have about 30 seconds to tell me the truth.”

She looked me up and down, trying to decide if I could be trusted. Considering where we were standing, it wasn’t hard.

“He’s tied up, literally. The bastard knows everything, and we can get it. Believe me, with or without you, he’s going to tell me everything.”

I didn’t doubt the sincerity of that statement, whether or not I believed she was unhinged or not. Perhaps I would be the voice of reason because right now this woman was off the reservation.

Another look at the prison, then the bus, almost upon us, then, decision made. “Let’s go. Tell me what this is about on the way.”

For better or worse I’d made my bed. I just hope I wouldn’t live to regret it.

…

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’.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 46

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

It was all over in the blink of an eye. The swat team had secured the scene, zip ties, and shoved me into a corner with two burly men standing over me, guns ready in case I tried to escape.

Before the next wave, I had time to consider what just happened. Obviously, Dobbin or Jan had set the scene. She lied about being able to track Maury, they found him, brought him back to the room, tortured him, and then killed him. The few seconds I had to look at the body showed signs of intense interrogation.

A side benefit was to stitch me up for the crime. The fact the police were at the door a minute after I’d arrived meant they had been waiting for me to come back. That pointed to Jan as the informant.

But to what end. If they considered I was the only one who could find the USB, why let me get caught by the police.

Jennifer would be safe. She had been in the foyer a full ten minutes before I arrived, and was sitting in a corner when I passed her. If they knew she was involved, she would have been missing. Hopefully, she would have seen the swat team arrive, and leave.

A few minutes after the swat leader spoke into his two-way radio, a middle-aged woman and a young man in his late 20’s arrived, the woman first, the young man behind her. A Detective Chief Inspect, or Superintendent, and Detect Sergeant. He was too well dressed to be a constable,. One old, one new.

The young man spoke to the swat leader, the woman surveyed the scene, looked at the body, then at me, shaking her head slightly.

I tried to look anonymous if not invisible. The fact they had found no ID on me would not count well for my situation, or so I had been told. Nor was the fact I preferred not to speak.

Never volunteer information.

A nod from her and the two swat guards took several steps back. She pulled a chair over from the side of the bed, and once three feet away, sat down.

“I’m told you are refusing to answer any questions.”

“Refusing to answer and simply not talking is not the same thing.”

“You do speak.”

“When appropriate.”

“What are you doing here?”

“This is my room, along with a young lady, who as you can see, is not here. That much you should have gleaned from the front desk.”

She pulled a card out of her pocket. “Alan, and Alice Jones. Not your real names I suspect., nor very original. Do you know who the man on the bed is?”

“He told me his name is Maury, not sure of his first name, but that wasn’t his real name. His other name was Bernie Salvin, but that might also be a fake. He was one of two men who were in charge of my training.”

“For what?”

“I suspect it might be above your pay grade.”

If she was shocked at that statement she didn’t show it. In fact, I would not be surprised if she had suspected it was likely it had to do with the clandestine security services. Torture victims were not an everyday occurrence, or at least I hoped for her sake they weren’t.

She gave a slight sigh. “And who do you work for?”

“There’s the rub. I have no idea. I’ve just been caught in the middle of a bloody awful mess.”

The second rule is always to tell the truth, or as close to it as possible so you don’t have to try and remember a web of lies, and trip yourself up at later interviews. And keep it simple.

“So, no one I should be calling to verify who you are?”

“No. Not unless you can revive the man on the bed. I’m only new, been on the job after training for about a week. I was part of a team running a surveillance exercise when a shop exploded and the target disappeared. I’ve been trying to find out what happened.”

Her expression whanged, telling me she was familiar with the event.

“Do you find out anything?”

“Only that the would be a body in the shop, a journalist, that was trying to hand over some sensitive information. I have no idea what it was, or who he was. The target, whom I suspected was there for the handover, is now also dead. So, quite literally, two dead ends. Do I look like someone who could do that to a man?” I nodded in the direction of the body.

“You’d be surprised who was capable of what. Do you have a real name?”

“I do, but I won’t be telling you. You have my work name, that’s as much as I can volunteer.”

“A few days in a dank hole might change that.”

“A few days in a dank hole would be like a holiday compared to the week I’m currently having.”

She smiled, or I thought it was a smile. “I daresay you might.”

There was a loud noise and some yelling coming from outside the door. A man burst into the room, two constables in his wake.

A man I didn’t recognize.

She stood. “Who are you?”

“Richards, MI5.” He showed her a card, which she glanced at. She’d no doubt seen them before.

“We’ll be taking over from here.”

“This person?” She nodded her head in my direction.

“Leave him. We’ll take care of him.”

“Johnson, Jacobs, let’s leave the room to them. We’re done here. Places to be, gentlemen.” She nodded in my direction. “Good luck, you’re going to need it.”

…

“The Devil You Don’t”, she was the girl you would not take home to your mother!

Now only $0.99 at https://amzn.to/2Xyh1ow

…

John Pennington’s life is in the doldrums. Looking for new opportunities, and prevaricating about getting married, the only joy on the horizon was an upcoming visit to his grandmother in Sorrento, Italy.

Suddenly he is left at the check-in counter with a message on his phone telling him the marriage is off, and the relationship is over.

If only he hadn’t promised a friend he would do a favour for him in Rome.

At the first stop, Geneva, he has a chance encounter with Zoe, an intriguing woman who captures his imagination from the moment she boards the Savoire, and his life ventures into uncharted territory in more ways than one.

That ‘favour’ for his friend suddenly becomes a life-changing event, and when Zoe, the woman who he knows is too good to be true, reappears, danger and death follow.

Shot at, lied to, seduced, and drawn into a world where nothing is what it seems, John is dragged into an adrenaline-charged undertaking, where he may have been wiser to stay with the ‘devil you know’ rather than opt for the ‘devil you don’t’.

newdevilcvr6

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — J is for Journal

…

I remember the last conversation I had with my father the day he died.

It had taken three months of my life, giving up everything to make sure his last days were bearable, all with the expectation that it would be a thankless task he would not appreciate. Three months of dismissive retorts, insults, insufferable behaviour, cryptic comments, and sometimes, in less lucid moments, ramblings about places he’d been, and discoveries made.

Neither of my brothers wanted anything to do with him, other than to wait for the selfish bastard to die and leave them their sufferance money, their expectation of an incalculable inheritance, and it was left to me, the youngest son, and in their eyes the one he cared about the most to take responsibility.

I didn’t have the heart, nor was I given the opportunity, to tell them I was not the golden boy they thought I was. Or the fact there was no incalculable inheritance.

But there was that conversation, one I never expected to have.

I’d left the room for a break, heading to the hospital cafeteria for coffee and a croissant. Amelia, one of two dedicated nurses looking after my father, was there, having a coffee before she started her shift. We had become friends of a sort, each other’s go-to person when my father unravelled on us.

Yesterday’s revelations were about his will, and which one, if there was one, was current. His mind changed weekly, including who was in and who was out, which made it especially interesting because he sometimes didn’t remember any of all of us. Or the fact his wife, our mother, had died twenty years before after being dragged along on one of his archaeological adventures.

Yesterday, I was getting nothing, his rant about the child, not knowing I was in the room with him. He simply didn’t recognise me. Everything, he said, was going to Elroy, the eldest brother, who, apparently, was in the room with us.

The brain tumour was affecting him more each passing day, and symptoms and behaviour the doctors had told me from the outset, would demonstrate indescribable and at times confronting behaviour. I think, in that three months, I’d seen it all.

“Another day, not another million dollars, eh Steven?” She smiled. She’d caught the last of the spray he gave me. She was amused by my eligibility as a so-called wealthy bachelor, which changed from week to week. This week, it was zero wealth, no eligibility.

“I was hoping to propose, but once again, I can’t afford the ring, the wedding, or the honeymoon.”

“You know what I expect, a soda can ring pull, my parent’s backyard, and a B and B in Yonkers. If I’m lucky. My parents might charge rent for using their backyard.”

We joked about it, but I’d thought more than once in the last few weeks to ask her on a date, but after telling me about her last breakup and the horrid man, she’d sworn off dating for life. She was the only light in days of darkness.

“Everything comes to he or she who waits. I’m sure the right one is out there somewhere.”

“We can only hope. He had a quiet night, I’m told, and the end is near. Twice the night nurse had thought he’d died. Maybe he’s finally done.”

I could only hope. “Got anything lined up for the weekend?”

She grimaced. I knew that look. Duty and obligation led to an inquisition.

“Going home to visit mum and dad, and see the perfect sisters with their perfect families, each with their perfect husband with perfect jobs, and why I’m not married, have no children in a dead-end job. I sometimes wonder if I should ask you to pretend to be my perfect husband just to get them off my back. What do you think?”

It was an idea that sent a shiver through me when it shouldn’t.

“I’m not perfect.”

“Nobody is, Steven, except in my family. Tell you what, the more I think about it….” Then she shook her head. “I think I’m going mad. I’ll see you later.” She rushed off, and I was not sure if she was late starting or embarrassed by thinking out loud.

It was an idea. Maybe I’d mention it later.

I opened the curtains covering the windows and looked at the frail man either asleep or feigning sleep. It was hard to tell. He was, after the ravages of age and illness, now only a fraction of what he used to be, a big, strong force of nature.

I arranged the array of newspapers I’d brought with me, just in case he wanted me to read stories from them, or just one. I had several Dickens novels, which I’d read to him at night. He liked the classics and Dickens in particular. I had a bottle of scotch, which we had a drink of sometimes. Other times, I was not allowed because he thought I was too young. It was amusing.

Every morning was a waiting game, where I would wait until he spoke to me unless one of the medical staff interrupted this charade. It seemed to amuse him, and because he was dying, I played along.

Reading the newspaper while waiting, I found a story on page 6 of the local rag, my father’s description of it because he had never anything nice to say about it, or the reporting because the editor was an arch enemy if his, about his impending demise, and how he had been the counties most distinguished archaeologist and celebrity. It refrained from mentioning he could be and often was abrasive.

“Alfred Biggins in serious condition.” Followed by a catchy subtitled, “Not expected to live.”

It was rather a belatedly written story written by a friend, of sorts; “stodgy”, so named because his journalistic talent was simply writing the facts. It was a mishmash of everything he’d got from me in a bar the previous Friday in what he thought was a well-disguised interrogation. It was not. Having every intention of trying to keep the wolves from the door, I managed to head off an assassination piece; those would come from various sources after his death.

“Is that you, Steven?” My father was awake, and I braced myself.

I put the paper down and looked over to see him sitting up. If I was to guess, he didn’t look ill or half mad at all, just his usual self. “It is me. What can I get you?”

“Nothing I can’t get for myself. What are you doing here? What am I doing here?”

OK. Something was very wrong here. This person in the bed was not my father. “You have a brain tumour and you’ve been in a very bad way. In fact, the night nurse had thought you’d died. Twice.”

“Died? Brain tumour? There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.”

Then I remembered what the doctor had said a month or so ago when we went through a similar phase. This moment of clarity wouldn’t last.

“Dad, believe me, you are unwell, and this is just a temporary remission. The doctor will be here soon and will explain it.”

“Then if I’m ill as you say, where are your brothers?”

“They wanted nothing to do with you once you were put in here. They delegated me to keep you company. I’m sure you don’t remember any of this, but it’s been three months now, and it’s getting worse.”

He shook his head and went quiet. It was as if he was taking in the enormity of it, or just that he didn’t believe it could happen to him. A few minutes passed, and I wondered if he had slipped back into the fog.

Then he opened his eyes and looked at me. “Yes. Some of it I remember, firstly going down like a sack of potatoes in Cairo, waking up in some damn hospital with a witch doctor trying to peer into my soul. Said I had a tumour and it needed to be seen to, said I had six months, at best to live. Of course, I laughed at him, came home, and then the last thing I know was falling over in the study at home.”

“It’s where I found you. It was a day before I came home. Scared the living hell out of me.”

“How long since that day?”1

“Three months almost to the day.”

“Plus the three before that, that’s the six months. I’m on borrowed time. There’s a journal in the study. I don’t remember where I put it, but it’s in a safe place. If I remember before I die, I’ll tell you, but I think that’s a long shot at best. The will is in a copy of the 1933 Guide to Touring Egypt. Basically the money goes to the other two, and the house goes to you. They don’t need a house and they’d only sell it if I left it to them. The money with more than compensate them. I should change it and leave the money to a lost dog’s home, but it’s too late. I’m sorry for a lot of things Steven, but what’s in the journal will make up for everything. Two things, don’t tell anyone about it, or what’s in there. Ever. The other, watch out for Professor Moriarty. Yes, I know it sounds stupid because he’s a foe of Sherlock Holmes, but I’m not joking. The man is dangerous. and he’s after the same thing you are. Now, be a good boy and get me some cold water.”

I looked at him, trying to fathom if he was having me on. It wouldn’t surprise me. Whether or not this was one of those lucid moments, or he was just a very good actor, I couldn’t tell. But Professor Moriarty? Please. That was where I drew the line. I took the jug and headed to the cold water dispenser.

Amelia passed as I was filling the jug. “How is he today?”

“The weirdest thing. Until he mentioned Professor Moriarty, I thought he’d woken and was lucid again. Certainly, the conversation was better than anything we’d had before, even before being admitted to the hospital.”

“Maybe some of it was, and his mind just wandered. Ask him again when you see him. I’ll be there soon.”

I’d just picked up the jug when I heard a scream, and it sounded like it came from my father’s room. I left the jug and ran. I arrived at the same time as the doctor and two nurses, to see him trying to get out of bed, yelling, “He’s trying to get me, he’s trying to get me, Help.” He was literally fighting the doctor and nurse off.

Suddenly he went limp in their arms, and they managed to get him back on the bed. With one look at him, the doctor immediately checked for a pulse. A minute later, with a shake of the head, he looked at the clock on the wall. “Time of death, 8:43 am.” He turned to me. “Your father just passed. I’m sorry for your loss. We’ll give you a moment alone with him.”

It grieved me in the sense that I had not been with him in his last moments alive. But, it also surprised me that I didn’t feel more now that he was dead. All those years of making us children a second priority perhaps had made us more immune from his loss than it should. I sat for a minute and held his hand, quite cold, but not because of death. His hands had always been cold.

It was then I noticed the piece of paper under the pillow, just showing. I pulled it out. He must have made a note in those moments of clarity.

I pulled it out and read it.

“If I am dead, then leave. Now. Don’t wait around because it will only invite trouble. Go home. Look for the journal. Trust no one.”

I might have ignored that note had it not for the sound of raised voices coming from the nurse’s station, one being a man who was demanding to see my father.

A last look at him, a memory of a man who no longer looked like my father, and I left. Just about to leave by the side exit I could hear the doctor saying, “You cannot be here, Professor Moriarty, and if you persist, I will call the police.”

…

A pleasant Sunday morning in suburbia

All I wanted was a cup of coffee.

OK, I could have made one, I have a Nespresso machine, purchased after watching an inspiring George Clooney advertisement (well, my wife bought it) but I was after something with a little more oomph!

We have a small shopping centre just up the road about a kilometer and I thought, what’s five minutes and a short drive against a cup of hot, steaming, delicious to the last drop, coffee?

That’s where any semblance of sanity ends.

I walked out the back door, and forgot the car keys, so I had to go back in. The door opens and the cat gets out. Not so bad you think, but no, after three road kills, the cat getting out is a major catastrophe (pardon the pun).

Ten minutes later, cornered like a rat in a trap, he is back inside, I have the keys, and out in the car. It’s a hot day, and the air conditioning isn’t working. Damn. It’s like 45 degrees Celsius in the car.

This is the time to give up and go back inside. The omens are telling!

I don’t.

Our driveway is up a slight hill and usually we back the cars up so it’s easier to drive out onto the street. We live in a corner house, and whilst it is not a busy intersection, it has been known for cars to treat it like the third chicane of a grand prix. Late at night cars have rolled trying to make that tight corner.

I’m reversing off the driveway, too lazy the previous day to back it up, and you guessed it, Enzo Ferrari’s brother is making heavy weather in the third chicane and takes the corner wide, sliding across to the other side of the street, a) because he’s going too fast, and b) because he just saw me backing out of my driveway.

I’m having a heart attack and waiting for the bang, and he’s rapidly accelerating, smoke pouring from streaming tyres, and engine roaring in first or second as the revs pass 9000 and are redlining.

Disaster averted. One speed junkie and daredevil happy, one old man shaken to the core.

So far I’ve travelled 10 metres.

On the radio the station is playing the James Bond theme from ‘You Only Live Twice’.

Apt, very apt.

I am now very sedately driving to the shopping centre, the road following a wide curve. Nothing can go wrong here, until I reach the T intersection. I stop like I do every time, and look. No cars from the left, and one opposite me, turning into my street.

I start to turn. The car opposite decides to do a U Turn, and I slam the foot on the brakes. The driver of the other car is oblivious to me, happily chatting on her mobile phone. Didn’t stop, didn’t look, didn’t care.

My heart rate is now 170 over 122, and perhaps I should be clinically dead.

Coffee is the last thing I need.

But I persevere. How much worse can it get?

The shopping centre is not far, up to the roundabout and a right turn into the shopping centre car part. Usually there are plenty of parking spots, today there a none. I drive down one of the lanes, and nearly get hit but a reversing driver. Again, not looking, or perhaps distracted by four children in the back seat.

Or the very, very loud music coming from the car.

I thought at first it was the pounding of my headache, brought on by high blood pressure.

I back up the car a) top give the driver more room to reverse out, and b) so I could turn into the spot when he vacates it.

More fool me. The car backs out, another driver swoops in and takes the spot.

I get out to remonstrate, but he’s three feet wide and seven feet tall with a scarred face and tattoos on both arms. Time to move on.

Yes, there’s nothing like a tall hot steaming cup of coffee on a pleasant Sunday morning.

In hell!

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 23

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Whilst in reality these steps go down to a very narrow space of the beach, and scattered rocks in the shallow water, so much more could be inspired by this photograph.

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Further out that day, divers were out exploring about 100 yards offshore.

But, to me, it what you don’t see that gives it its fascination.

We could be anywhere along a 1,000-mile shoreline, one side a small village lazily gets through the day, on the other, a deserted and overgrown picnic spot that no one ever comes to anymore since the bypass road was built.

But it is not any of those. it’s in Mornington, Victoria, Australia, the pier that is not far from a small park, and that day, very, very busy.

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It simply goes to show that sometimes a photograph can provide enough information to inspire a story.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to see the planets – Episode 5

We managed to get out of the space dock without a scratch…

…

We’re moving slowly beyond the space dock, heading through clear space.

We had seen people inside the wings of the dock, lining the passage windows watching the big ship depart. In olden days, on earth, when a ship left port, people on the dock would remain connected to the passengers by streamers, until the ship started to move away.

It was impossible to do that in space.

But, it was a notable day, the first of its type, heading out into the known, and, later, the unknown if the shakedown worked out.

The captain had decided despite the success of the trials, that he wanted to have one more trial, this time putting the crew through their paces.

I looked sideways, one eye still on the screen, now showing three possible midrange destinations, and on the Captain, also looking at the screen.

Uranus was about 2.8 billion kilometres.

Neptune, where our orders were to go, was 4.5 billion kilometres.

I had done the rough calculations on time to destination, in round numbers, basing the speed of light, what we regarded as SSPD 1,000. That was in km’s about 1.8 billion kilometres an hour, give or take.

Our first ships were under SSPD 1, and the series before this ship had a maximum of SSPD 1.25, which in understandable numbers was about 1,349,063 km per hour. Our ship was capable of SSPD 5.

So, given that our previous fastest ship could move at a maximum of SSPD 1.25, the time it would take to the first destination at SSPD 2 (no one ever travelled at maximum) was a little over 86 days, and to Neptune about 139 days.

In this ship if we were to hit SSPD 4.5, the same time frames would be 24 days and just over 38.5 days.

“Check the co-ordinates for Neptune and once we’re clear of the dock and given clearance, let’s start her out slowly on SSPD 2.

The helmsman checked the co-ordinates and set the speed. “Co-ordinates and speed set, awaiting clearance.”

“Very good. Best have a seat Number One, just in case.”

“Yes, sir.” I took a last glance at the screen, now only showing Neptune on the long-range scanner, and sat.

“Adventurer, you’re cleared for departure.” The voice of the dock master came over the speakers.

No need for further orders, the helmsman pushed the button below his screen, there was a slight lurch, and we were under way.

Next stop Neptune.

…

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 44

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.

There was a clock tower not far from the hotel, and I heard it strike 12 midnight. It was time to go home before I turned into a pumpkin. Or perhaps I didn’t quite have it right. It didn’t matter. I needed sleep and it wasn’t going to happen here.

Nadia was being a temptress and not even realizing it.

“You need me on your team. I know the inside of the mall like the back of my hand.”

It didn’t surprise me. She used to run with a group of girls who could give Alex and Vince a run for their money in being cruel. I was positive now that she was in the mall at the same time we were, and quite possibly following us. After what Alex said earlier, there were going to be a lot of people following each other.

“You know where the bodies are?”

A slight hesitation before she said, “I might.”

The question was whose bodies. Missing girls, Benderby’s enemies. Certainly not the archaeologist, but if there was a torture chamber down there, maybe some clues that would point the police in the right direction.

“Well, tempting as that sounds, but no.”

“What if I told you I think I know where they tortured that archaeologist guy.”

“Why would they, in fact, it’s the one thing in all of this that puzzles me. Rico might have had a reason simply because he’s little more than a blunt instrument, not an extractor of information, that required a little more refinement than he’s, and the Benderby’s, what on earth could he know that they needed it from him.”

“Try the exact contents of this so-called treasure.”

“No one could possibly know what that pirate, whatever his name was, actually had?”

Not unless he was with the captain when he buried it, which, of course, unless he was a time traveler, he wasn’t and therefore couldn’t know.

“No one could possibly know that.”

“I beg to differ.”

She knew something we didn’t. This was turning out to be a very interesting day.

“How?”

“Say for instance the pirate had a journal, a ship log I think it’s called, and in that journal, he noted everything he pillaged from all of the ships they attacked.”

“You’ve seen it?” I asked, slightly incredulously. This was the first I’d heard of one, and I doubted Boggs had either unless it was something he was not telling me.

“No.”

“How do you know about it?”

“Vince.”

“He’s pulling your leg. There’s no such journal or log in existence.”

“Oh, there is. That’s what the archaeologist had. And that’s what both Alex and Vince were trying to buy. And when he wouldn’t sell it to Alex, his men went a little too far with their persuasion tactics.”

“I bet Vince wasn’t happy.”

“No. He thinks Alex does know where it is, so they’re playing their games of cat and mouse. But it’s a waste of time. My source tells me the archaeologist never gave up the location of the journal. Both the Benderby’s and the Cossatino’s have been to his house but it was nowhere to be found.”

And if that was the case, then there would be no interior to the house left, one of the other would have stripped the walls in their search. But, if it was true and there was such a journal, two questions came to mind. The obvious was, where was it? The less obvious was why didn’t the archaeologist go looking for the treasure himself?

There was an answer, that he didn’t have the right map.

I cast my mind back to the only time Boggs showed me what he called the real map. It had been folded, and you could see the fold marks that had been there for a long, long time. Was it possible at some point the map was separated from the journal?

Had someone known about the map, and stolen it and rather than the journal?

“I can see the cogs ticking over in your head Smidge. You are going to need me, in the end. Especially if you find the treasure. You’ll want to know what both Vince and Alex are up to, and little old me with be right there between them.”

“You think that Alex doesn’t know what you’re up to?”

“You already know more than you did when you walked in the door. Either of them finds the treasure, I get nothing. You and Boggs find it, maybe I’ll get something. I don’t care what they think.”

She was dangerous, deceptive, and beguiling sometimes all at the same time. This was one of those moments.

“I think Boggs doesn’t entirely trust you, or anyone,” she said.

“That couldn’t possibly surprise you. Look what’s happened to him over the years. No one knows what happened to his father.”

“Maybe we can find out. How about you and I pay the mall a visit. I guarantee it will be a lot more interesting than finding a mannequin.”

Put like that, how could I say no.

The A to Z Challenge – 2023 — J is for Journal