A to Z – April – 2026 – P

P is for – Princess

…

It was a mad dash from the office to the airport, and like most times when it came to personal travel, I just made it, or I was five minutes too late.

Of course, this time, I had a legitimate reason. Because I had to clear the vacation days, I needed to go home and be with my mother, whose health had taken a turn for the worse, and it meant visiting HR.

And in HR was Adeline, the woman I had met at a staff function the week before and had spent a rather interesting evening. I had a strict policy of not dating work colleagues, but for some reason, she seemed different.

It was not a date, and we had parted without any commitment to continue, though something inside me told me it might be worth pursuing.

I had to sign the vacation form, and she was the duty officer at the desk. In the end, I had to run, but she had asked to exchange phone numbers. I had no idea how long I would be gone, a few days or much longer, given my mother’s doctor wasn’t sure himself.

All I knew was that her time was almost up. Stage four cancer was as unpredictable as it was relentless. The only positive is that it has given me the time to get home and spend those last few weeks with her.

My brother and sister were on the other side of the world and wouldn’t be able to make it, though they were trying to get home. The thing was that our mother was not all that keen for them to return. It was an odd response and one I couldn’t understand.

Perhaps I would find out when I got there.

…

On a trip that involved two planes, one made at least a dozen times over the past two years without a glitch, was expected, discounting the circumstances, to be equally as easy.

Wrong.

It was like the universe was trying to tell me something. A surplus bag left behind stopped my outward-bound first flight, delaying it to the point it was scrubbed, and everyone had to return the next day.

That killed the connecting flight, so that when I was finally on the ground, the second flight wasn’t leaving for another eleven hours.

I finally got home two days after I started out. I was glad she was not at death’s door, or I would have missed seeing her alive and have those last few meaningless words we say to people who are dying.

It was a given that I would automatically ask how she was, knowing she was never going to feel well again. And yet there was no stopping us because we had been indoctrinated a long time ago with such human concern.

She was propped up in a comfortable chair by the fire, reading a book when I got there, fighting off the beginnings of a snowstorm, and driving an unfamiliar car.

At best, I was expecting to be snowed in. My mother’s last conversation over the phone while I was waiting for the second plane was upbeat, though I could hear the pain in her voice. She was on regulated morphine shots to manage that same pain.

I dumped my bag at the foot of the stairs and went into the large living space. In winter, it could get very cold, but it was more the views in spring and summer that made up for the other two seasons.

“How could you read a book when the falling snow is so breathtakingly beautiful?”

In more ways than one. The intense cold outside could make breathing difficult. It used to affect me when I was younger.

“Richie, at last.”

I went over and gave her a hug.

Mrs Davis, her carer, came in carrying a tray with tea and coffee. My mother had never acquired the taste for coffee, perhaps because of her family origins in England.

She was, she always said, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, that she should have been a princess, and only the thought of all that pomp and ceremony that came with the title had put her off, running away to America and a different sort of life.

And when we asked her what she meant, she would always say, ‘That’s for me to know and for you to find out’. But it never escaped me that Dad always used to call her his ‘Princess’ with one of his enigmatic smiles, along with their story on how she came second in the Prom Queen stakes and therefore would always be his Princess.

I never understood what he meant, and the others just thought he was simply crazy in love with her.

It was the sort of love I wanted to find, but so far, I had not.

Mrs Davis poured the tea and left us. I sat in the seat beside her, where Dad always sat. It was strange that he always called the living room ‘the throne room’.

“You were lucky. The airport just closed. The snow is going to set in for a few days.”

God’s will, perhaps.

“Any word from the others?” I could see the iPad beside her, a sure sign she had been video conferencing with my brother and sister.

“I told them it’s not urgent. They have obligations and children to consider. Unlike you, free as a bird.”

It was a blessing and, ironically, it was a curse. She had hoped that she would have at least one grandchild from each of her children, and I had disappointed her.

There had been several candidates over the years, but I was not what they were looking for, and in the end, I decided not to try. If it was meant to happen, it would.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’d rather she were perfect for you than second best.”

“You were, according to Dad, and that’s all I ask for.”

“You’re not a second-best sort of person, Richie. She’s out there. You just haven’t met her yet.”

It was the same every time I came home. It saddened me that this would be the last time and that it was going to be hard to remain upbeat.

…

Several weeks passed, and it was very hard to watch her slowly decline. Her bed was set up in the living room, making it easier for her to get from the bed to the seat

A steady stream of visitors showed how much the townsfolk adored her, everyone coming to pay their respects while she had the strength.

Now it was deserting her, so she remained in bed and held court from there. A different colour dressing gown for each day of the week.

Our conversations were of childhood memories, hers and mine, though there were hardly any of mine that she wasn’t aware of, and a whole swathe of hers I had no idea about. I don’t think any of us did, Dad included, and it sounded to me like she had another life before this one. I didn’t believe in reincarnation, but the stories, well, they sounded too real to be just in her imagination.

She had lived a life that was quite literally beyond imagination.

Until…

A few days later, a visitor came. Not your average visitor, but someone who looked vaguely familiar, someone I’d seen before.

Someone who called her mama.

She sat down opposite my mother and took her hand in hers. It was like turning on a light switch and watching the brightness of an illuminated globe light up the room.

“Anastasia?”

“Yes, mama. It is me. It is your time.”

Mother looked at me with watery eyes and a big smile, happy in a way she had not been for a long time. “I asked Anastasia to come see you. I told her you were a good boy.”

Whatever that meant.

She then closed her eyes for so long I thought she had passed, finally content that her time had come, but then she said, with conviction, “You have heard this story a million times, but not quite.”

At first, I thought she was going to tell me one of her fairy tales, but she was not. She had opened her eyes and was looking straight at me.

“What more could there be?” I asked.

“More than you could ever imagine.”

…

Then, it was like a light went on in my head. The woman sitting next to my mother, holding her hand, looking angelic.

The Princess Anastasia. I’d just been reading about her, from some obscure country tucked away in the mountainous region of Europe, a place few knew about and even less could visit.

And then looking between the two, the uncanny resemblance between the two.

“You can see it, can’t you?” Anastasia said.

“You are related.”

“She is my mother, yes. She was banished many, many years ago, and I have only just found her. You are her son. Her dying wish was for you to return to her homeland, and if you honour her dying wish, I will be very happy to take you there.”

My mother looked at me with teary eyes. “Will you?”

“What about the others?”

“Then need not know, and it would be of little concern to them. They are not of your blood. You are the son of a prince and a princess, Richard, and meant for greater things. Please tell me you will return with Anastasia.” She reached out for my hand, and when I took it in mine, it felt cold. Her glow was beginning to fade, and the end was near.

To be honest, I thought she was off her rocker, but the earnestness in her tone, and the fact that I was sitting next to a real, live princess, and apparently my sister. I think I just nodded dumbly.

With that, she passed, and though I was not to know then, a whole new world awaited me.

…

An excerpt from “What Sets Us Apart”, a mystery with a twist

See the excerpt from the story below, just a taste of what’s in store…

http://amzn.to/2Eryfth

whatsetscover

McCallister was old school, a man who would most likely fit in perfectly campaigning on the battlefields of Europe during the Second World War. He’d been like a fish out of water in the army, post-Falklands, and while he retired a hero, he still felt he’d more to give.

He’d applied and was accepted as head of a SWAT team, and, watching him now as he and his men disembarked from the truck in almost military precision, a look passed between Annette, the police liaison officer, and I that said she’d seen it all before. I know I had.

There was a one in four chance his team would be selected for this operation, and she had been hoping it would be one of the other three. While waiting for them to arrive she filled me in on the various teams. His was the least co-operative, and the more likely to make ad-hoc decisions rather than adhere to the plan, or any orders that may come from the officer in charge.

This, she said quite bluntly, was going to end badly.

I still had no idea why Prendergast instructed me to attend the scene of what looked to be a normal domestic operation, but as the nominated expert in the field in these types of situations, it was fairly clear he wasn’t taking any chances. It was always a matter of opinion between us, and generally I lost.

In this case, it was an anonymous report identifying what the authorities believed were explosives in one of the dockside sheds where explosives were not supposed to be.

The only reason why the report was given any credence was the man, while not identifying himself by name, said he’d been an explosive expert once and recognized the boxes. That could mean anything, but the Chief Constable was a cautious man.

With his men settled and preparing their weapons, McCallister came over to the command post, not much more than the SUV my liaison and I arrived in, with weapons, bulletproof vests, and rolls of tape to cordon off the area afterward. We both had coffee, steaming in the cold early morning air. Dawn was slowly approaching and although rain had been forecast it had yet to arrive.

A man by the name of Benson was in charge. He too had groaned when he saw McCallister.

“A fine morning for it.” McCallister was the only enthusiastic one here.

He didn’t say what ‘it’ was, but I thought it might eventually be mayhem.

“Let’s hope the rain stays away. It’s going to be difficult enough without it,” Benson said, rubbing his hands together. We had been waiting for the SWAT team to arrive, and another team to take up their position under the wharf, and who was in the final stages of securing their position.

While we were waiting we drew up the plan. I’d go in first to check on what we were dealing with, and what type of explosives. The SWAT team, in the meantime, were to ensure all the exits to the shed were covered. When I gave the signal, they were to enter and secure the building. We were not expecting anyone inside or out, and no movement had been detected in the last hour since our arrival and deployment.

“What’s the current situation?”

“I’ve got eyes on the building, and a team coming in from the waterside, underneath. Its slow progress, but they’re nearly there. Once they’re in place, we’re sending McKenzie in.”

He looked in my direction.

“With due respect sir, shouldn’t it be one of us?” McCallister glared at me with the contempt that only a decorated military officer could.

“No. I have orders from above, much higher than I care to argue with, so, McCallister, no gung-ho heroics for the moment. Just be ready to move on my command, and make sure you have three teams at the exit points, ready to secure the building.”

McCallister opened his mouth, no doubt to question those orders, but instead closed it again. “Yes sir,” he muttered and turned away heading back to his men.

“You’re not going to have much time before he storms the battlements,” Benson quietly said to me, a hint of exasperation in his tone. “I’m dreading the paperwork.”

It was exactly what my liaison officer said when she saw McCallister arriving.

The water team sent their ‘in position’ signal, and we were ready to go.

In the hour or so we’d been on site nothing had stirred, no arrivals, no departures, and no sign anyone was inside, but that didn’t mean we were alone. Nor did it mean I was going to walk in and see immediately what was going on. If it was a cache of explosives then it was possible the building was booby-trapped in any number of ways, there could be sentries or guards, and they had eyes on us, or it might be a false alarm.

I was hoping for the latter.

I put on the bulletproof vest, thinking it was a poor substitute for full battle armor against an exploding bomb, but we were still treating this as a ‘suspected’ case. I noticed my liaison officer was pulling on her bulletproof vest too.

“You don’t have to go. This is my party, not yours,” I said.

“The Chief Constable told me to stick to you like glue, sir.”

I looked at Benson. “Talk some sense into her please, this is not a kindergarten outing.”

He shrugged. Seeing McCallister had taken all the fight out of him. “Orders are orders. If that’s what the Chief Constable requested …”

Madness. I glared at her, and she gave me a wan smile. “Stay behind me then, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“Believe me, I won’t be.” She pulled out and checked her weapon, chambering the first round. It made a reassuring sound.

Suited up, weapons readied, a last sip of the coffee in a stomach that was already churning from nerves and tension, I looked at the target, one hundred yards distant and thought it was going to be the longest hundred yards I’d ever traversed. At least for this week.

A swirling mist rolled in and caused a slight change in plans.

Because the front of the buildings was constantly illuminated by large overhead arc lamps, my intention had been to approach the building from the rear where there was less light and more cover. Despite the lack of movement, if there were explosives in that building, there’d be ‘enemy’ surveillance somewhere, and, after making that assumption, I believed it was going to be easier and less noticeable to use the darkness as a cover.

It was a result of the consultation, and studying the plans of the warehouse, plans that showed three entrances, the main front hangar type doors, a side entrance for truck entry and exit and a small door in the rear, at the end of an internal passage leading to several offices. I also assumed it was the exit used when smokers needed a break. Our entry would be by the rear door or failing that, the side entrance where a door was built into the larger sliding doors. In both cases, the locks would not present a problem.

The change in the weather made the approach shorter, and given the density of the mist now turning into a fog, we were able to approach by the front, hugging the walls, and moving quickly while there was cover. I could feel the dampness of the mist and shivered more than once.

It was nerves more than the cold.

I could also feel rather than see the presence of Annette behind me, and once felt her breath on my neck when we stopped for a quick reconnaissance.

It was the same for McCallister’s men. I could feel them following us, quickly and quietly, and expected, if I turned around, to see him breathing down my neck too.

It added to the tension.

My plan was still to enter by the back door.

We slipped up the alley between the two sheds to the rear corner and stopped. I heard a noise coming from the rear of the building, and the light tap on the shoulder told me Annette had heard it too. I put my hand up to signal her to wait, and as a swirl of mist rolled in, I slipped around the corner heading towards where I’d last seen the glow of a cigarette.

The mist cleared, and we saw each other at the same time. He was a bearded man in battle fatigues, not the average dockside security guard.

He was quick, but my slight element of surprise was his undoing, and he was down and unconscious in less than a few seconds with barely a sound beyond the body hitting the ground. Zip ties secured his hands and legs, and tape his mouth. Annette joined me a minute after securing him.

A glance at the body then me, “I can see why they, whoever they are, sent you.”

She’d asked who I worked for, and I didn’t answer. It was best she didn’t know.

“Stay behind me,” I said, more urgency in my tone. If there was one, there’d be another.

Luck was with us so far. A man outside smoking meant no booby traps on the back door, and quite possibly there’d be none inside. But it indicated there were more men inside, and if so, it appeared they were very well trained. If that were the case, they would be formidable opponents.

The fear factor increased exponentially.

I slowly opened the door and looked in. A pale light shone from within the warehouse itself, one that was not bright enough to be detected from outside. None of the offices had lights on, so it was possible they were vacant. I realized then they had blacked out the windows. Why hadn’t someone checked this?

Once inside, the door closed behind us, progress was slow and careful. She remained directly behind me, gun ready to shoot anything that moved. I had a momentary thought for McCallister and his men, securing the perimeter.

At the end of the corridor, the extent of the warehouse stretched before us. The pale lighting made it seem like a vast empty cavern, except for a long trestle table along one side, and, behind it, stacks of wooden crates, some opened. It looked like a production line.

To get to the table from where we were was a ten-yard walk in the open. There was no cover. If we stuck to the walls, there was equally no cover and a longer walk.

We needed a distraction.

As if on cue, the two main entrances disintegrated into flying shrapnel accompanied by a deafening explosion that momentarily disoriented both Annette and I. Through the smoke and dust kicked up I saw three men appear from behind the wooden crates, each with what looked like machine guns, spraying bullets in the direction of the incoming SWAT members.

They never had a chance, cut down before they made ten steps into the building.

By the time I’d recovered, my head heavy, eyes watering and ears still ringing, I took several steps towards them, managing to take down two of the gunmen but not the third.

I heard a voice, Annette’s I think, yell out, “Oh, God, he’s got a trigger,” just before another explosion, though all I remember in that split second was a bright flash, the intense heat, something very heavy smashing into my chest knocking the wind out of me, and then the sensation of flying, just before I hit the wall.

I spent four weeks in an induced coma, three months being stitched back together and another six learning to do all those basic actions everyone took for granted. It was twelve months almost to the day when I was released from the hospital, physically, except for a few alterations required after being hit by shrapnel, looking the same as I always had.

But mentally? The document I’d signed on release said it all, ‘not fit for active duty; discharged’.

It was in the name of David Cheney. For all intents and purposes, Alistair McKenzie was killed in that warehouse, and for the first time ever, an agent left the Department, the first to retire alive.

I was not sure I liked the idea of making history.

An excerpt from “The Things We Do for Love”; In love, Henry was all at sea!

In the distance, he could hear the dinner bell ringing and roused himself. Feeling the dampness of the pillow and fearing the ravages of pent-up emotion, he considered not going down but thought it best not to upset Mrs Mac, especially after he said he would be dining.

In the event, he wished he had reneged, especially when he discovered he was not the only guest staying at the hotel.

Whilst he’d been reminiscing, another guest, a young lady, had arrived. He’d heard her and Mrs Mac coming up the stairs and then shown to a room on the same floor, perhaps at the other end of the passage.

Henry caught his first glimpse of her when she appeared at the door to the dining room, waiting for Mrs Mac to show her to a table.

She was in her mid-twenties, slim, with long brown hair, and the grace and elegance of a woman associated with countless fashion magazines. She was, he thought, stunningly beautiful with not a hair out of place, and make-up flawlessly applied. Her clothes were black, simple, elegant, and expensive, the sort an heiress or wife of a millionaire might condescend to wear to a lesser occasion than dinner.

Then there was her expression; cold, forbidding, almost frightening in its intensity. And her eyes, piercingly blue and yet laced with pain. Dracula’s daughter was his immediate description of her.

All in all, he considered, the only thing they had in common was, like him, she seemed totally out of place.

Mrs Mac came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was, she informed him earlier, chef, waitress, hotelier, barmaid, and cleaner all rolled into one. Coming up to the new arrival, she said, “Ah, Miss Andrews, I’m glad you decided to have dinner. Would you like to sit with Mr Henshaw, or would you like to have a table of your own?”

Henry could feel her icy stare as she sized up his appeal as a dining companion, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He purposely didn’t look back. In his estimation, his appeal rating was minus six. Out of a thousand!

“If Mr Henshaw doesn’t mind….” She looked at him, leaving the query in mid-air.

He didn’t mind and said so. Perhaps he’d underestimated his rating.

“Good.” Mrs Mac promptly ushered her over. Henry stood, made sure she was seated properly and sat.

“Thank you. You are most kind.” The way she said it suggested snobbish overtones.

“I try to be when I can.” It was supposed to nullify her sarcastic tone, but it made him sound a little silly, and when she gave him another of her icy glares, he regretted it.

Mrs Mac quickly intervened, asking, “Would you care for the soup?”

They did, and, after writing the order on her pad, she gave them each a look, imperceptibly shook her head, and returned to the kitchen.

Before Michelle spoke to him again, she had another quick look at him, trying to fathom who and what he might be. There was something about him.

His eyes mirrored the same sadness she felt, and, yes, there was something else, that it looked like he had been crying. There was a tinge of redness.

Perhaps, she thought, he was here for the same reason she was.

No. That wasn’t possible.

Then she said, without thinking, “Do you have any particular reason for coming here?” Seconds later, she realised she’d spoken it out loud, hadn’t meant to actually ask, it just came out.

It took him by surprise, obviously not the first question he was expecting her to ask of him.

“No, other than it is as far from civilisation, and home as I could get.”

At least we agree on that, she thought.

It was obvious he was running away from something as well.

Given the isolation of the village and lack of geographic hospitality, it was, from her point of view, ideal. All she had to do was avoid him, and that wouldn’t be difficult.

After getting through this evening first.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is that.”

A few seconds passed, and she thought she could feel his eyes on her and wasn’t going to look up.

Until he asked, “What’s your reason?”

Slightly abrupt in manner, perhaps, because of her question and how she asked it.

She looked up. “Rest. And have some time to myself.”

She hoped he would notice the emphasis she had placed on the word ‘herself’ and take due note. No doubt, she thought, she had completely different ideas of what constituted a holiday than he, not that she had said she was here for a holiday.

Mrs Mac arrived at a fortuitous moment to save them from further conversation.

Over the entree, she wondered if she had made a mistake coming to the hotel. Of course, there had been no conceivable way she could know that anyone else might have booked the same hotel, but she realised it was foolish to think she might end up in it by herself.

Was that what she was expecting?

Not a mistake then, but an unfortunate set of circumstances, which could be overcome by being sensible.

Yet, there he was, and it made her curious, not that he was a man, by himself, in the middle of nowhere, hiding like she was, but for quite varied reasons.

On discreet observation, whilst they ate, she gained the impression his air of light-heartedness was forced, and he had no sense of humour.

This feeling was engendered by his looks, unruly dark hair, and permanent frown. And then there was his abysmal taste in clothes on a tall, lanky frame. They were quality but totally unsuited to the wearer.

Rebellion was written all over him.

The only other thought crossing her mind, and incongruously, was that he could do with a decent feed. In that respect, she knew now from the mountain of food in front of her, he had come to the right place.

“Mr Henshaw?”

He looked up. “Henshaw is too formal. Henry sounds much better,” he said, with a slight hint of gruffness.

“Then my name is Michelle.”

Mrs Mac came in to take their order for the only main course, gather up the entree dishes, and then return to the kitchen.

“Staying long?” she asked.

“About three weeks. Yourself?”

“About the same.”

The conversation dried up.

Neither looked at the other, but rather at the walls, out the window, towards the kitchen, anywhere. It was, she thought, unbearably awkward.

Mrs Mac returned with a large tray with dishes on it, setting it down on the table next to theirs.

“Not as good as the usual cook,” she said, serving up the dinner expertly, “but it comes a good second, even if I do say so myself. Care for some wine?”

Henry looked at Michelle. “What do you think?”

“I’m used to my dining companions making the decision.”

You would, he thought. He couldn’t help but notice the cutting edge of her tone. Then, to Mrs Mac, he named a particular White Burgundy he liked, and she bustled off.

“I hope you like it,” he said, acknowledging her previous comment with a smile that had nothing to do with humour.

“Yes, so do I.”

Both made a start on the main course, a concoction of chicken and vegetables that were delicious, Henry thought when compared to the bland food he received at home and sometimes aboard my ship.

It was five minutes before Mrs Mac returned with the bottle and two glasses. After opening it and pouring the drinks, she left them alone again.

Henry resumed the conversation. “How did you arrive? I came by train.”

“By car.”

“Did you drive yourself?”

And he thought, a few seconds later, that was a silly question; otherwise, she would not be alone, and certainly not sitting at this table. With him.

“After a fashion.”

He could see that she was formulating a retort in her mind, then changed it, instead, smiling for the first time, and it served to lighten the atmosphere.

And in doing so, it showed him she had another, more pleasant side despite the fact she was trying not to look happy.

“My father reckons I’m just another of ‘those’ women drivers,” she added.

“Whatever for?”

“The first and only time he came with me, I had an accident. I ran up the back of another car. Of course, it didn’t matter to him that the other driver was driving like a startled rabbit.”

“It doesn’t help,” he agreed.

“Do you drive?”

“Mostly people up the wall.” His attempt at humour failed. “Actually,” he added quickly, “I’ve got a very old Morris that manages to get me where I’m going.”

The apple pie and cream for dessert came and went, and the rapport between them improved as the wine disappeared and the coffee came. Both had found, after getting to know each other better, that their first impressions were not necessarily correct.

“Enjoy the food?” Mrs Mac asked, suddenly reappearing.

“Beautifully cooked and delicious to eat,” Michelle said, and Henry endorsed her remarks.

“Ah, it does my heart good to hear such genuine compliments,” she said, smiling. She collected the last of the dishes and disappeared yet again.

“What do you do for a living?” Michelle asked in an offhand manner.

He had a feeling she was not particularly interested, and it was just making conversation.

“I’m a purser.”

“A what?”

“A purser. I work on a ship doing the paperwork, that sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was a model.”

“Was?”

“Until I had an accident, a rather bad one.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

So that explained the odd feeling he had about her.

As the evening wore on, he began to think there might be something wrong, seriously wrong with her because she didn’t look too well. Even the carefully applied makeup, from close, didn’t hide the very pale, tired look, or the sunken, dark-ringed eyes.

“I try not to think about it, but it doesn’t necessarily work. I’ve come here for peace and quiet, away from doctors and parents.”

“Then you will not have to worry about me annoying you. I’m one of those fall-asleep-reading-a-book types.”

Perhaps it would be like ships passing in the night, and then he smiled to himself about the analogy.

Dinner over, they separated.

Henry went back to the lounge to read a few pages of his book before going to bed, and Michelle went up to her room to retire for the night.

But try as he might, he was unable to read, his mind dwelling on the unusual, yet compellingly mysterious person he would be sharing the hotel with.

Overlaying that original blurred image of her standing in the doorway was another of her haunting expressions that had, he finally conceded, taken his breath away, and a look that had sent more than one tingle down his spine.

She may not have thought much of him, but she had certainly made an impression on him.

…

lovecoverfinal1

“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems

A single event can have enormous consequences.

A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovered his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.

A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?

A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.

A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife and the people who are around her.

After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.

From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little, Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.

It is available on Amazon here: http://amzn.to/2CqUBcz

The cinema of my dreams – It all started in Venice – Episode 4

Meeting with the enemy

…

I woke with what one might call metaphorical clouds hanging over my head.

The day before, everything was as normal as it could be, I had plans and intended to get on with my life, realizing that Violetta would be disappointed if she knew how moribund I’d become.

That was before Alfie had appeared out of nowhere, on a mission for a man I never wanted to see or work for again.

Never say never.

Now I had a target on my back and found myself in a very strange situation. Normally random events were exactly that, random. But it would not be when the time came for Juliet to accidentally see me, a coincidence surely.

But not.

For a long time, before I fell into a light, fitful sleep, I went through a variety of scenarios when I imagined we would run into each other, and concluded it would most likely be somewhere in St Marks square.

Then it was a matter of whether on not I would make it easy for her, and was still undecided when sleep came. Now, in the cold hard light of dawn, I decided it would be better to get it over with as quickly as possible.

I’d also decided that I was not going to give Larry any chance of success, as I had the element of surprise on my side.

I’d also forgotten about those pre-mission nerves, that mixture of fear and excitement when starting out, usually not knowing what was going to happen. Of course, I was a lot older now, and the world I once lived in had no doubt changed considerably, but not the people in it. They were the one constant, and most were predictable.

Larry certainly would be. Juliet would be less so, but knowing her end game would tip the scales in my favour. How I would deal with her would be dictated on that first meeting.

That too was the fuel for a different sort of feeling. I knew, back when I first met her, my judgement was impaired by a lot of different drugs, and I wasn’t quite thinking straight, but there had been a spark, and in different circumstances, the outcome might have been different. I was not sure what I felt right then.

But, I’d soon find out.

I took a water taxi to St Mark’s Square, or just a short distance from it, where the Statue of Bartolomeo Colleonix greeted all those who disembarked. From there it was a short walk on the promenade, and instead of heading towards the square, I went in the opposite direction, towards the hotel Juliet was staying.

Getting there early, I was hoping to see her leave the hotel and follow discreetly, waiting for the opportunity to ‘discover’ her. It was not a surprise to discover her ‘friend’ who greeted her at the airport had the same idea.

It was evident that Larry didn’t trust her to keep him informed, or the tail was insurance. Either way, it was a complication.

I found a 0lace to sit, one of many cafes along the promenade, in sight of the hotel entrance and her minder. Judging by the blank expression, it was possible he didn’t know me by sight, which could be useful.

My phone decided to announce an incoming message, and it was from Alfie. The identity of one of the men, muscle for a local crime boss, no doubt lent as a favour to Larry, was Giuseppe, last name irrelevant. The other, one of Larry’s lieutenants here to smooth the path for Larry’s arrival.

Giuseppe’s resume was short, mostly petty crimes, having graduated from peddling knock-offs to tourists. Judging by his body language, he was unimpressed with being a minder. And restless, because over the next half hour, he was up and down, pacing, and not happy, having exchanged words with several people who seemingly had walked in front of him.

Perhaps if I provoked him…

No time, Juliet chose that moment to emerge from the hotel. He was straight out of his seat and walked over to her. She was not pleased to see him, and I watched them engage in a heated exchange over the next five minutes, drawing attention to themselves, and odd glances from a few tourists. At what seemed the end of the argument I saw her shrug, and both headed towards the square together.

It was obvious Giuseppe’s instructions were to stay with her, which I imagine would make her job of a chance meeting all that harder.

I followed, discreetly, behind them.

She ambled, taking the time to look around, much like a tourist would, and basically, she was a tourist. I wondered if she had been to Venice before, and concluded she hadn’t, using her phone camera to take photos of the gondolas, the Canal, the colonnade, the bridge of sighs, and Doges palace; frequently stopping much to Giuseppe’s annoyance.

It took nearly an hour to cover a very short distance, ending up at a Cafe, one of those that jutted out into the square. She sat at one table, and Giuseppe sat at another, not far from her.

When his attention was elsewhere, watching a group of young female American tourists, I came up from behind and sat beside him, so engrossed in the girls he neither saw nor heard me arrive.

And the reason he almost jumped out of his seat when I said, in his language, “So, Giuseppe, what are you up to now?”

When he recovered, he glared at me. “Who are you?” It was not a polite tone.

“Trouble, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“I’m minding my own business. You should too.”

There was an undertone and implied threat.

“Or what?”

I saw him glance over in Juliet’s direction. A waiter just delivered coffee and what looked like a cake.

“Who is she?” I asked.

He turned to look at me. “That’s none of your business.”

It was clear he didn’t know what I looked like and was relying on Juliet to identify me.

“It is if you’re the point man of a kidnap team. Is that what this is about.”

Giuseppe laughed. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But I’m going over to that woman you’ve been watching and tell her that she has an unwanted admirer, and then if I can find a policeman, I’m going to tell him you’re acting suspiciously.”

His expression told me that was the last thing he needed. I suspect his track record with the police along with a complaint involving a female tourist might just get him into enough trouble to make him think twice about hanging around.

On the other hand, it might not. I could see him hesitating, orders to stay versus trouble with the police. Trouble with the police won out.

He stood. “You have made yourself some difficulties, this isn’t over.”

I shrugged. “It will be if I see you loitering near her again.”

He had his phone in his hand as he left and was making a call before he’d taken 20 paces. The next person wasn’t going to be so easy to spot.

…

A to Z – April – 2026 – O

O is for – Outcast

…

I hated reunions. My family insisted on one every five years, and the only excuse for missing one was if you were dead.

I tried to pretend that I didn’t get the invitation, but my older sister Elaine flew to the middle of nowhere, as she called it, to take me back. She even paid for the ticket.

She was so rich I was surprised she hadn’t come down in the family jet. Yes, they had one, and yes, she could fly it.

I hated her.

I was the black sheep. I was the one who was always in trouble, married the wrong girl, invested in scams, and ended up in a shack with no one and nothing to show for my life. Oh yes, and a nothing job as a security guard. I just had to turn up and go home.

It didn’t matter how many times I mentioned this, Elaine said that it didn’t matter. Family was everything. I would have accepted that, except for her tone. It was the same one she used when admonishing me when my marriage fell apart.

It’s not your fault, but who else is there to blame?

Elaine lived in New York, Merilyn lived in San Francisco, Roger lived in Albuquerque, and Sam, the family hero, lived in Washington. Every one of my brothers and sisters was a high achiever.

My father, joking, he would say, would sometimes ask whether or not my mother had had an affair, and I was the result of it. She didn’t quite see the joke in it, but I could. He was happy I was out of sight and out of mind.

Elaine swept into a room, followed by adulation.

I stayed at the door and barely got a glance.

Until my father saw me. “James. I’m so glad you could make it.” He didn’t move from his seat.

What he meant to say, as he had in the past, was ‘look what the cat dragged in’ It was a surprise he hadn’t.

My mother looked over, and I could see just that momentary sigh, as if it wouldn’t be a bad thing if I’d just stayed away.

Then smiled and said, “James, you made it. I thought you had something you couldn’t get away from?”

True. I was using a non-existent conference as an excuse. “This was more important,” I said

Her look told me it wasn’t.

Roger and Marilyn had already arrived. The Star Act, Sam, would make the grand entrance, outdoing Elaine. It was a competition, and he had no chance, even if he was elected president.

Roger came over. “You know this isn’t going to end well. You look well.” No handshake, no hug, nothing. It was like we were not related.

“Nice to see you too, bro.”

He winced. Yes, I can read his mind, ‘don’t call me bro, you asshole, and we’re definitely not related’.

Merilyn was a little better. She gave me a two-second hug. She was the second-lowest high achiever, one rung above me, and not married yet.

Mother’s looks covered her sentiment, “You’re getting older, and it’s harder when you have children at that age”.

She couldn’t tell her mother she hated the idea of having children, much less bringing them into this horrible world. Maybe I would.

Now, if I went up to my old room, left as it was the day I stormed out, maybe no one would notice me.

“Jimbo. You came?”

Alex, Elaine’s husband, had been hiding out back.

“Your wife dragged me here under threat of death. I had no choice.” And wait for it…

“Everyone has a choice, Jimbo.”

Jimbo. The cretin couldn’t even get my name right, or it was his way of treating me like I was nothing. I’d corrected him for a few months and then given up. His contempt for me knew no bounds.

He was riding on her coattails, and that was a marriage that was heading for the rocks. He was a ‘player’. Snobby pretentious twit.

Elaine was still doing the rounds and had the limelight. Alex would wait a minute and then attempt to take it away.

My cue to leave. Before I ran into Angelique, Rogers long-time partner with no wedding date in sight, a pretentious girl with a phony French accent.

No one knew she had been a Playboy model and a porn actress before she met Roger.

We had a pact. I wouldn’t tell anyone, and she wouldn’t treat me condescendingly, but that was two years ago. She’d have to think the secret was safe.

If Sam made the move and started down the presidential path, the skeletons were not going to stay in the closet very long.

“James.” She had a nice voice and was alarmingly beautiful.

“Angelique.”

“Back for round three? I saw you arrive with Elaine, so perhaps not willingly?”

“Elaine made a special trip.”

“Then you can bet there’s trouble in paradise.” She smiled. “Try not to listen through keyholes.”

In other words, get the gossip; something is going on. Or not, I could never quite tell what she meant.

The noise level dropped, and everyone was grabbing a seat. Like musical chairs, the last man standing was the last man standing.

Mother saw me by the door. “Just grab a chair in the dining room, dear.”

“No need. I’m going up to my room to sulk. You lot feel free to talk about me. My situation hadn’t changed since the last time I was here, so I have nothing to add.”

“Don’t be like that. You are as much a part of the family as all of us.”

It sounded earnest and welcoming, but mothers all practised that line. What she was really saying was ‘please go so I can talk to Elaine’.

Dad was thinking, ‘son of the bloody milkman’, and Alex, ‘please leave and don’t come back’. Of course, without the ‘please’.

I shrugged. “I’ll be down for dinner. It’ll give you time to think up some insightful questions.”

Then I left, closing the sliding doors that felt like I was stepping from one world into another.

And bumped into Sam.

Who immediately motioned me to be quiet and follow him into the study up the passage. Inside, he closed the door.

“What the hell, Sam?”

“I don’t want them to know I’m here yet.”

“Why. You’re the golden boy, just one step removed from Elaine. But if you…”

“I’m not.”

“What?”

“Running for office.”

“Why? Because you have a low-life brother. I’m sure no one cares.”

“No one does. No, there are bigger secrets than that that would come out, secrets I’m sure no one really knows about, or if they did, they would have told me.”

“What secrets?” I hardly thought an ex-porn actress would cause problems because nearly all of the current era presidents were known to dabble.

“That’s what I’m here to find out. And you are the only one no one cares about. I need your help.”

“I’m a useless security guard.”

“You are the only one who hadn’t got an axe to grind out of that lot in that room. I’m sure if I asked you to give me a one-sentence description of each of them, it would be caustic but true.”

“I can’t help you. Haven’t you got staff who do that sort of thing?”

“I can’t trust any of them. There’s no loyalty, just a paycheck. But tomorrow, they’d sell me out for twenty pieces of gold. It’s politics at its finest. So, are you in?”

“Just you and me?”

“Just you and me. Shake on it. Your word is your bond.”

“And you being a politician…”

“I get it. I do. But yes. I give you my word.”

I shook his hand

This had all the hallmarks of a gag they had all thought up before I got here, and it was going to explode in my face. Sam was the last person I could trust and would.

“Now what?”

“We go in and work the room.”

Why did I feel like this was a setup of the worst order? They could have just found an old girlfriend to humiliate me, but no, Sam and Elaine were always trying to outdo each other at my expense.

At least when it was over, I could leave. And this time, I would go where neither of them could find me.

…

Harry Walthenson, Private Detective – the second case – A case of finding the “Flying Dutchman”

…

What starts as a search for a missing husband soon develops into an unbelievable story of treachery, lies, and incredible riches.

…

It was meant to remain buried long enough for the dust to settle on what was once an unpalatable truth, when enough time had passed, and those who had been willing to wait could reap the rewards.

The problem was, no one knew where that treasure was hidden or the location of the logbook that held the secret.

At stake, billions of dollars’ worth of stolen Nazi loot brought to the United States in an anonymous tramp steamer and hidden in a specially constructed vault under a specifically owned plot of land on the once docklands of New York.

It may have remained hidden and unknown to only a few, if it had not been for a mere obscure detail being overheard …

… by our intrepid, newly minted private detective, Harry Walthenson …

… and it would have remained buried.

Now, through a series of unrelated events, or are they, that well-kept secret is out there, and Harry will not stop until the whole truth is uncovered.

Even if it almost costs him his life. Again.