Category: Thriller

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 12

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a 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 prioritising.

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

Was I working for a ghost?

 

I sat in that room for an hour.

I had no doubt someone was on the other side of the mirrored wall, watching me, analysing my body language.  I hoped I hadn’t given any indication that Nobbin was a name that I recognised, or knew, but I was still new to this game, and as much as I tried to perfect it, I still didn’t think I had a poker face.

More than likely I had a ‘tell’.

There was something else I had to worry about, and that was what approach this Dobbin would take.  For instance, did he know that I had met up with the man in the alley, and stretching that big if, did he know who the man in the alley was, and was he one of ours.

Of course, that was another problem I had, and that was recognising who ‘ours’ were.  It seems the people I knew, were not the same people who were really running the place.

Or, paradoxically, were these people, interlopers, trying to get intel on the group I was supposedly working for.  But they hadn’t disavowed me, so I must be working for someone they approved or knew of.

An hour and a half, and I was beginning to think this might be another game by my previous interrogators.  I was glad not to be on the other side of the mirror, trying to work out what I was ‘telling;’ them.  Once, I’d got up and stared directly into the mirror, thinking I might be able to see who was behind it.  I also thought of tapping it to see if I could get a reaction.

And, in fact, I was about to do that very thing when Nobbin walked through the door and closed it behind him.

I saw him do a quick check of the room, from the floor to the roof, and stopping briefly at the mirror, before sitting down.

“We probably have an audience for this discussion,” I said, inclining my head towards the mirror.

“You might be right, but I did ask for a clean slate, and if anyone is considering recording or viewing this interview, there will be dire consequences.”  Looking at the mirror, he added, “I made that very clear at the highest level.”

He then looked back at me.  “Your name, I believe, is Sam Jackson?”

“Yes.”  My current working name, that is.  Once deployed to the field we started using aliases, and my first and current alias was Sam Jackson.  But how they made the passport look old and used for that legend was interesting, yet not a question anyone would answer.

“You were recently assigned to a surveillance team, for this man.”

He’d brought a folder with him and pulled out a photograph of the man I’d cornered in the alley.

“Is that him?”

Was there a right or wrong answer here?

“Yes.”

“Who was leading this operation?”

“A man named Severin.”

“Describe him.

I did.

It evoked no reaction.  Nobbin had a poker face.  In fact, I was beginning to think it was etched in stone.

“Do you know who he is?” I asked.

“No.  But we will find out.  Thank you for your time.”

He stood, gave me one last look, and left the room.

I waited a minute, and then followed him out, where a security officer was waiting to escort me out of the building.

On the steps outside, security pass returned, I wondered if that was then end of my tenure with that organisation.  Or whether I actually had any tenure in the first place.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

A photograph from the inspirational bin – 7

There is always something strange about certain photographs that is not evident when you take them.

For instance, the photograph above.

While this might look like some vegetation by the side of a river or stream, its that are of blackness behind what looks like steps up from the water level that adds a level of intrigue or mystery.

For instance:

…

We had spent two weeks slowly going upriver looking for a needle in a haystack. It was an apt description, because there had been quite a large number of likely spots, all of which after investigation, came to nothing.

I mean, the description Professor Bates had given is was as hazy as day is long in these parts.

His recollection: that it was what looked like a cave behind lush undergrowth, with steps fashioned out of stone.

It was all the more confuse. Because when we found him, he was drifting on a rough hewn and constructed raft, half dead from dehydration. We were told he’d been on the raft for nearly a week.

That meant the cave could be anywhere between where we found him at the 10 mile mark, and 200 miles further on based on river flow.

We were currently at the 150 mile mark and the river was losing depth and width, and soon there would not be enough water to continue in the boat.

It was dusk and too dark to continue. We’d been enthusiastic those first days, continuing on in the dark, on shifts, using the arc lamps.

Then after a week, having lights on made us target practise, and after sever brushes with death, and the loss of all the bulbs being shot out, we got the message.

There was the odd marauder during the day, but we had the width of the river for safety.  Now that had gone too, and we had lookouts posted, but seeing into the dense jungle was difficult.

But we got through another night with no activity, and come morning, what looked like the entrance to a cave was not fifteen feet from us.

All we had to was row over and check.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2021

Writing about writing a book – Day 31

I’ve been toiling away in the attic putting the pieces together and continuing to get the story written.

This means I’ve almost got Chapter 2 somewhere near the first draft, or maybe the second. I didn’t expect it would take this long, but most authors, I suppose, take a year, or more, to write a book.

It’s been hot in the attic and making it hard to think let alone write, but it is a good background for the steamy jungles of Southeast Asia, and it has given me a few more ideas for the background sequences.

I’ll share one or two of those next.

In the meantime, so far so good.

The following is the first musings of what Chapter 2 might read like:

…

The first sign of anything amiss was the three police cars outside the building, parked awkwardly on the plaza in front of the building. Their lights were still flashing, and several policemen were standing near them, talking.

As I went through the front revolving door I could see several uniformed and plainclothes police in the lobby. Two were by the door, perhaps to prevent someone from leaving, one on the desk with two of the building security guards, and another near the elevator lobby.

Temporary barriers had been erected, funnelling everyone through a narrow gap, where building security was checking ID cards and building passes, both of which I handed to one of the guards. These men were new, I hadn’t seen them before, and, when I took a closer look, saw they were from a different security company.

I guess with the shooting of Richardson, our management had decided the existing building security was not good enough. These new men looked a lot tougher if the number of visible tattoos on each was anything to go by, the sort of men I’d call mercenaries or ex-soldiers.

One of them gave me a good look, at my face to see if it was the same as that looking back at him on the ID card. It was not a good photo of me, and it was no surprise he was having difficulty. I’d cut my hair, I was wearing glasses, and I have the makings of a three-day beard.

I had not intended to shave while I was on holiday, and, given the urgent nature of the recall, had no time to do so before coming into the office. Benton could have warned me of the new security arrangements, but it did not surprise me he didn’t.

He called over a friend, not by turning and motioning to him, but by talking into his collar communication device. It was rather pointless, the man he spoke to was no more than 20 feet away. He checked me versus the ID photo and let me pass. Perhaps his eyesight was better.

In the elevator heading up to my floor, 18, I had a few moments to consider the implications. New security meant trouble. It had happened once before, and it caused all manner of trouble for me and my staff. We had been locked out of the server room then.

The elevator jerked to a stop, and the doors opened. Everything looked quiet. I could not see any police or security personnel. But waiting for me in the lobby was Benton’s personal assistant, waiting to tell me that Benton had been dragged off to an emergency meeting, one, she said, that involved share prices or stock exchange announcements. I could not make sense of what she was saying, because his hysteria had become hers. The events of the morning so far had traumatized both of them.

I smiled, trying to be my usual charming self, and then wrote a message on a scrap of paper, and gave it to her to give to him when he returned from wherever he had gone. I was quite sure it was not a meeting. She reminded me Aitchison was still waiting to see me, and then walked off.

I turned and pressed the ‘up’ button, and the doors to the elevator car I’d stepped out of opened.  I stepped in, pressed the button for 59, and the doors closed.  Once again I was alone with my thoughts in an elevator.  I had just enough time to realize that the investigation into Richardson must be more serious than I first thought if the police were still here in numbers.

I thought I might visit the 17th floor after seeing Aitchison, and see what was happening. A decision was still pending when the doors opened, and I stepped out into ‘Fantasyland’.

It was the unofficial nickname we mortals from the lower floors called the Executive levels. They were the top three in the 60-story building. The mortals lived on levels 17 through 22.

This level housed all the Assistant General Managers. We had six. Aitchison was the AGM – Security. Goldstein, who was waiting in the lobby for an elevator, was the AGM – Administration. He was a surly chap near the age of retirement and spent more time on holiday than in the office. Preparing for retirement some said. Others were less charitable.

He nodded in my direction as we passed, I came out of the elevator car, and he went in. The doors closed behind me and I let the silence envelop me.

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2025

Searching for locations: Shaolin Kung Fu, near Zhengzhou City, Henan Province, China

After leaving the hotel in Zhengzhou, which was once one of the eight ancient capitals of China, we are going to Dengfeng city, the home of China’s most famous martial art – Shaolin Kung Fu.

The Shaolin Temple nearby is the origin of Chinese Zen Buddhism, and the Songyang Academy, called “the Centre of Heaven and Earth” is located 87 Km from Zhengzhou, or, as we were advised, a 2-hour drive.  It will be scenic because we are heading towards the mountains.

As one of the four ancient Song Dynasty Academies, Songyang Academy is one of many schools in the province.  It is both on a large scale, is quite spectacular, and is a comprehensive Wushu training base where students are trained to spread the Shaolin Wushu Kung fu style at home and abroad.

There is a 500-seat demonstration hall where you are able to observe 30 minutes of various martial arts in shows starting on the hour.

Outside there is a specific area that generally has about 600 trainees learning kung fu elements during the day but can hold 5,000 people when outdoor performances are required.

The kung fu school

The thing you notice most about the kung fu school is its size and then the number of buses which tells you that it is a popular tourist stop.

And with that size comes long distances between the car park and the venues we need to go to, the first of which is about half a km, and that’s just to get to the ticket plaza.

But, it is pleasantly set out and is quite a large number of shops for both souvenirs and food

We pass by some of the students going through their paces

From there it’s another long, long walk to the show arena, where we’re supposed to see various kung fu elements on display.  We watched this for a few minutes, then headed off towards the hall for a more intense demonstration of kung fu, and because there is limited seating we have to start lining up at the head of the queue to get a seat.

But…

Everyone else has the same idea and we join the throng which then becomes a ride, and true to the Chinese they start finding ways to push in, even using the imaginary friend somewhere ahead in the queue.

The doors open and then it’s open slather, with the hoards pushing from behind and sliding up the side to get in first.  We go with the tide, and manage to get in and find a seat though we were separated from three of our group.

It was an interesting show even though not one word of English was spoken, which from our point of view was a disappointment because we had no idea what was going on.

However…

It wasn’t hard to follow

What the performers were doing was relatively self-explanatory, and quite fascinating, especially the guy who broke a sword over his head, and the guy who stopped two spears penetrating the neck, both examples of very disciplined men.

Boys gave a demonstration of kung fu moves, and intensity and age increased as this progressed to the end.

Next, we were taken in hand by an instructor in Tai chi or an equivalent, I was not quite sure what it was called, and went through the twelve or maybe more moves that constituted a morning or afternoon exercise session or it could be just for relaxation.  I lasted the first session but it was a little difficult to do with my sore limbs and a bad back.

Not that I could remember any of it now other than hands overhead, hands in front, bent knees, and a few gentle kung fu hand moves.

Perhaps when I get home I might seek out someone to show me the moves.

Whilst the others were following their training instructor, I wandered about, finding a large statue

 
And some smaller statues

Lunch in the Zen Restaurant

After all that exercise it was time to have lunch purportedly the same food as the king fu masters.
It’s in the Zen restaurant, aptly named, and the food when it came, came thick and fast, but some of it wasn’t very nice, meat with bones, tofu, a tasteless soup, but some good dishes like the vegetables and noodles with meat, without bones.

The only problem was nothing to drink except a pot of hot water.  No tea, no cold water, and if you wanted a cold drink you had to pay for it.  After paying 550 yuan why should we have to pay more for a drink when we have not had to so far.

But no cold water?  That was just not on, and when we brought this to the attention of the tour guide she just simply ignored us.  We just didn’t get anything.

That basically tainted the whole experience.

After lunch, there was the Shaolin Temple and the Pogoda Forest to visit.

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

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

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

So, what do you do when you are heartbroken?

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

What should have been solace after disappointment, turns out to be something else entirely, and from that point, everything goes to hell in a handbasket.

He suddenly realizes his so-called friend Sebastian has not exactly told him the truth about a small job he asked him to do, the woman he is falling in love with is not quite who she says she is, and he is caught in the middle of a war between two men who consider people becoming collateral damage as part of their business.

The story paints the characters cleverly displaying all their flaws and weaknesses. The locations add to the story at times taking me back down memory lane, especially to Venice where, in those back streets I confess it’s not all that hard to get lost.

All in all a thoroughly entertaining story with, for once, a satisfying end.

…

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

…

Writing about writing a book – Day 31

I’ve been toiling away in the attic putting the pieces together and continuing to get the story written.

This means I’ve almost got Chapter 2 somewhere near the first draft, or maybe the second. I didn’t expect it would take this long, but most authors, I suppose, take a year, or more, to write a book.

It’s been hot in the attic and making it hard to think let alone write, but it is a good background for the steamy jungles of Southeast Asia, and it has given me a few more ideas for the background sequences.

I’ll share one or two of those next.

In the meantime, so far so good.

The following is the first musings of what Chapter 2 might read like:

…

The first sign of anything amiss was the three police cars outside the building, parked awkwardly on the plaza in front of the building. Their lights were still flashing, and several policemen were standing near them, talking.

As I went through the front revolving door I could see several uniformed and plainclothes police in the lobby. Two were by the door, perhaps to prevent someone from leaving, one on the desk with two of the building security guards, and another near the elevator lobby.

Temporary barriers had been erected, funnelling everyone through a narrow gap, where building security was checking ID cards and building passes, both of which I handed to one of the guards. These men were new, I hadn’t seen them before, and, when I took a closer look, saw they were from a different security company.

I guess with the shooting of Richardson, our management had decided the existing building security was not good enough. These new men looked a lot tougher if the number of visible tattoos on each was anything to go by, the sort of men I’d call mercenaries or ex-soldiers.

One of them gave me a good look, at my face to see if it was the same as that looking back at him on the ID card. It was not a good photo of me, and it was no surprise he was having difficulty. I’d cut my hair, I was wearing glasses, and I have the makings of a three-day beard.

I had not intended to shave while I was on holiday, and, given the urgent nature of the recall, had no time to do so before coming into the office. Benton could have warned me of the new security arrangements, but it did not surprise me he didn’t.

He called over a friend, not by turning and motioning to him, but by talking into his collar communication device. It was rather pointless, the man he spoke to was no more than 20 feet away. He checked me versus the ID photo and let me pass. Perhaps his eyesight was better.

In the elevator heading up to my floor, 18, I had a few moments to consider the implications. New security meant trouble. It had happened once before, and it caused all manner of trouble for me and my staff. We had been locked out of the server room then.

The elevator jerked to a stop, and the doors opened. Everything looked quiet. I could not see any police or security personnel. But waiting for me in the lobby was Benton’s personal assistant, waiting to tell me that Benton had been dragged off to an emergency meeting, one, she said, that involved share prices or stock exchange announcements. I could not make sense of what she was saying, because his hysteria had become hers. The events of the morning so far had traumatized both of them.

I smiled, trying to be my usual charming self, and then wrote a message on a scrap of paper, and gave it to her to give to him when he returned from wherever he had gone. I was quite sure it was not a meeting. She reminded me Aitchison was still waiting to see me, and then walked off.

I turned and pressed the ‘up’ button, and the doors to the elevator car I’d stepped out of opened.  I stepped in, pressed the button for 59, and the doors closed.  Once again I was alone with my thoughts in an elevator.  I had just enough time to realize that the investigation into Richardson must be more serious than I first thought if the police were still here in numbers.

I thought I might visit the 17th floor after seeing Aitchison, and see what was happening. A decision was still pending when the doors opened, and I stepped out into ‘Fantasyland’.

It was the unofficial nickname we mortals from the lower floors called the Executive levels. They were the top three in the 60-story building. The mortals lived on levels 17 through 22.

This level housed all the Assistant General Managers. We had six. Aitchison was the AGM – Security. Goldstein, who was waiting in the lobby for an elevator, was the AGM – Administration. He was a surly chap near the age of retirement and spent more time on holiday than in the office. Preparing for retirement some said. Others were less charitable.

He nodded in my direction as we passed, I came out of the elevator car, and he went in. The doors closed behind me and I let the silence envelop me.

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2025

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 – It all started in Venice – Episode 9

Watching the watchers

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We haven’t met before.”

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

“Coincidence, I assure you.”

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

“None.”

“Are you staying at the hotel?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Waiting, not far from the doorstep, was Alfie.

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

“Confused.”

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

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

If only that could shut out all the problems.

“Why are you confused?”

“Has Rodby put another dog on my tail?”

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

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

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

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

“She’s busy.”

“Not that busy that our affairs cone first.”

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

“Still in Sorrento.”

“You will tell me the moment he leaves?”

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

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

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

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

“Have fun then “

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

…

© Charles Heath 2022

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 11

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a 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 prioritising.

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

Just the person to see next

 

I couldn’t imagine what those details were.  But if it was a setup, it was a very elaborate one, by people who knew our systems and procedures.  Naturally, the first thought that sprang to mind, someone who was working here, or used to.

Then I had another thought, what if none of us was meant to survive the operation, and hat we had been selected specifically because we were new to field operations.  At the briefing, we had been told this was simple surveillance, observe and report, nothing more.

Usually we had one experienced member and three new team members, the experienced member was there to continue on the job training and evaluation.  What worried me was that an experienced member could be taken out apparently as easy as the others.

And my money was not on the guy I’d cornered.  Of course, I could be wrong, and no doubt circumstantial evidence would go a long way towards proving that, but in my estimation, a cornered man like he was, with a thirst and talent for killing, would not have hesitated to kill me before I’d got three words out.

I believed him.  He was scared and, now that I thought about it, confused.  That was anything but the m.o. of a conscienceless killer.

The wrinkle that hadn’t been accounted for was the explosion.  No one could have predicted that, or its effect on the operation.  It might well have saved him, except that I didn’t play by the rules and reconnected with him.  Maybe he had felt safe after taking out the others, and assuming I’d been taken down by the explosion.

Except, if I didn’t think he did the killing, who did, and why?  Severin?  Just who the hell is this Severin?  There’s been no indication he wasn’t one of us.

I was pondering that question when the woman returned and sat down again.  This time her stare wasn’t quite as glacial.

“Describe this Severin.”

She opened her notebook, and had her pencil ready.  Odd that she should be taking notes in pencil.

I described him.  Five feet eight inches tall, 250 pounds, thinning black hair, making him anywhere between 35 and 50, though I thought he was mid-forties.  He wore a tweed suit, rather an odd choice for the climate, and had the aroma of cigarette smoke hanging about him.

Every free moment I saw him, he had a cigarette, so I thought he was quite possibly a chain smoker, and from that, perhaps a man with bad nerves, or who worried a lot.  Now I knew he was not one of us, that could be interpreted as thinking he might get caught.

But he was confident, and outgoing, which meant he was quite sure he wouldn’t get caught, and that meant, quite possibly there was someone within our department that was working for or with him and had covered his comings and goings.  Either that or he had a universal passcode key to come and go as he pleased.

When I finished the description I could see a flicker of recognition.  IT was possible she knew who he might be, and if so, I was betting she knew him by another name.  I asked if that was the case.

“You know who this man is, don’t you?”

The stern reproving look returned.  “What makes you think that?”

“I read faces.  Yours is not a poker face.”

“Well, that disappoints me because I like to play poker.  Perhaps the people I play with have a different view.”

“I’m usually a good judge of character.”

“It’s let you down this time.”  She stood.  “Before you go, one of the supervisors here would like a word with you.  His name is Nobbin.  He works out of another office and is coming here directly.  After that, you’re free to go.”

She didn’t wait to say goodbye, and I was glad I managed to keep a straight face long enough.

Nobbin.  Just the man I wanted to see.

 

© Charles Heath 2019

Writing about writing a book – Day 30

I’m having fun with chapter one.

Can you reach a point where you are never satisfied with what you’ve written?

What more can I say?

…

Looking at the mess constituting my room and my life, slob may have been an appropriate description.  I considered myself old, overweight though not necessarily fat, hair graying at the edges, and few wrinkles around the eyes, there were no real pluses in my description.

Some said I had a kindly face, but perhaps I had the look of a paternalistic grandfather.  There were several men in the office who were the same age and had grandchildren.  And some who had children at a time when they should be planning for retirement, not parenthood.

World-weary and perpetually tired, I’d passed the mid-life crisis, wondering what it was that affected other men my age.  Twenty-odd years later, I was still wondering.

I used to think I’d missed a lot in half a lifetime.

Now, I didn’t know what to think.

Did I deserve pity?  No.

Did I deserve sympathy?  No!

The only person who could get me out of the rut was myself.  For years I’d traded on Ellen’s good nature.  She deserved better, left me, and was now happier in the arms of a man who I wanted to believe treated her far better than I.  She had told me so herself, and judging by her manner, it had to be true.  Only recently had she got her smile back, the one that lit her face up, one that infectiously spread happiness to anyone near her.

There were reasons why I became the person I was now.  Some might say they were valid.  In the cold, hard light of dawn, I could see it was time I stopped using my past as a crutch and got on with the business of living.

Perhaps today would be the first day of the rest of my life.

I took the bus rather than drove.  At that hour of the morning, the traffic would be bad, and there would be no parking spaces left.  And I was using public transport more and more, have become accustomed to the convenience.  Time to read the paper, or a good book, or just dream about a different life.

This morning I thought about Ellen.  I hadn’t for a while, but that might have been fueled by the arrival of the divorce papers she wanted me to sign.  I’d had my time to be angry, and disappointed, she’d said, and she was right.  It was time to move on.

And she had stuck by me through thick and thin, coming back from overseas service a basket case after nine months in a POW camp, after a war that was more horrible than anyone could imagine.  Two mental breakdowns, periods of indolence and lassitude, leaving her to bring up the girls on her own.  I had not been a great father, and much less a husband.

I remembered that argument word for word.

I could see the looks of pain in the girl’s faces.

I remembered the hug, the kiss on the cheek, the tears.  It had not been out of hate, but a necessity.  For her and the children.  Until I found some lasting peace, they were better off at arm’s length.  Away from the arguing, the silences, the absences.

And disappointment.

After she left I tried to get my life in order.  Drugs, professional help, alcohol, meditation, then work.

Over ten years ago, it took a year, perhaps a little more before sanity returned.

She did not.

By then I knew she had found someone else, a mystery man, whom neither she would tell me who, and the girls honestly didn’t know.  She’d promised that much, any new man in her life would not get to meet the girls.  And she would tell me, and then when she was ready.

Then, suddenly, the children were no longer children but young adults and out in the world on their own, and I had become more a banker than a father, an observer rather than a participant, and it was as if we were more like ships passing in the night.  And overnight, the ships had sailed to the other side of the world.

My own fault, of course, and a bit late now to change history.  I could see Ellen’s influence over them, her prejudices and dislikes, and their contempt, like their mother, for me, simmering beneath the surface but in fairness to them, I really hadn’t been much of a help as a parent should be.

And now I was getting my life back in order, perhaps I could try and make it up to them, and that first meeting, with them and Ellen, nearly a month ago, had been a step in the right direction.  They’d agreed to see me again, without her, during the holidays, which had now arrived.  All I had to do was make the call and get on a plane.

This mess I was heading into, it would not take long.  I pulled out my phone and after searching for a travel agent near where I worked, I made an appointment to see about going overseas.

She had spoken to me about the divorce papers several days ago, alternately pleading with, and then abusing, me.  There had been some very strong language in the conversation, words I’d thought her incapable of using, but I confess, finally, I didn’t really know her all that well anymore.

Since then I had been calling her to arrange a meeting.  She had not yet replied.  With some distance to go before I reached the office, I tried calling her again.  I was almost glad when she didn’t answer.

…

I never realized just how hard it was to revise and re-write, and how much time it takes.

Perhaps that’s why first novels take so long to write!

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2025