The flowers were out in full bloom the day we took the grandchildren for ‘a walk in the park’.
Of particular interest was the Japanese garden with a trail with rocks,and mini waterfalls
And as a fitting end to the day, a chance to feed a family of ducks
The odds of any one of us having a doppelganger are quite high. Whether or not you got to meet him or her, or be confronted by them was significantly lower. Except of course, unless you are a celebrity.
It was a phenomenon remarkable only for the fact, at times, certain high profile people, notorious or not, had doubles if only to put off enemies or the general public. Sometimes we see people in the street, people who look like someone we knew, and made the mistake of approaching them like a long lost friend, only to discover an embarrassed individual desperately trying to get away for what they perceive is a stalker or worse.
And then sometimes in is a picture that looms up on a TV screen, an almost exact likeness of you. At first you are fascinated, and then according to the circumstances, and narrative that is attached to that picture, either flattered or horrified.
For me one turned to the other when I saw an almost likeness of me flash up on the screen when I turned the TV on in my room. What looked to be my photo, with only minor differences, was in the corner of the screen, the news reader speaking in rapid Italian, so fast I could only translate every second or third word.
But the one word I did recognize was murder. The photo of the man up on the screen was the subject of an extensive manhunt. The crime, murder of woman in the very same hotel I was staying, and it was being played out live several floors above me. The gist of the story, the woman had been seen with, and staying with the man who was my double, and, less than an hour ago, the body had been discovered by a chambermaid.
The killer, the announcer said, was believed to be still in the hotel because the woman had died shortly before she had been discovered.
I watched, at first fascinated at that I was seeing. I guess I should have been horrified, but at that moment it didn’t register that I might be mistaken for that man.
Not until an another five minutes had passed, and I was watching the police in full riot gear, with a camera crew following behind, coming up a passage towards a room. Live action of the arrest of the suspected killer the breathless commentator said.
Then, suddenly, there was a pounding on the door. On the TV screen, plain to see, was the number of my room.
I looked through the peep hole and saw an army of police officers. It didn’t take much to realize what had happened. The hotel staff had identified me as the man in the photograph on the TV and called the police.
Horrified wasn’t what I was feeling right then.
It was fear.
My last memory was the door crashing open, the wood splintering, and men rushing into the room, screaming at me, waving guns, and when I put my hands up to defend myself, I heard a gunshot.
And in one very confused and probably near death experience, I thought I saw my mother, and thinking what was she doing in Rome?
…
I was the archetypal nobody.
I lived in a small flat, I drove a nondescript car, had an average job in a low profile travel agency, was single, and currently not involved in a relationship, no children, and according to my workmates, no life.
They were wrong. I was one of those people who preferred their own company, I had a cat, and travelled whenever I could. And I did have a ‘thing’ for Rosalie, one of the reasons why I stayed at the travel agency. I didn’t expect anything to come of it, but one could always hope.
I was both pleased and excited to be going to the conference. It was my first, and the glimpse I had seen of it had whetted my appetite for more information about the nuances of my profession.
Some would say that a travel agent wasn’t much of a job, but to me, it was every bit as demanding as being an accountant or a lawyer. You were providing a customer with a service, and arguably more people needed a travel agent than a lawyer. At least that was what I told myself, as I watched more and more people start using the internet, and our relevance slowly dissipating.
This conference was about countering that trend.
The trip over had been uneventful. I was met at the airport and taken to the hotel where the conference was being held with a number of other delegates who had arrived on the same plane. I had mingled with a number of other delegates at the pre conference get together, including one whose name was Maryanne.
She was an unusual young woman, not the sort that I usually met, because she was the one who was usually surrounded by all the boys, the life of the party. In normal circumstances, I would not have introduced myself to her, but she had approached me. Why did I think that may have been significant? All of this ran through my mind, culminating in the last event on the highlight reel, the door bursting open, men rushing into my room, and then one of the policemen opened fire.
I replayed that last scene again, trying to see the face of my assailant, but it was just a sea of men in battle dress, bullet proof vests and helmets, accompanied by screaming and yelling, some of which I identified as “Get on the floor”.
Then came the shot.
Why ask me to get on the floor if all they were going to do was shoot me. I was putting my hands up at the time, in surrender, not reaching for a weapon.
Then I saw the face again, hovering in the background like a ghost. My mother. Only the hair was different, and her clothes, and then the image was going, perhaps a figment of my imagination brought on by pain killing drugs. I tried to imagine the scene again, but this time it played out, without the image of my mother.
I opened my eyes took stock of my surroundings. What I felt in that exact moment couldn’t be described. I should most likely be dead, the result of a gunshot wound. I guess I should be thankful the shooter hadn’t aimed at anything vital, but that was the only item on the plus side.
I was in a hospital room with a policeman by the door. He was reading a newspaper, and sitting uncomfortably on a small chair. He gave me a quick glance when he heard me move slightly, but didn’t acknowledge me with either a nod, or a greeting, just went back to the paper.
If I still had a police guard, then I was still considered a suspect. What was interesting was that I was not handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps that only happened in TV shows. Or maybe they knew I couldn’t run because my injuries were too serious. Or the guard would shoot me long before my feet hit the floor. I knew the police well enough now to know they would shoot first and ask questions later.
On the physical side, I had a large bandage over the top left corner of my chest, extending over my shoulder. A little poking and prodding determined the bullet had hit somewhere between the top of my rib cage and my shoulder. Nothing vital there, but my arm might be somewhat useless for a while, depending on what the bullet hit on the way in, or through.
It didn’t feel like there were any broken or damaged bones.
That was the good news.
On the other side of the ledger, my mental state, there was only one word that could describe it. Terrified. I was looking at a murder charge and jail time, a lot of it. Murder usually had a long time in jail attached to it.
Whatever had happened, I didn’t do it. I know I didn’t do it, but I had to try and explain this to people who had already made up their minds. I searched my mind for evidence. It was there, but in the confused state brought on by the medication, all I could think about was jail, and the sort of company I was going to have.
I think death would have been preferable.
…
Half an hour later, maybe longer, I was drifting in an out of consciousness, a nurse, or what I thought was a nurse, came into the room. The guard stood, checked her ID card, and then stood by the door.
She came over and stood beside the bed. “How are you?” she asked, first in Italian, and when I pretended I didn’t understand, she asked the same question in accented English.
“Alive, I guess,” I said. “No one has come and told what my condition is yet. You are my first visitor. Can you tell me?”
“Of course. You are very lucky to be alive. You will be fine and make a full recovery. The doctors here are excellent at their work.”
“What happens now?”
“I check you, and then you have a another visitor. He is from the British Embassy I think. But he will have to wait until I have finished my examination.”
I realized then she was a doctor, not a nurse.
…
My second visitor was a man, dressed in a suit the sort of which I associated with the British Civil Service. He was not very old which told me he was probably a recent graduate on his first posting, the junior officer who drew the short straw.
The guard checked his ID but again did not leave the room, sitting back down and going back to his newspaper.
My visitor introduced himself as Alex Jordan from the British Embassy in Rome and that he had been asked by the Ambassador to sort out what he labelled a tricky mess.
For starters, it was good to see that someone cared about what happened to me. But, equally, I knew the mantra, get into trouble overseas, and there is not much we can do to help you. So, after that lengthy introduction, I had to wonder why he was here.
I said, “They think I am an international criminal by the name of Jacob Westerbury, whose picture looks just like me, and apparently for them it is an open and shut case.” I could still hear the fragments of the yelling as the police burst through the door, at the same time telling me to get on the floor with my hands over my head.
“It’s not. They know they’ve got the wrong man, which is why I’m here. There is the issue of what had been described as excessive force, and the fact you were shot had made it an all-round embarrassment for them.”
“Then why are you here? Shouldn’t they be here apologizing?”
“That is why you have another visitor. I only took precedence because I insisted I speak with you first. I have come, basically to ask you for a favour. This situation has afforded us with an opportunity. We would like you to sign the official document which basically indemnifies them against any legal proceedings.”
Curious. What sort of opportunity was he talking about? Was this a matter than could get difficult and I could be charged by the Italian Government, even if I wasn’t guilty, or was it one of those hush hush type deals, you do this for us, we’ll help you out with that. “What sort of opportunity?”
“We want to get our hands on Jacob Westerbury as much as they do. They’ve made a mistake, and we’d like to use that to get custody of him if or when he is arrested in this country. I’m sure you would also like this man brought into custody as soon as possible so you will stop being confused with him. I can only imagine what it was like to be arrested in the manner you were. And I would not blame you if you wanted to get some compensation for what they’ve done. But. There are bigger issues in play here, and you would be doing this for your country.”
I wondered what would happen if I didn’t agree to his proposal. I had to ask, “What if I don’t?”
His expression didn’t change. “I’m sure you are a sensible man Mr Pargeter, who is more than willing to help his country whenever he can. They have agreed to take care of all your hospital expenses, and refund the cost of the Conference, and travel. I’m sure I could also get them to pay for a few days at Capri, or Sorrento if you like, before you go home. What do you say?”
There was only one thing I could say. Wasn’t it treason if you went against your country’s wishes?
“I’m not an unreasonable man, Alex. Go do your deal, and I’ll sign the papers.”
“Good man.”
…
After Alex left, the doctor came back to announce the arrival of a woman, by the way she had announced herself, the publicity officer from the Italian police. When she came into the room, she was not dressed in a uniform.
The doctor left after giving a brief report to the civilian at the door. I understood the gist of it, “The patient has recovered excellently and the wounds are healing as expected. There is no cause for concern.”
That was a relief.
While the doctor was speaking to the civilian, I speculated on who she might be. She was young, not more than thirty, conservatively dressed so an official of some kind, but not necessarily with the police. Did they have prosecutors? I was unfamiliar with the Italian legal system.
She had long wavy black hair and the sort of sultry looks of an Italian movie star, and her presence made me more curious than fearful though I couldn’t say why.
The woman then spoke to the guard, and he reluctantly got up and left the room, closing the door behind him.
She checked the door, and then came back towards me, standing at the end of the bed. Now alone, she said, “A few questions before we begin.” Her English was only slightly accented. “Your name is Jack Pargeter?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“You are in Rome to attend the Travel Agents Conference at the Hilton Hotel?”
“Yes.”
“You attended a preconference introduction on the evening of the 25th, after arriving from London at approximately 4:25 pm.”
“About that time, yes. I know it was about five when the bus came to collect me, and several others, to take us to the hotel.”
She smiled. It was then I noticed she was reading from a small notepad.
“It was ten past five to be precise. The driver had been held up in traffic. We have a number of witnesses who saw you on the plane, on the bus, at the hotel, and with the aid of closed circuit TV we have established you are not the criminal Jacob Westerbury.”
She put her note book back in her bag and then said, “My name is Vicenza Andretti and I am with the prosecutor’s office. I am here to formally apologize for the situation that can only be described as a case of mistaken identity. I assure you it is not the habit of our police officers to shoot people unless they have a very strong reason for doing so. I understand that in the confusion of the arrest one of our officers accidentally discharged his weapon. We are undergoing a very thorough investigation into the circumstances of this event.”
I was not sure why, but between the time I had spoken to the embassy official and now, something about letting them off so easily was bugging me. I could see why they had sent her. It would be difficult to be angry or annoyed with her.
But I was annoyed.
“Do you often send a whole squad of trigger happy riot police to arrest a single man?” It came out harsher than I intended.
“My men believed they were dealing with a dangerous criminal.”
“Do I look like a dangerous criminal?” And then I realized if it was mistaken identity, the answer would be yes.
She saw the look on my face, and said quietly, “I think you know the answer to that question, Mr. Pargeter.”
“Well, it was overkill.”
“As I said, we are very sorry for the circumstances you now find yourself in. You must understand that we honestly believed we were dealing with an armed and dangerous murderer, and we were acting within our mandate. My department will cover your medical expenses, and any other amounts for the inconvenience this has caused you. I believe you were attending a conference at your hotel. I am very sorry but given the medical circumstances you have, you will have to remain here for a few more days.”
“I guess, then, I should thank you for not killing me.”
Her expression told me that was not the best thing I could have said in the circumstances.
“I mean, I should thank you for the hospital and the care. But a question or two of my own. May I?”
She nodded.
“Did you catch this Jacob Westerbury character?”
“No. In the confusion created by your arrest he escaped. Once we realized we had made a mistake and reviewed the close circuit TV, we tracked him leaving by a rear exit.”
“Are you sure it was one of your men who shot me?”
I watched as her expression changed, to one of surprise.
“You don’t think it was one of my men?”
“Oddly enough no. But don’t ask me why.”
“It is very interesting that you should say that, because in our initial investigation, it appeared none of our officer’s weapons had been discharged. A forensic investigation into the bullet tells us it was one that is used in our weapons, but…”
I could see their dilemma.
“Have you any enemies that would want to shoot you Mr Pargeter?”
That was absurd because I had no enemies, at least none that I knew of, much less anyone who would want me dead.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then it is strange, and will perhaps remain a mystery. I will let you know if anything more is revealed in our investigation.”
She took an envelope out of her briefcase and opened it, pulling out several sheets of paper.
I knew what it was. A verbal apology was one thing, but a signed waiver would cover them legally. They had sent a pretty girl to charm me. Perhaps using anyone else it would not have worked. There was potential for a huge litigation payout here, and someone more ruthless would jump at the chance of making a few million out of the Italian Government.
“We need a signature on this document,” she said.
“Absolving you of any wrong doing?”
“I have apologized. We will take whatever measures are required for your comfort after this event. We are accepting responsibility for our actions, and are being reasonable.”
They were. I took the pen from her and signed the documents.
“You couldn’t add dinner with you on that list of benefits?” No harm in asking.
“I am unfortunately unavailable.”
I smiled. “It wasn’t a request for a date, just dinner. You can tell me about Rome, as only a resident can. Please.”
She looked me up and down, searching for the ulterior motive. When she couldn’t find one, she said, “We shall see once the hospital discharges you in a few days.”
“Then I’ll pencil you in?”
She looked at me quizzically. “What is this pencil me in?”
“It’s an English colloquialism. It means maybe. As when you write something in pencil, it is easy to erase it.”
A momentary frown, then recognition and a smile. “I shall remember that. Thank-you for your time and co-operation Mr. Pargeter. Good morning.”
…
© Charles Heath 2015-2021
I have a passion for visiting transport museums, to see old trains, planes, buses, cars, even ships if it’s possible.
This has led to taking a number of voyages on the TSS Earnslaw in Queenstown, New Zealand.
Many, many, many years ago on Puffing Billy, a steam train in the Dandenongs, Victoria, Australia.
The steam train in Kingston, New Zealand, before it was closed down, but hopefully it will reopen sometime in the future.
The London Transport Museum in London England, which had a lot of buses.
The Workshops Railway Museum in Ipswich, Queensland, where once the many steam engines were built and maintained, and now had only a handful of engines remaining.
However, in the quest for finding and experiencing old transportation methods, we came across the Mary Valley Rattler, which runs out of Gympie, Queensland, Australia.
The ride begins in Gympie at the old Gympie Railway station, and as can be seen below, is one of the relics of the past, and, nothing like the new more modern stations. Thankfully.
If you’re going to have a vintage train, then you have to have a vintage station.
The Class of engine, seen below, is the C17, a superheated upgrade to the C16 it was based on, and first run in 1903. This particular engine was built in 1951, although the first of its type was seen in 1920 and the last of 227 made in 1953. It was the most popular of the steam engines used by Queensland Railways.
The C designation meant it had four driving axels and 17 was the diameter of the cylinder, 17 inches. It is also known as a 4-8-0 steam locomotive
and nicknamed one of the “Brown Bombers” because of its livery, brown with green and red trimming.
Also, this engine was built in Maryborough, not far from Gympie by Walkers Limited, one of 138.
This photo was taken as the train returned from Amamoor, a trip that takes up to an hour.
The locomotive is detached from the carriages, then driven to the huge turntable to turn around for the return journey to Amamoor.
This is the locomotive heading down to the water station, and then taking on water. After that, it will switch lines, and reverse back to reconnect the carriages for the trip to Amamoor.
The carriages are completely restored and are extremely comfortable. It brings back, for me, many memories of riding in older trains in Melbourne when I was a child.
The trains, then, were called Red Rattlers.
This is the locomotive climbing one of the hilly parts of the line before crossing over the Mary River on a trestle bridge.
This is the engine at Amamoor near the picnic area where young children and excited parents and grandparents can get on the locomotive itself and look inside where the driver sits.
And, no, I didn’t volunteer to shovel coal.
This particular locomotive spent most of its working life between Townsville and Mount Isa and was based in Cloncurry, Charters Towers, and Townsville, before being sent, at the end of its useful days in the late 1960s, to the Ipswich Railway Workshops.
This is an inlet near Port Macquarie in northern New South Wales. It is adjacent to a caravan and camping park, close to the ocean and parklands.
But, for our purposes, this scene is going to have a few more interesting connotations than just a few campers going for a jog along the beach, fishing in the estuary, or further out to sea on the other side of the wall in the background.
Firstly, to my favorite kind of story, a spy story…
It’s basically the evil billionaire’s backyard to his island hideaway, and our hero intends to come ashore at night and do battle with the guards, break into the underground holding cells and save the girl.
As always, saving the world comes second!
Or, it’s a place like Fantasy Island, without the landing strip on the beach, where people come to have their fantasies fulfilled. OK, to start there are no robots that are going to go berserk, that’s so ten years ago.
And, no, the hosts won’t be dressed in white safari suits. They went out in the 70s.
Then, I suppose, a story that I like, about people who have secrets, people who are broken, people who just want to get away from everyone else, come to this island where they can live in anonymity, without having to interact with anyone unless they want to.
Two such people accidentally meet.
What happens after that, that’s up to them!
I have a passion for visiting transport museums, to see old trains, planes, buses, cars, even ships if it’s possible.
This has led to taking a number of voyages on the TSS Earnslaw in Queenstown, New Zealand.
Many, many, many years ago on Puffing Billy, a steam train in the Dandenongs, Victoria, Australia.
The steam train in Kingston, New Zealand, before it was closed down, but hopefully it will reopen sometime in the future.
The London Transport Museum in London England, which had a lot of buses.
The Workshops Railway Museum in Ipswich, Queensland, where once the many steam engines were built and maintained, and now had only a handful of engines remaining.
However, in the quest for finding and experiencing old transportation methods, we came across the Mary Valley Rattler, which runs out of Gympie, Queensland, Australia.
The ride begins in Gympie at the old Gympie Railway station, and as can be seen below, is one of the relics of the past, and, nothing like the new more modern stations. Thankfully.
If you’re going to have a vintage train, then you have to have a vintage station.
The Class of engine, seen below, is the C17, a superheated upgrade to the C16 it was based on, and first run in 1903. This particular engine was built in 1951, although the first of its type was seen in 1920 and the last of 227 made in 1953. It was the most popular of the steam engines used by Queensland Railways.
The C designation meant it had four driving axels and 17 was the diameter of the cylinder, 17 inches. It is also known as a 4-8-0 steam locomotive
and nicknamed one of the “Brown Bombers” because of its livery, brown with green and red trimming.
Also, this engine was built in Maryborough, not far from Gympie by Walkers Limited, one of 138.
This photo was taken as the train returned from Amamoor, a trip that takes up to an hour.
The locomotive is detached from the carriages, then driven to the huge turntable to turn around for the return journey to Amamoor.
This is the locomotive heading down to the water station, and then taking on water. After that, it will switch lines, and reverse back to reconnect the carriages for the trip to Amamoor.
The carriages are completely restored and are extremely comfortable. It brings back, for me, many memories of riding in older trains in Melbourne when I was a child.
The trains, then, were called Red Rattlers.
This is the locomotive climbing one of the hilly parts of the line before crossing over the Mary River on a trestle bridge.
This is the engine at Amamoor near the picnic area where young children and excited parents and grandparents can get on the locomotive itself and look inside where the driver sits.
And, no, I didn’t volunteer to shovel coal.
This particular locomotive spent most of its working life between Townsville and Mount Isa and was based in Cloncurry, Charters Towers, and Townsville, before being sent, at the end of its useful days in the late 1960s, to the Ipswich Railway Workshops.
This is Railway Hotel in Gympie, adjacent to the old Gympie station
Just the name Railway Hotel conjured up a lot of interesting connotations. There’s one in almost every rural town that has Railway station, or perhaps a Junction Hotel, a Railway Hotel, or a Terminus Hotel.
And, once upon a time, there were nearly 600 of them, up until the 1920s, ubiquitous hotels build to house the people building the railways, and, then, when they were finished a lot disappeared, but a lot also remained to service the railway station and passengers coming and going.
These days, these old hotels that still exist are anachronisms of a bygone age, rather ornate wooden structures with big rooms and communal bathrooms, bars, saloons, and dining rooms, and only those curious about the past would stay there.
I’ve stayed in a few myself.
But, as for a story, well, the older, the better, because these would have ghosts.
They could also have infamous pasts, like a fire that destroys only part of the hotel, signs of which form part of the character.
A doorway into a now hidden room closed off because of something horrible happening there, could suddenly become a portal, where stepping through takes you back to the time of the event.
In fact, I’m in the mood to write just such a story…
This is an inlet near Port Macquarie in northern New South Wales. It is adjacent to a caravan and camping park, close to the ocean and parklands.
But, for our purposes, this scene is going to have a few more interesting connotations than just a few campers going for a jog along the beach, fishing in the estuary, or further out to sea on the other side of the wall in the background.
Firstly, to my favorite kind of story, a spy story…
It’s basically the evil billionaire’s backyard to his island hideaway, and our hero intends to come ashore at night and do battle with the guards, break into the underground holding cells and save the girl.
As always, saving the world comes second!
Or, it’s a place like Fantasy Island, without the landing strip on the beach, where people come to have their fantasies fulfilled. OK, to start there are no robots that are going to go berserk, that’s so ten years ago.
And, no, the hosts won’t be dressed in white safari suits. They went out in the 70s.
Then, I suppose, a story that I like, about people who have secrets, people who are broken, people who just want to get away from everyone else, come to this island where they can live in anonymity, without having to interact with anyone unless they want to.
Two such people accidentally meet.
What happens after that, that’s up to them!
It was topical some years ago because of the Commonwealth Games, but we have been to the Gold Coast on many occasions and nearly always stayed at the Hilton.
Nearly all of the photos here are taken from floor 13 through to 45, some close to the ocean, others facing north, and west, towards the hinterland.
Below is one of the main beaches, where the typical sun, sand, and surf pretty well sums it up. Been ion the water a few times myself, and it is amazing how warm it can be on some days, and how cold it can be on others.
And a surfer’s paradise it sure is!
At the bottom, the start of the shopping centers and eateries. The is more different types of food there that can be counted on the fingers and toes together.
The beach just to the north, and where the market stalls set up at night.
Further north, through the highrises, and far, far into the distance towards Brisbane.
North, again, looking up Cavill Avenue.
South, showing highrises and the Q Tower.
South, taken from the Q Tower, the coastline to Coolangatta dotted with high rise apartment blocks.
The two towers behind the Grand Chancellor, are the twin towers of the Hilton Hotel.
From the Q Tower, looking towards the canal residential precinct.
Yes, we were looking for whales, no we didn’t see any. The ocean, though, was unusually calm.
Yet another photograph in what is a series pushes the story along
It’s a reminder of a past that I have only seen in old movies, which to me, adds a great deal of importance to the preservation of any material that gives us a sense of what it was like many years ago.
It doesn’t mean that what we see happening because films, like stories, are sometimes based on some fact but the majority of it is fictional padding, adding a picture of how it might have been.
To find out what really happened, it is possible to find archived newspapers and municipal documents going back a long time, quite often the fodder for many history books.
This is how we think the wild west was, at times quite a dangerous place to be. But, in the main, it was probably a lot more mundane, just trying to make a living off the land, battling the vagaries of weather, fighting off all manner of hazards, both predators and humans, or trying to eventually eke out a living after a gold strike brought thousands of would-be prospectors.
Towns came and went, mines came and went, each leaving the ghosts of their people and buildings behind.
As for my story, it’s probably going to be an amalgam of everything I’ve read or seen, but with my own spin.
So, the story so far – Our hero is away on a driving tour and had come to a covered bridge.
The thought that it might be a portal does cross his mind, but not being a believer, crosses it. Then, after a few miles comes across what seems to be a deserted, or ghost, town. But, it’s not deserted, the car’s gone and in its place, a horse.
…
I woke up in unfamiliar surroundings.
I didn’t remember going to sleep, which, for a moment, was a worry.
It was not a bed I was lying on. It was hard, like a wooden plank, and, looking up, the roof was very high above. A cathedral ceiling.
A church?
I dragged myself up into a sitting position and looked around. It is a church. A very old church made completely out of timber. The sort of church one might find in an old town.
“Ah, you’re awake?” A voice came from behind me, the sort I instantly reminded of a priest.
I turned. A man that had the requisite collar and shirt, but not your typical priest.
“Where am I?”
“Church. Fergus thought you’d died of fright. Have to say I thought that too, but Doc reckons you’re tired from a long ride. Where you from?”
I was going to say from New York, but I wasn’t sure what was going on, so I held that thought and just said, “Back east.”
“Running from what?”
Was everyone who landed on their doorstep running from something? At least I wasn’t dressed in a suit, just a flannel shirt, and jeans, with sturdy hiking boots. They were the only item of my apparel that could be out of place in this setting.
“A woman. She picked another man, one I thought was a friend.”
It was as close to the truth I’d get. There was a woman, it was just she didn’t like me as much as I did her. The both of us couldn’t stay, so I quit and left.
“Well, it’s too late to go on, the hotel’s out the door and thirty paces straight ahead. Tommy’s taken your horse to the livery stable.”
My interview was over.
“I’ll see you at the service in the morning.”
Odd, when I walked out the church door, the scene had changed from what I last remembered. At dusk, there were lights and people. Not many, but just enough to give the town an air of reality.
Until I saw two women walk past, in traditional 1860s dresses and bonnets.
This had to be a historical town that went that extra mile for reality. It had to be.
…
© Charles Heath 2020-2022
This is the moon, unexpectedly observable in the late afternoon.
For me, the moon provided inspiration for an episodic story I have entitled, for now, ‘I always wanted to see the planets’.
It’s about a freighter captain who gets a gig as First Officer on an exploratory starship, who by a series of inexplicable events gets promoted to captain, and has to navigate not only the outer reaches of space, but new species.
But in the back of my mind there is that expression ‘shoot for the moon’, which could mean almost anything.
It could mean going for the unobtainable, whether it be a job, or the partner of your dreams. Failing can be heartbreak. Success might mean you’d be ‘over the moon’.
Them there’s travelling to moon, perhaps the next logical step for regular people, heading off the spend a week on a moon base hotel. I’m not sure what we would see out there in space; Perhaps a UFO?
Fictionalised, a moon base might just be the meeting place for various species, and being the mystery writer I am, what if there was a murder?
As always, the possibilities are endless.
